Friday night we traveled to Gracemont, America to watch the Patriots play the Gracemont Lions. It's been fun this fall watching Friday-night football games. I grew up spending my Friday nights at the football stadium. I grew up in and around some small towns, but nothing like tiny Gracemont (population: 336). I'll let the pictures tell the story.
The press box:
A member of the chain crew:
At each game the Patriots make due without a locker room and just meet in the endzone at halftime:
After the game, players and fans from both sides met in the middle of the field ...
... and prayed:
And then the Lions invited everyone to stick around for the "5th quarter" -- featuring chili dogs, popcorn, Frito pies, cookies, drinks, and more:
The highlight of the night was during halftime, when both teams and cheerleaders did an impromptu "Cupid Shuffle" on the field:
It's a good thing this is eight-man football: Patriots quarterback Lincoln Dutcher tells me Gracemont only has nine guys on its entire roster. (And I thought the Patriot roster was thin with 16!). Lincoln is looking forward to the trip and the contest with the Lions, adding: "They invited us to have burgers with them after the game."
I don't know what to say about Lincoln turning 18. It's true what everyone told me when he was a baby -- "Enjoy him. They grow up so fast."
I remember so clearly the day he was born, and now he's 18. I remember bringing him home hours after he was born, planting his little tree, gazing at his "perfectness." I remember long lazy walks on the gravel roads at the ranch and cuddling and rocking him at night. I remember him toddling around in his blue thermal jammies, his diapers crinkling as he walked. There are 18 years of memories -- sitting on the couch teaching him to read, days at the park and the zoo, birthdays and Christmases, spending time with grandparents and cousins, baseball games, and vacations. Memories that I sometimes take for granted and then I sit here in the quiet, remembering, and I am so, so grateful. Grateful for my 18-year-old son.
Happy Birthday, Lincoln. Your dad and I are proud of the man God has made you to be, and so thankful.
My friend Everett Piper, president of Oklahoma Wesleyan University and an OCPA adjunct scholar, will be signing his new book this weekend in Bartlesville. I encourage you to go chat with him and buy a copy of the book.
From time to time, I go through Anne Marie's box. I look at her pink dress and hospital things. And I read through her funeral guest book and through the many cards we received. I reread each heartfelt, personal note and remember again how truly thankful I am for the love and prayers of so many -- many we know and many we don't know. I remember the meals that were delivered to us in Dallas and the groceries that were stocked in our kitchen when we returned home. I remember the goodie baskets filled to the brim with things for all of us -- gifts of love sent long distance just when we needed it. I remember the gifts sent to our kids to show them they weren't forgotten, and the good friends who opened their arms and homes to them. And I remember so many e-mails, Facebook messages, text messages, and cards telling us of the many thoughts and prayers for Anne Marie.
I remember a conversation I had with one of Anne Marie's doctors. He was explaining how being in the hospital for so long and how the sudden changes in Anne Marie and the delicacy of her condition could be so stressful, and that situations like this can take "quite a toll on a family." But he said, "You all seem to be handling it remarkably well." I told him that yes, there were times it was hard, but that we didn't feel the "heaviness" of it. I told him how supportive our family was and how we had many, many people praying for us. So now, a year later, I say thank you again. Thank you for your love and prayers for our family. I won't ever forget.
And thank you also for the love and prayers sent our way for Anne Marie's first birthday. I was once again humbled by the e-mails, text messages, and cards sent remembering Anne Marie. Thank you for remembering.
And thank you for the special things sent to us lately.
I will always treasure this album. My dad made it for me and brought it to me on Anne Marie's birthday:
In it are all the posts we have written about Anne Marie. I sat up one evening and read through the whole thing. Her story all in one pink book:
"Let's say you were a million dollars in debt and you didn’t have a clue, much less a plan, about how you were going to pay," Andrew C. McCarthy writes on National Review Online.
But you saw this really nice chandelier and decided it would be just perfect in your dining room. If you pulled out the Mastercard and charged up a few grand for this ornate luxury, we would not call that fine living. We would call it grossly irresponsible, especially if it means you can’t pay the mortgage or the kids' tuition once the binge ends and the piper demands his due.
So here is the question: Why does a country that is trillions in debt, and in which people have unlimited options for obtaining information, need NPR? More to the point, why do we need to fund the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, which keeps NPR afloat? ...
The real victim here is the public. And the real test is what Republicans do about that if the Tea Party tide sweeps them back into power. The CPB is a chandelier: a grossly irresponsible expenditure for a government that is flat broke. But it's not even a rounding error compared to Obamacare. If they can’t bring themselves to repeal the Corporation for Public Broadcasting ...
We had a good weekend -- celebrating Anne Marie's birth, being with family, and going to Sunday worship. All of my children have learned the beginning questions of the catechism, the first of which is: "What is the chief end of man?" Answer: "Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever."
As a mother, there are many things I want for my children, things I pray for them: godly spouses and children, health, protection, and that they would love God more each day. And I realize that Anne Marie already has what I want most for them: to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever. It was hard to celebrate Anne Marie's birthday without her here, and throughout the weekend Brandon and I kept remembering last year and all the events surrounding her birth. We miss her and we hurt, and yet all weekend I kept thinking about where she is. With Christ. God accomplished his purposes in Anne Marie's life in the 37 days he gave her on this earth. Now she will enjoy Him forever.
Roses for Anne Marie's birthday:
We planted winter grass at Anne Marie's grave, and this weekend we saw it peeking through the ground:
Mary Margaret, Lillie, Jack Henry, and Lincoln:
Exciting win Friday night for the homeschool Patriots, whose QB hasn't forgotten the birthday girl:
Getting ready to head to Norman on Saturday:
While everyone else was at Owen Field, I sat outside and read and enjoyed this view:
We have two October birthdays in our family -- Lincoln’s and Anne Marie’s. Lincoln will be 18 in a couple of weeks. I remember the day he was born as clearly as I remember the day Anne Marie was born. We were living in a little bunkhouse on a ranch east of Bartlesville. The night before Lincoln was born we went to Murphy’s to eat. Already he was nearly two weeks overdue (Brandon started calling him The Great Procrastinator), and we went home that night wondering if tonight would be the night. At about 2:00 in the morning I woke up with contractions, and shortly thereafter Brandon and I drove to the hospital in town. Lincoln was born about fours hours later, at 6:38 a.m., and by 10:30 a.m. we were back home snug in our little bunkhouse. Later in the day Brandon planted a baby Colorado Blue Spruce in the front yard, and throughout the day friends and family stopped by to see newborn Lincoln.
Anne Marie’s birthday was a little different. I was going to be induced on Thursday, October 15 (which, ironically, is national Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day). The night before, Brandon and the kids and I went to Northpark Mall. We ate at Chick-Fil-A and walked around the mall. As I was walking I kept thinking that I wasn’t sure I would make it through the night -- that she might come on her own. But she didn’t, and one year ago this morning Brandon and I drove to Parkland Hospital, which delivers more babies each year than any other hospital in the nation. We checked in at about 6 a.m., but the nurse didn’t start my Pitocin drip until about 9:30 a.m. Our hospital room was old and a bit dreary, but all of the nurses were very nice and went out of their way to make me feel comfortable. Once I was all hooked up, my contractions started but weren’t too strong. Brandon and I just sat in our room talking and waiting, and I passed the time texting Ginger on and off throughout the morning. Our pastor came up from Edmond to be with us, and my parents were also in the waiting room eager for Anne Marie to arrive.
All of my previous births had been natural, but when my doctor in Edmond had talked to me about the possibility of inducing he warned me it would be different from my other births. I remember him saying, “You’re probably going to need an epidural.” He was right. Later that morning, after my water broke, my contractions were really strong and really painful and I definitely wanted an epidural. I have read stories of mothers who were desperate for an epidural during labor, but until Anne Marie, I just couldn’t relate. Because Anne Marie’s heart rate was fluctuating, they also had to stop my Pitocin for a while and I was only dilated to about a 5. I knew there was no way I could make it without an epidural. I was ready for the anesthesiologist. Now. She finally arrived, got everything all set up, was ready to start, and then ... got a page and had to leave. I remember thinking, "Who could possibly need her worse than I do?" Brandon was even more frustrated and agitated by the whole thing, pacing in the room and repeatedly going out into the hallway to see where she was.
A short time later she returned, and before long I finally had my epidural. I had heard stories about “good” and “bad” epidurals; apparently this was a good one. They started my Pitocin drip again and I was able to sleep on and off. About and hour and a half later, I was at a 10 and the doctor (along with about 10 other people) was there ready to deliver Anne Marie.
I remember being excited and so scared. I had been waiting for this day for months, and yet all of a sudden I wasn’t ready. I wanted to see her, and yet I knew once she was born things would be different. In utero she was perfectly safe, but I knew that after she was delivered, when she tried to take her first breath, she would no longer be safe. Right before she was born our doctor told us that she was going to let me hold her for a few seconds before she whisked her away. I was so thankful for this. I had feared that I wouldn’t get to hold her or really even see her. But as soon as she was born the doctor handed her to me. Any mother knows what that is like -- pure heaven. But about five seconds later I had to give her up. I knew this was going to happen, but I still wasn’t ready for it.
She was taken over to the other side of the room, where a resuscitation team was waiting to work on her (see photo at right). I could barely see her, but Brandon was able to stand there and watch what they were doing. I remember seeing the nurses and doctors squeezing the bag and I kept asking, "Is she okay? Is she okay?" I couldn't tell if she was breathing or not. Finally she was "bagged" and ready to be taken to the NICU where she would be put on a permanent ventilator. It would be several more hours before I would see her again.
Like so many of our days in Dallas, it was one of the hardest and best days of my life. I will always remember her birthday and the details of that day. I remember being scared and sad and excited. I will always remember our obstetrician, a maternal-fetal medicine specialist. I wasn’t her “regular” patient, and had only seen her a half-dozen times before Anne Marie was born. Yet she went above and beyond the call to make sure I had the best birth possible, and I did. After Anne Marie was born and I was admitted to the hospital, she continued to go out of her way to take care of us. I couldn’t have asked for a better doctor.
It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since Anne Marie was born. The memories are so vivid that in some ways it seems like yesterday. And then there are times when it seems like so long since I've seen her newborn face.
Happy birthday, Anne Marie! I can only imagine what it must be like to celebrate your birthday in heaven. We are celebrating here and remembering the day you were born. The first time we saw your beautiful face and felt your soft skin. You are a gift to us and your days with us don’t seem like nearly enough. We think about what you would be doing if you were here. We wonder what you would look like and what your one-year-old personality would be like. One day we will see you again. That is God’s promise. Happy birthday, sweet girl. We love you and miss you, every second of every day.
I have read several of Nancy Guthrie's books. After I read the first one, Holding On to Hope, which was about the loss of Nancy’s infant daughter and infant son, I remember thinking, “That’s exactly how I feel.” She has a way of putting into words all the thoughts, emotions, questions, and struggles I was feeling.
When I found out she was going to be speaking at Park Cities Presbyterian Church in Dallas last week, I really wanted to be able to hear her, but I almost didn’t go. I’m painfully uncomfortable in new situations and big crowds. I’d much rather be behind the scenes. But I knew I wanted to hear her, no matter how uncomfortable I might be at first. So I signed up and Brandon and I made the trip to Dallas. When I walked in to the church and saw the big group of ladies standing around talking, eating breakfast, and drinking coffee, I felt like turning around and leaving. There were more women there than there are total people at our typical Sunday morning worship service at home, and I didn’t know any of them. But I went in, looked around the book table, and found a seat and waited.
Nancy’s message wasn’t about the loss of her two infant children, but as she was speaking she told about her children’s lives and deaths. Her main point of the day was: “What is hope?” And as she started speaking, I could immediately relate. She talked about the deep, aching emptiness she had after her daughter died. She had so many questions, and she needed to know what was true about God that she could depend on. One of the main questions she struggled with was simply, “Does God love me?” Again, I could relate. It seems like such a simple thing; it's almost silly to question God’s love. I mean, God’s love seems like a pretty basic thing for a Christian to believe in. But in the depths of suffering even the “simple” truths are called into question. I don’t think I have ever actually voiced it to anyone, but there were so many times I questioned God’s love for me. I remember so many nights lying in the darkness asking God, “Where are you? What am I going to do? I don’t think I’m going to make it. Why?” and wondering if God loved me. Of course I know He does, and yet in the darkest times I questioned it. It helped me to hear that I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. And Nancy reminded me once again of the depths of God’s love. That God’s most significant display of love for me is the cross. “The display of the greatest evil ever done,” and yet “what flows out is the greatest good of all time.” And I was reminded that God will use the worst thing I can imagine for my ultimate good.
Nancy went on to talk more about her daughter and son and holding onto hope in the midst of suffering. More importantly, she said that it isn't actually we who are holding on, but it is Christ who has taken hold of us and is holding on to us. She said that someone once said to her, “You must be a very strong person.” Her reply was, “I’m not strong, but I am tethered to someone who is strong.” And she asked if Christ was enough for us in the pain that He doesn’t take away.
There was a time I would have hesitated at that question. But not this time. I didn’t hesitate. Yes, I said to myself. Yes. Christ is enough for me. He is enough in this terrible gut-wrenching pain that sometimes hurts so much. Even in the midst of many hopes and dreams that won’t come to pass, He is enough. Christ is enough for me.
Thank you, Lord Jesus, that you are enough for me. Thank you for pouring out your punishment on your only Son so that you can pour out your love and grace on me. Thank you that you are able to use this suffering to show me the depths of your love, and that you have given me a love for you that I haven’t known before.
Brandon and I went to Dallas last week. I went to hear one of my new favorite authors, who was speaking at Park Cities Presbyterian Church. It wasn’t intended to be a trip to the past, but that’s how it turned out.
We went back to all our familiar spots and favorite places -- the places we were a year ago at this time. We stayed at our favorite hotel, right across the freeway from Children’s Medical Center. After we checked in on Thursday, we walked around the hotel and the hotel grounds. Last fall we would come here with the kids to feed the koi. Jack Henry and Brandon would throw the football. This day, Brandon and I sat on the bench in the sunshine, remembering.
We went to eat dinner, sitting outside on the patio at the Pei Wei we used to visit. Then we went to Northpark Mall. Before Anne Marie was born, we spent many an evening walking (or in my case, waddling) around this mall -- eating at Chick-Fil-A, taking Jack Henry to the Lego store, and window shopping with the girls at stores we don’t have in Oklahoma City (Anthropologie, Nordstrom, Neiman-Marcus, et al). As we walked around the mall Thursday evening, we would say things like, “Remember last year sitting at that Starbucks? Remember when we came to this store with Lincoln? Remember seeing those little ballet shoes we wanted to buy for Anne Marie?"
So many memories. We drove past our old apartment -- our home away from home. I have fond memories of that apartment. Brandon and Jack Henry curled up in a chair watching Monday Night Football. Homeschooling in the "lounge" area of our apartment building. Playing cards at our little kitchen table, with a seven-year-old dealer asking his big brother, "You're gonna hit the six, right?" Sitting down at the table eating meals that had been sent to us from old friends in Oklahoma and new friends in Dallas.
We drove past our Albertsons grocery store where we bought our groceries and the pancake house where we would go on Sunday mornings. It was bittersweet. Happy and sad all at the same time. It was good to go back and remember. I look back on our time in Dallas and, although it was hard, it was truly one of the best times of my life. I won’t ever forget those times.
As I said, we had come to Dallas because one of my favorite authors was going to be speaking at PCPC, the church we attended while we lived in Dallas. So on Friday I got up bright and early to get ready to go. And I couldn’t have asked for a better day. The speaker was amazing, and then afterward Brandon and I went back to Children’s, the only home Anne Marie ever knew. I'll have more to say in a subsequent post. For now, here are some photos I took last week.
The koi pond where we would come with the kids:
I love these statues of the little children by the koi pond:
Just like old times, as soon as the fish heard footsteps on the bridge, they would rush to the top, hoping for some food:
Democrat politician Susan Paddack apparently considers Kirby Lehman to be a "prominent Republican," suggesting perhaps that Paddack learned political taxonomy from Jari Askins, long famous for being an "Oklahoma conservative."
Mr. Lehman, a Jenks bureaucrat, is presently disobeying a state law which grants educational freedom to special-needs students. So if you're a little girl with cerebral palsy or an autistic boy who's being bullied but not educated, well, sorry; Mr. Lehman feels the need to block the schoolhouse door to make sure you (and your dollars) don't escape. After all, his 25 grand a month has got to come from somewhere.
Whether or not Mr. Lehman is a "prominent Republican," it's safe to say he's not as prominent as this Republican, this mom of a special-needs child who is truly disappointed in bureaucrats who "make life any tougher or more challenging for these kids and for their families."
"More Californians reverse course and head to Oklahoma," USA Todayreports. This is something economist Scott Moody and I encouraged two years ago in the San Francisco Examiner.
