As we continue to explore motherhood, loss and redemption, this week’s Faith Notes guest post comes from Janna Lynas.:
From the beginning, my heart opened. Then just as quickly, it closed. Once my husband, our 6-year-old adopted son and I left his land of familiar smells and people, textures and sounds, our son closed off his heart. Mine soon followed. It happened so fast, I was caught off guard. I didn’t even realize that I was grieving until months later. I was just trying to survive, and so was he.
Has life gone in a different direction than you originally planned? This week’s Faith Notes guest post on motherhood, loss, and redemption comes from Dr. Amy F. Davis Abdallah: “Losing My Independence.”
At 18, I had plans for my life. I’d meet my lifelong lover in college, stay at home and have babies, work and then we’d travel together in our twilight years. But life didn’t turn out at all as I thought it would.
Instead of becoming a wife and mother, I lived briefly in Paraguay, South America, and began a ministry, teaching, and writing career that took me all the way to a Ph.D., a professorship at Nyack College, composing The Book of Womanhood, and a rites of passage ministry to young adults. Eventually, marriage followed.
Ever wonder where God is in the hard stuff? As part of my 8-week series on motherhood, loss and redemption, today’s Faith Notes guest post comes from Redbud Writers’ Guild member Leslie Verner:
The park ranger peers up, pointing to the tops of the Lodgepole Pines standing like guards at the Rocky Mountain tree line. “See those pinecones at the top?”
I squint, attempting to be mentally present while my body warns me my infant son an hour away will be hungry soon.
This week’s guest post from Stephanie Reeves:
I remember with vivid clarity the day we learned I had miscarried our first child. After four years of infertility, the thought of losing this long-awaited baby was terrifying. When the loss was confirmed, it seemed my tears would never stop. That was two decades ago. I now have three healthy children, ages 14, 18 and 20. Although we lost two more babies in the midst, I feel very blessed. I was nearly 35 when I had my first child and almost 41 when I had my third. Yet when I realized that I was on the downside of menopause, I cried.
For months – OK, years – I watched the tightly wound rows of two braided throw rugs pull apart. One under the kitchen sink. One by the back door. Each time someone stepped on them, the tears grew longer. And each time I tossed the rugs in the washing machine, I silently swore I’d stitch the rows back together. But I kept putting it off. By now the tears were so large that my favorite rug, shaped like a heart, was unravelling from the inside out, threatening to come apart in two pieces. Finally I could stand it no longer.