Orange Chicken and Fried Rice

That is what we had for dinner tonight. Orange chicken and fried rice. It's become somewhat of a grief ritual, if you will.

It's hard, the first little bit, deciding what days to recognize. Do I recognize the day that she died? The day I delivered her body? The day we buried her? What about her due date? Do I count each week like I would if I was pregnant?

The day we left the hospital with empty arms was arguably one of the hardest days I have experienced. Many times I wonder if I did everything right? I am better able to deal with those thoughts now. Instead of sitting with guilt, I accept that what I did was exactly what I needed to in that moment for me and my family. There is always a different view, looking back on things, but the way everything happened did so just the way it needed to.

Ty and the girls came and picked me up after I had handed Gracie over to the mortuary, and the reality that we were not bringing a baby home set in for the girls. And it was dinner time. Hunger and grief don't go well together. At least for kids. We stopped off at a Chinese Restaurant and got orange chicken and fried rice. Nothing had ever tasted so good and so horrible at the same time. It filled the need for sweets, protein and salty all at once. But eating after loosing a baby was pure torture.

For the next two weeks, that was all that tasted good. I ordered two servings at a time and they would feed us for a few days. Each week after for about a month and a half, at least every Tuesday (and some times more than that), I went and picked some up.

Today was 4 months. Today we had orange chicken and fried rice for dinner.

I didn't think today would be hard. I am at a point where if you ask how I am doing and my girls are still awake, my answer will be positive. It may be true, it may be fake, but I still have to function. It doesn't for one second mean that I am over this. It doesn't mean that I am "healed" OR that I am in denial. It doesn't mean that babies and pregnant women and cemeteries and pictures on Facebook and well meaning (but more than slightly clueless) comments and conversations don't hurt. (**side note: this does not mean I hate babies or pregnant women and so forth, it just means it can sting. A lot.)  It means I have a responsibility to my children to function. And it is still so fresh, so recent, that thinking about Gracie, missing her, grieving, can knock me off my feet. Someone in the store the other day was wearing the same lotion we used for Gracie's blankets (we couldn't put any on her so the night before, I rubbed the lotion into a bunch of blankets) and that was like a punch to the soul and left me barely functioning for the rest of the day. When Katie and Kotah are asleep, then is the time I can sit and think. And honestly, we have had so much continue to hit us that even then, its hard to take time to allow myself to grieve.

So today was hard. Mothers day was hard. I wasn't expecting mothers day to be hard, but I fell asleep late into the night holding our Gracie bear and doll. Sobs lingering in the air and my pillow drenched with tears. (I even took them to church with me that day, because I needed to acknowledge, just to myself, that all my girls were with me.)

I can put on a smile. And most times I mean it. I'm focused on the here and now. I'm happy to be doing yard work or playing with my girls. Happy that Ty passed a work test or got a promotion. I don't have the time to sit with my grief a lot. Some nights I run from it. Some days I work through it, cleaning my house top to bottom (although that hasn't happened in a while....) But it is there.

Gracie is a part of me. She changed my life in a way I can't begin to describe, and her loss compounded that even more so. I have come to know myself and my Savior in a deeper way. I have learned to be more accepting of myself and in extension, of others. My heart broke, and it can never be fixed. I can't stitch it back together. I can allow Christs love and atonement to fill the holes, but it will never be the same as it was before, for both good and bad.

So just because I smile doesn't mean I am fixed. Just because I cry doesn't mean I am broken. While the tears that run down my face are filled with sadness and loss, they also are filled with love and hope. Love and hope are also a part of grief. I love the last part of this song- "I know, I'll see you again someday." Love, hope and grief.

Who You'd Be Today

Memorial Day Plea

Sunday sucked. In a way I'm not sure there are words to explain even a nano portion of how I felt. But I think it is important, because I think there can be a lesson here, if I can word it right. I have written and re-written this many times. Slept on what I have wrote, and re-written all over again. And nothing seems to be coming out right, so I will just go with feelings.

I feel angry.

I feel violated.

I feel hurt in a way I can't even describe.

I feel ripped to shreds.

I feel stomped all over. 

I feel guilt for not being able to protect my baby.

I feel Mama Bear-ish.

I feel weak.

I feel rage.

I feel helpless. 

And it isn't just one thing, its multiple. The pain is compounded. Layered. 

What is it that made me feel this way? 

Sunday I went to visit Gracie. I needed to be near her. I needed to remember her in a good way. There had been a rough moment. I was in pain. I was going for healing, for solace. When I pulled up I gasped in shock. I opened the car door and sank to my knees, crying, with a scream stuck in my throat. I yelled and then I shook. Full body, can't even hold the flippin phone to call anyone, shakes. I was numb.

There, on my babies grave, were the remains of the decorations we had left the week previous. 

Destroyed. 

Ripped apart. 

And then the kicker, the graves right next to hers were left untouched. Not a random act of senselessness. Done by humans. Animals could not have set things the way they were.

I'm sure to some people, my reaction seems waaaaaaaay over the top. Like "Oh yeah, you know, that Sarah over there. She's just really too depressed. Her emotions are off. She just needs to get over herself. Maybe it's hormones. She must need some help."

That has been said to my husband before. It has been said to me. That I need to get over it. The first time was 4 days after we buried her. The most recent- today. I am sure it wont be the last. Each time stings like a needle. The type of needle that an inexperienced nurse uses to place an I.V. for the 3rd time. That big of a sting, that much of a hurt.

She wasn't just a blob of cells. She was a human being. She had a heart beat. I watched her suck her thumb. I watched her kick, saw her move. She was alive. She is my baby. 

This has happened before, but not to this extent. Things have been moved around, a windmill has been busted, just a little. I sat near her a while back when a guy on a bike rode all over other graves and tried to ride over hers. Her Easter basket had been pulled apart, eggs opened, Easter grass strewn everywhere. But this.....This was unbelievable.

I still shake a little, just thinking about it. We went the next day and placed new decorations. I searched for possible answers. Answers I could live with. Answers I could understand. But there are none to be found. Ty joked the other day that I must want to put up a nanny cam or something. (Don't tell him, I'd already searched prices on Amazon...)



But this is the message I want to share tonight. We're approaching Memorial Day. A day where, at least how I grew up, we spend the day driving to different cemeteries, cleaning and decorating loved ones graves. Bringing knives and shovels to trim back the grass, water to shine, flowers to beautify. A day to talk about memories, family history.

Can I ask you to do something? When you go this year, watch where you walk. Walk in between the graves, not over them. Don't stand on the headstones. While you may not have any connection, that is someones baby. Someones mom, dad, brother, sister. Someone loves the person who lies buried beneath.  Even if the person who loves them is no longer alive as well, the love never dies. Don't play with or mess around with the other graves decorations. They are not put there for your entertainment. Teach your kids. I know kids will be kids, but they are also teachable. I remember being a kid. I remember being taught respect and reverence for cemeteries, for those buried there. Reverence for the dead means quietly thinking of them. I remember doing that, but I don't know that I fully understood it, until I had to bury my baby. Teach your children that that is someones baby. Someones, mother or father, sister or brother. Teach them that though they may not know whom they walk over, they were still alive once. Still a human being. Still a person. They had feelings, joys and pains. Maybe they liked pizza. Maybe they had a dog. Maybe they liked to climb trees. Teach them that the flowers and toys are there for the angels to play with, and they can play with their toys at home.

This is my experience. This is my grief. My pain. There is no comparing. I'm not saying everyone feels this way, but many do. I got a message last night from another angel mommy, talking about this very thing. She said something similar to " I feel so protective of this spot. I was surprised to feel this way, but I guess it is one of the physical things I have left and I want to protect my baby. To be the mom. To say who gets to see my baby and when. Just like I would for my living children."

Cemeteries are not parks. Not a place to see how high the next headstone can flip your bike tire.      (Trust me, if looks could kill, that guys disintegrated ashes would have disintegrated. Too bad it wasn't a zombie apocalypse or something and a hand could have reached up from the ground and grabbed one of the bike tires....j/k, kinda)      Not a place to allow a dog to run off leash and poop wherever. Headstones are not places for snubbing out cigarettes and in the same sense, neither is the dirt of freshly dug graves a place to dump used cigarettes.
Cemeteries are a resting place for those who have passed on. A place to celebrate a life lived. A place of grief for those of us left behind. A place of hope, a place of love. When you visit cemeteries, whether it be this upcoming Memorial Day, or any other day, please remember this. Remember that though you may not know those who lay buried 3-6 feet below, someone else does. Someone else cares.

Someone loves them. 

Art therapy

Final glance

You may need tissues

I struggle sometimes, finding the "right" way to share Gracie. To talk about her. I don't want people to feel uncomfortable. But I want to talk about her. I need to remember her. Her memory is all I have of her.

When a child is lost, through miscarriage, still birth or infant death, there is so much more than "medical waste" or a body that is buried. The hopes and dreams that come with the second line on the pregnancy test are lost. The first smile, first tooth, learning to walk, learning to talk. The chubby cheeks. And even the not so pleasant things. The screaming, the late nights, the "NO!"s, the messes. And even the fears. "What if I screw up this parent thing?" "Is she getting a fever?" "If I leave her in her bed for 5 minutes, can I take a shower without her realizing I am out of the room?" All these moments that will never be. I would give anything to have those.

I don't have those moments. All I have are memories, pictures and items in our memory box. (Well, actually it is more like a tote. One box didn't quite have all the room we needed.) Memories, pictures, items and one video. One moment. 26 seconds frozen in time.

There are no more words to lead into this:

In the which hypothetical noses are discussed

A friend who has also recently lost a child shared a blog on Facebook today. It wasn't her blog, but the blog of another mother who lost a child. After a very VERY rough night last night and trying to just make it through the motions of the day, I sat and bawled my eyes out in the parking lot of the dentist's office after reading this. I actually probably need to go re-read it, I couldn't make out the last half of it due to tears.

There are a lot of spin off topics, but for tonight I want to focus on noses. Yup. That's right. That wonderful thing that sits on (most of) our faces. Sniffing, running (better go and catch yours..... ha ha ha) getting stuffed up and maybe most importantly, creating our views. The phrase "Can't see past the end our your nose" is usually used in a negative context. To describe a person who is so caught up in themselves, they can't see the bigger picture. They don't notice others. So maybe noses aren't exactly what I am trying to get at... I don't know. I just picked noses and that phrase because my nose is working right now, smelling chocolate.

Anywho. In one reply, someone posted about how stupid the blog post was. There was a lot more posted. I had to read through it a few times to even finish it. I was seeing red. Lots of red. How DARE this unknown Internet person invalidate my feelings by putting down a post that resonated so closely with me?? (See my nose sticking out there? And the other persons? Yup, pretty sure this really is about noses.) How DARE she imply that she was better than everyone else grieving because grief was just for attention?! How DARE she attack someone/ a group of people who are already so vulnerable and hurt? I got off Facebook, took a few deep breaths. Don't let it bug you. You don't even know this person. Let your friend deal with it. Deep breaths, Sarah. Deep breaths........ Yeah, nope. Didn't work. I had to go stick my nose all up in their business. (See, noses!) I tried to do it as professional? Philosophical? Whatever word means ripping someone apart nicely and passive aggressively.

My notifications kept going off for quite a while. Really, the post read as an attack. Many other people felt hurt. And then, this lady posted again. She eventually deleted her comments, so I can't go back right now as I am writing to re-read and remember how I was going to exactly word this. But as I read her second comment, it was very evident to me that she in no way meant to hurt anyone by her written words. She was only voicing her opinion. Speaking through her nose. Speaking through her world. Through her experiences.

A couple weeks ago, a friend came over with cookies and just to lend a listening ear and support. She had experienced the loss of a child through still birth. Roughly about the same age as Gracie. In my mind I was thinking "YES! You get it!" And some of the first words out of her mouth were "I have no clue what you are going through." What? Excuse me? You don't know? If you don't know then there is no hope to ever feel understood! But that is just it.

Ok, new paragraph time because here is the nitty gritty of this post. (Well, if we're talking about noses would it be the nitty gritty, or the or the gooey..... never mind. Back to the subject at hand.)

We all experience things differently. Even if someone were to loose a baby girl the same way we lost Gracie, would I understand exactly what she is going through? No. Everyone has their own life. Their own nose. If someone says "Ug, I smelled a skunk coming home from work today", can I understand? Yes and no. I know what a skunk smells like. But I wasn't driving in that exact spot at that exact time. I didn't have the same work day as that person. Who knows, maybe they grew up with pet skunks so it doesn't bug them as much as it would bug me. (Yes, I know. I'm stretching things a little here.)
My experience in loosing Gracie is even different from Ty's. If it can be different from my own husband, why should I expect someone else to feel exactly the same way I do? We all have different experiences of the same things. There is no need for complete and total understanding. Only acceptance. Acceptance that we all go through hard things. Acceptance that the way I grieve is different than the way someone else grieves. Neither is right or wrong. A mother who lost her baby 10 years ago may be struggling to get out of bed while a mother who lost her baby a year ago is waking up every morning, excited to work out, then spend the day volunteering at a nearby school. Someone who got in a fender-bender might need to walk everywhere, while someone who broke every bone in their body in a car crash is on a race track going 200+ as soon as they can. There is no "right" way. There is no "wrong" way. Each journey is an individual one. Each nose is unique.
A post came up the other day on my feed about someone having a bad day at work. I wanted to yell "Oh yeah? Well your baby didn't die. You didn't have to bury your little girl. You chose to work where you work. I didn't choose to have my daughter die!" But my pain doesn't negate theirs. My experiences do not over-ride anothers. For them, their nose got punched. Mine was punched. There is no need to compare the broken bones. They both hurt. Acceptance doesn't mean agreement. It doesn't mean similar. It doesn't mean "Your nose is running. Good gracious, why don't you do something about it?" It means a small hug and a smile and a tissue. It means "Wow. That does sound like a hard day for that person. I bet they are pretty run down." It means "I see you're at a hard part in your journey. It sucks. I'm so sorry."

It is important to look past the end of our own nose, but it is also essential to realize that everyones nose is just as important to them.

Gweecie's soooes

Pregnancy is hard for me. I get really sick. While I was pregnant with Gracie, I lost over 15lbs. I had a couple of IVs because even water wouldn't stay down. It was hard to do much of anything. And then came the grief. When grief comes, there are many different "symptoms". For me, all food tastes horrible. Usually like cardboard or baby rash medicine. And I loose all drive.

If you know me, you know that crafting and cooking are pretty much my most favorite things to do. Gingersnaps, sour cream cake, orange coconut cookies. Stuffed animals, cards, kids clothes, blankets. I had a hard enough time just getting out of bed while pregnant, but when we lost Gracie, everything kind of just stopped. Not only did crafting and cooking become dull, I didn't even want to! I hated the idea of doing anything like that. And honestly? That scarred me. I LOVED doing those things! What was wrong with me?

I even got a new sewing machine for Christmas. I had worn out the motor and the belt on my last one. The only things I had sewn with it? Gracies burial dresses and blankets and loveys. I still have my fabric stash from JoAnn's Black Friday Sale still sitting untouched in my closet.

Last week I tried. I pulled out my sewing machine and tried. I made a weighted blanket for the girls. No joy in it. I baked. Nothing. Nada. I took up making balloon animals. It is fun in the moment, but I don't quite consider it "crafty" enough for me.

And then, the cemetery began yard work. Which means that if you don't remove the decoration from your loved ones grave, they will. And they definitely do NOT keep them for sentimental purposes. The idea that they would throw my baby girls stuff away was down right terrifying. So we cleaned her grave off. Other than placing everything in the back of our car, I haven't done much with them yet. I can't quite bring myself to. Someday.

But that means that when I want to nurture Gracie, I can no longer just take something to her grave. I did spend a couple days just holding and rocking our Gracie bear. That feeling of helplessness crept up again.

I don't quite remember how I decided to do this, most assuredly by inspiration, but the one thing that I didn't do for Gracie (all right, obviously there is more than one thing that I feel that I didn't do, but this one is one that still eats at me late at night) is make her baby booties. I actually made two different dresses because we weren't sure exactly what size she was going to be. One pattern I was graciously given by an earthly angel who makes burial gowns out of wedding dresses. (She had offered to make one for Gracie but it was my way of taking care of my baby, so I declined and she sent me the pattern.) The other was also inspiration because it is a dress that could have fit her, regardless of her size.

But there are no patterns on micro booties. And I honestly didn't have the brain power to come up with one. Especially as we didn't know exactly what size her feet would be. I rationalized that the dress would cover her feet, and if it didn't, when I swaddled her in her blanket, her feet would be warm.

Now I KNOW she is dead. There is no reason to keep her feet "warm" and there is really no way to keep them warm as her blood was no longer circulating through her body. Yes. I get that. No I am not delusional. But its a mom thing, keeping your kid warm starts with socks, right?

There is a non-profit organization that, supplied by donations, brings clothes for stillborns to the hospital. I am so grateful for them. But the smallest baby bootie size they had was entirely too big for Gracie. They still sent us home with them so we could put it in our memory box.

Anywho. As I was grieving the loss of being able to nurture Gracie by taking decorations to her grave, the thought somehow came to me to make little booties for her. I did. They were very healing to make. And when I slipped the finished product onto her foot mold, it fit. Ty and I both cried a little. And I kind of just sat on it for another few days. Holding them in my hand, wishing I could put them on her feet. And then I realized that other moms might feel the same way I do. Wanting to keep their baby's toes warm, but not having a way to do that. I checked with the volunteer organization to see if they would take them. They will.

Suddenly I had something to do! I was going to wait until my first donation to post about this. I was going to start a facebook page. I was going to do a lot of stuff, but really, because I am still grieving, things take a lot longer than usual to do, and sometimes I can't do them at all, and though I have great ideas and good intentions, by the time I get around to doing everything I want to, there will be people that COULD have been helped that wont be because I waited.

So here they are. These are what I have made so far. And actually, since taking these pictures, I have made a few more pairs. There is sadly always a need for donations. Pint sized diapers, micro clothes. If you follow this link http://www.utahshare.org/, you can find contact information to donate in Northern Utah. This link http://teenytears.blogspot.com/ takes you to a blog with patterns on diapers and clothes. If you find the time and would like too, please consider making and donating. Whether to SHARE or to your local hospital.

This is my way to grieve, my way to heal. If you are looking for a service project, consider these items. It really means more than words can say to be able to have a sense of dignity, dressing your baby. Nothing can express the feeling of looking at the many different outfits and being able to pick something for Gracie to wear. There is no store for angels that small. But the fact that someone took the time (and really, it doesn't take much time at all) to make clothes so that my baby could be dressed, to make a diaper her size, I can't find the words to describe it. It may seem like something so small can't make that much of a difference, but believe me, it does. It does.

 Some of the "Gweecie soooes", ready to be donated. The small green and blue pair? They are for an upcoming project for later this year. Stay tuned. 

 Really, this is how small they are.

 Gracie's foot mold. So precious, so tiny! One of the services provided by SHARE.

 Gracie's foot mold in comparison to the smallest baby bootie size they had from donations.

 And yet, even they are extremely small. 

Her foot mold in one of the booties. It fits. 

Pattern for "Gweecie Sooes"

For this ^^^ paticular one, I used a hook size E/4 and the type of yarn/string used to make the leporsy bandages. But really, you can mix and match hook sizes and yarn type. Different pairings make different sizes.

Round 1: Single Crochet (sc) 6, sc in second to last stich, sc in the next. Half Double Crochet (hdc)1 in next stich, 2 in the stich after that and 5 in the last one. Working in the back loop only, hdc 2, hdc 1, sc and then 2 sc in the last stich. 

Round 2: sc all the way around

Round 3: sc in back loop only all the way around

Toe shaping, Round 1: sc 6, skip, hdc, skip, sc 6

Round 2: 2 sc in first stitch, sc 5 Decrease next two stitches, Decrease next two stitches, sc 5

Round 3: 2 sc in first stitch, sc 4, skip, sc 3, skip, sc 4

Round 4: sc all the way around

And Wha La! 

You may have to tweak it here and there depending on the mixing of hook size and yarn type you use. 

Perspective of Grief : Kotah

You know how some little kids just "know" things? Kotah was that way. Before we told her and Katie about Gracie, she would come over to me, pat my belly and smile up at me and say "Baby!", or sometimes she would just come up and kiss my tummy, smile, and walk away.

It would shock me when she did that. Katie also "knew". She kept asking me everyday "Are you SURE there isn't a baby in your tummy???". Because we didn't know exactly what was wrong from the 12 week appointment to the 16 week appointment, I answered in the negative because I didn't want them to attach to a sibling to have them just taken away. That all changed though when we found out Gracie didn't have much time left. I wanted them to be able to have that connection and to have as much time as possible with her. Once we told them, Katie went into high-gear, older sister protective mode. She would cuddle with Gracie (my tummy) as much as she could/I could handle. She would talk to her and sing to her. We played Barbies with Gracie. Blocks, couch forts, play dough, painting, bedtime stories and so much more. Things we would have done with her had we been able to bring her home. To us though, it seemed that Kotah didn't quite understand. Even when Gracie was born, I still didn't think she got it. When we buried Gracie she waved good-bye as the dirt covered her coffin and said "Bu Bye Gweecie." It was tender, it was cute, but I still didn't think she understood, or that her age allowed for her to understand what had happened. One night, shortly after, she patted my tummy and said "No bebe. Bebe all gone." And then she touched my heart and my head and said "Bebe here", and I thought, maybe she gets it more that I do. 

As the weeks have passed by, whenever we go to the cemetery to visit Gracie, Kotah is always excited and squeals "Gweeeeeeeeeecieeeeeeee!" And after playing around with all the flowers and decorations on her grave, will run off to see other grave decorations. There are no expectations to grief. Especially for a 2 year old. I had figured that as she gets older and as we remember Gracie, she will want to have ways to remember being involved, even if she doesn't quite seem like it right now. So we have involved her in everything. The girls each have a "lovey" made out of scraps from Gracie's blanket. They each have dolls, bears, blankets. They each painted pictures for her, with her. They each have pictures of them holding her. Katie cherishes hers. Kotah could care less right now, but it wont always be this way. So I planned for the time when she will feel the loss and want to feel a connection to her sister. 

That time came, in a sense, today. 

To preface, the past few days she has been increasingly more aware of things that are associated with Gracie. Our Gracie bear she is wanting to hold more. The necklaces that Ty and I have she is constantly pulling at and saying over and over "Gweecie. Gweecie." As I have started a service project making little booties to donate for other angel babies (more on that to come in another post) she will grab them once they are done and try to hide them and yell "My Gweecie's! My Gweecie's sooooes! (shoes)". I was starting to think that she was coming upon a greater understanding and was experiencing the grief that comes with that. 

And then, this afternoon she came and lifted up my shirt and patted my belly and said in a very concerned tone "Gweecie? Ah you in dwere? Bebe Gweecie?! GWEECIE???!!! Weh ah you??" She started bawling. My broken heart went on to break some more. I told her that Gracie was with Jesus. She yelled "No! I wan Bebe Gweecie!" Through her tears, she held out her hands and said "You cuddle me?" I pulled her close and rocked her back and forth. As I struggled with what to say, she suddenly perked right up and started playing peek-a-boo and wanted to rough house. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that she had just more fully realized her loss. 

I think that is what it is like, for little children. We talk about short attention spans and really, they are just so present. So focused on the moment. And sometimes, little children can only handle the intensity of emotional pain for a certain amount of time. They are true to their emotions that they understand in the moment. They feel. But only as much as they can handle at a time. 

Adults too, I think. There are moments when I just have to sit and cry. And cry and cry. And then I smile at something. I laugh. I take a deep breath and move on from the moment. (Although my moments are usually longer than that.) It doesn't mean I am done grieving. It doesn't mean I am over it. It just means I am taking it one moment at a time. Kotah is too. I am sure this isn't the only time she will grieve. And just because she didn't sit in her grief for forever does it mean she is over it. And just because it isn't obvious to me doesn't always mean she can't understand. 

She does.

Sisters

A bag of Oranges

It has been a rough week. A rough couple of weeks. On top of the struggle of just trying to get through the day, is having to deal with the comments, the expectations. The "well, it's been a month now so you should have had enough time to grieve" comments. The expectation of if I seem to be having a good day then I must be over it.
The pain that comes with loosing a child is intense. Scary almost. And harder still is that most situations are different, personal. There is no comparison. There are things that are similar, but each experience is unique. Even those that are close to me have said that it is hard to know what to say. What to do. I don't know sometimes. But what I do know is that I am not over it. I don't know if I will ever be over it. I am not done grieving. I don't have a timeline or an expectation for that. I lost a child. My child died. I don't wish the personal understanding on anyone, but sometimes I wish at least understanding that "my dog died so I know exactly how you feel" is out of line! (true story)
There are many blog posts on how to help someone who has lost a child to miscarriage, stillbirth or infant death. There are many things NOT to say. But I don't want to focus on that tonight. Google it. Google is wonderful.


A few days after we found out that Gracie would not live, a friend showed up at my door with a bag of oranges. She said something to the effect of "I don't know what you are going through. I don't know how to help. But I wanted to brighten your day and these oranges looked bright to me at the store, so I bought you a bag of oranges." Oranges didn't fix the problem. Oranges didn't do much of anything, but I cried over that bag of oranges. They meant so much.

(FYI, this is not a plea for bags of oranges.) The point I am trying to make is that even small things can make a world of difference. We all have our own personal cups of sorrow that get filled in their own ways. Many times we are blessed to know how to help others with their cups, what to do, but most times not. Most times we think we should do something, but our ideas seem stupid. We worry that we will say or do the wrong thing. That we will hurt someone or embarrass ourselves. The other week I was prompted to reach out to someone and I didn't. I thought that not only did I have nothing to give, nothing to offer, but that it would come across the wrong way. Then I placed myself in the other persons shoes. If it were me, wouldn't I just be grateful to be acknowledged? To feel like someone cared? Thankfully, the next day I was able to rectify my inaction, and it turned out to be a great thing. When we feel like we can't do enough and would rather do nothing, it is then that we should listen to the promptings. A call, a note, a bag of oranges. Even though seemingly small and insignificant, mean so much.