Choosing Hope

As I sit here writing this, I am fresh off a period of deep depression and grief. There came a point, in this period, where I wondered why my life was still worth living. Not in a suicidal way, but more in an impatient way because the one thing I want most in this life, to see and hold my son again, isn’t achievable. It was an impatience for a day that I am longing for with all my heart – to see Jesus walking towards me, both of my boys in his arms, the one I met and held and loved for six months and the one who I only ever carried in my womb and never met. And, just a few days ago, I wanted this day to come so I wouldn’t have to be separated any more.

Hope is a hard thing for me these days. Three years ago, on this very day, I had so much hope. My son, Judah, had just made it through a terrifying month of extreme sickness that almost led to us losing him. I had sat, only a little more than a month before (a month and 1 day to be exact), listening to the alarms go off in my son’s room and the cacophony of doctors, nurses, pharmacists, respiratory therapists and whoever else was there, try to bring my son’s heart rate back up after calling a horrifying code blue. For 30 minutes, I had sat in a corner in that NICU room, petrified, crying, and praying over and over, “Please don’t take my baby.” And it wouldn’t be the last time I would pray it. One month and 11 days later, I would pray it again during another code blue only to have those prayers be unanswered as that baby boy passed into Jesus’ arms 2 days later.

But before that, oh, I had so much hope. Judah had successfully had his breathing tube taken out, had beaten peritonitis, was happy and was smiling uncontrollably in my arms. We were starting to finally talk about discharge, about going home. I bought a crib. I finally planned a nursery. I talked with the dialysis nurses to find out what life would be like when we brought him home. I designed his bedding and found the safest mattress I could find for him to sleep on. But 13 days later, my son turned blue and went limp in my arms and passed away 2 days later.

I hate the month of February. I hate Valentine’s Day. I hate February 22nd through February 25th the most. February 22nd was Judah’s last good day – he was off oxygen, smiling, happy, turned 6 months old but vomiting. And the doctors had told me it was fine – that babies just spit up. But this was normal vomiting – it was constant, it was projectile, and, I’m pretty sure, it led to his death.

February 23rd I spent the day arguing with doctors to please give my baby a fluid bolus. They gave in too late and, we believe, Judah deteriorated rapidly, started losing his beautiful pinkness, and turned blue and went limp in my arms from a stroke as the doctor walked in to finally check on him. I was shuffled out of the room and sent to the waiting room to wait for news.

In the early hours of February 24th, after spending every half hour calling to see how he was doing and being told he was fine, we got the dreaded phone call that we needed to come back (we had gone home to get sleep we could since they wouldn’t let us in his room all night) because there was nothing more they could do. We spent the day desperately trying to find a solution, to convince them to try. But Judah was too weak to fight any more, even though he tried so hard.

We slept in a regular hospital bed together that night, the three of us, a family, spending our first and last night together. They told us the morning of February 25th that Judah’s liver had failed and he would start bleeding internally and having seizures, or we could take him off life support and let him go. How can you ask a parent to make a decision like that?

We chose to let him go while reading him stories, singing him songs and snuggling him on my chest, his favorite place to be. As we waited for them to pull his breathing tube out, I was dry heaving, unable to vomit because I hadn’t eaten or drank in almost 2 days but horrified over what was happening to my son and what was yet to come. Judah, the amazing, brave, and empathetic boy that he was, mustered up one last bit of strength and squeezed my finger to let me know he was still there and wanted his mama to feel better. He passed from my arms into Jesus’ at 11:05 AM.

My hope these days looks so different – it the hope of seeing my Judah, as well my Jack, lost to miscarriage at 9 weeks gestation, again in heaven. Sometimes I feel so guilty that I am looking more forward to seeing my boys again than I am about seeing Jesus face-to-face. But it is because of the hope that Jesus’ death and resurrection gave me of being able to have my sins forgiven and go to heaven that I even have this hope.

I’ll be honest, I’m not good at choosing hope. Some days, well, a lot of days, I wonder what the point is. Why am I continuing to live on this earth when the thing I long for the most lies beyond the limits of human life? Why does it matter that I am still here?

The answer lies in two things – one, to pass on Judah’s story, his legacy, and all the miracles and absolute awesome power of God in his life as only his mama can and, two, to raise his little brother to be a radical world changer for the Kingdom of God. For what purpose on this earth is there greater than these?

I am not perfect. Most days, I forget this purpose and drown myself in my own self pity and grief and intense longing for Judah. I question why God continues to let babies die, why babies are even born, why, oh, why does He continue to let this world suffer and be so full of hate towards our fellow man. I question why, in all His goodness, he continues to let the world turn when He could come and cleanse the earth, raise those who have passed into His arms, and create absolute paradise on earth.

I don’t have all the answers. I have pestered my husband for the answers and he doesn’t have them either. But I do know, God wants us to be allowed to choose Him, not be forced into a relationship with Him and God’s timing is perfect.

As hard as it is, I am choosing to hope. I am choosing to hope for the day I see Jesus face-to-face and He hands my babies back to me. I am choosing to hope that Judah’s story can make a huge impact for the Kingdom, because I know this is his purpose. I am choosing to hope that one day I will overcome depression, anxiety, and post traumatic stress disorder and instead be able to access my memories of Judah again (my brain has cut me off from them as a way of protecting me from the trauma) and remember them for what they are – beautiful moments of God-filled love, of miracles, of breaths my son was never supposed to take and of infectious baby smiles.

I am choosing to hope for the day of healing – not on this world but in the next. My biggest prayer for Judah was that he would be healed. That he would miraculously grow kidneys, and when that pray passed, that he would make it to transplant. Those prayers were answered in a different way – my son is healed but in a different way. He is healed in heaven. He has a perfect body that doesn’t require medical intervention. And there is nothing better I could want for him. And someday, I will receive that same perfect body and be able to once again live life – a perfect, whole, healed life – with my sons.

I don’t know what you need hope for today. I know some of you may need the same hope I am choosing – of seeing your baby again. It may be the hope for personal healing, a positive pregnancy test, a good job, a new home, of a new start, of getting out of a bad situation. Whatever it is, God has given you today. And that is a hope all of it’s own.

Do you know how amazing it is that you woke up this morning? That your body continues to take breaths and pump blood, to clear waste and toxins from your body, to digest your food, to give you energy and so many other things – do you realize how much of a miracle that is? I guess you don’t really fully realize until something stops working and you have to rely on modern medicine to fix it. I know I didn’t. But every day I am acutely aware that my body, even in it’s current, broken, don’t know why I am so sick all the time, state, is a miracle for continuing to sustain me and wake me up every day.

God has given you today to hope, to love, to spread His Kingdom and His love. It’s a day with infinite possibilities. Four years ago, February 25th meant nothing to me. Today it means everything to me. That is the beauty of a day – that anything can happen and that God can do whatever it is He needs to do with today to make it a day of miracles and pointing others toward Him.

Today I am resolving to hope, to look for every day miracles and to write those miracles down so I don’t forget them on days like yesterday and last week. I am so good at seeing the bad in my life and not the good. I need days like this, that aren’t perfect but where my head is above water enough to remember

The Lord has done great things for us and we are filled with joy.

Psalms 126:3