An End Date

We officially have a date when we know for sure that our Sammy boy will no longer be in our home. But honestly, with the nature of fostering, a part of me wonders if that will change (because everything is subject to change). We do know that there's a chance he'll leave sooner, but mentally, we're looking at March 31.

While this date has done a world of good for Adam, knowing our family will be restored to just four; it's made things so complex for me. 

It's normal and expected to give tirelessly to your children. Basically until they leave the home. But there's a sense of belonging with them. Nolan and Isaac belong in our family. They have a permanent place that can never be taken away this side of heaven. But that's not the case with fostering. We knew that going into it. But now we're about to live it.

For the past 6 months (and by then it will be 8), our lives have often felt like they revolved around him. His many appointments, his therapies, his visits, his needs. [Again, I wonder if we'll do better about that with the next placement.] Having him in our home has often felt like hard work. Hard work that he absolutely deserves. But it's a humbling feeling to know he's going to walk out of here on March 31. Though this work has mattered, it's so minimal considering all that is to come. Eight months is such a small amount of time in the scheme of life, but it's been such a refining time in our lives. 

Sammy will never remember his time with us, and we will literally never forget it. 

Sammy is going to move to his siblings' foster home, and we are friends with those foster parents. So while I know it's good for him to start bonding with that couple in these 8 weeks before the move happens, it's also hard. I have filled the role of Mama for this little boy, and now I'm going to be handing him over to someone else. And I know that I know that I know that it's a good move. It still feels heavy. There's no way this little boy is going to understand that I had no control in any of these happenings, and that I am not abandoning him. 

I feel quite certain Sammy will be so happy (more happy?) in their home. There won't be two little boys who are ready and eager to pounce on him at any moment. He will have to fight no one for lap space. He will probably be a little on the spoiled side with two parents and 2 older siblings (7 and 10) ready to cater to his every whim. He's going to be just fine. I have no doubts he will continue to thrive. 

But I do know that in order to cope with this change, he will likely look at me with a blank stare after this transition happens. 

We're trying to have regular conversations with the boys about how Sammy has a family that he belongs to, and he will get to go be with his brother and sister very soon. While Nolan nods his head, he quickly adds, "But wouldn't it be great if he stayed in our family forever?" These little boys have loved well. And hard. Like literally tackled him with love repeatedly. 

In some ways it feels harder having a 3 month period of time knowing that this transition is going to happen. I think I would have preferred about 2 weeks. I'm going to live in this tension for 2 more months. 

I've tried to get a good picture that doesn't show this little boy's face, but he literally sits or lays at my feet every.single.night when I'm cooking dinner. He's often my little shadow. And while I know it's 100% healthy for him to attach to me, I'm sad for him to go through another loss. 

So, our first placement has an end date. On April 1st, this Tomberlin family will be a family of 4 again. 

What Now?

Having never experienced a miscarriage, I had no idea what to expect about the weeks to come. I'm not even a month out, so I still consider this fresh. The sadness can swell and come crashing down in what I would call predictable ways. But then there's out of nowhere assaults of grief that always surprise me and leave me feeling confused. Wondering, "When does this stop?"

Within the first couple of hours of realizing I lost the baby, I sat down to do my Advent reading because what else do you do in the face of such sadness? I went on to read the next chapter in Knowing God, and I cried my way through the whole thing. But I wept through this:

"What matters supremely, therefore, is not the fact that I know God, but the larger fact which underlies it- the fact that he knows me. I am graven on the palms of his hands. I am never out of his mind. All my knowledge of him depends on his sustained initiative in knowing me. I know him because he first knew me, and continues to know me. He knows me as a friend, one who loves me; and there is no moment when his eye is off me, or his attention distracted from me, and no moment, therefore, when his care falters." (Knowing God by J.I. Packer) 

I began to plead to God that I would know without question His steadfast and personal love in a new way through this loss. 

I try to be intentional about taking note of all the ways God shows His lovingkindness towards me even in the midst of disappointment. 

On my way to my post-miscarriage doctor's appointment that I was truly dreading, I had a text from my mom and two friends letting me know they were praying for me. And the nurse was so kind and compassionate to me as I cried my way through the weight check and blood pressure check. The whole reason I didn't want to go to this appointment was the ultrasound. I couldn't bear the thought of seeing the empty screen. But by God's mercy alone, they didn't make me have one. There has been evidence of God's love laced through all of the mourning. 

But there are still hard moments. 

I was talking to Adam one night about how prideful it felt that we would so flippantly talk about when we'd have a baby. We had experienced nothing but ease when it came to getting pregnant. How silly for us to assume that we could just pick a month we'd like to get pregnant and expect a baby 9 months later. With a new sense of humility, I shared that this was a great reminder that God is the one who gives life. If or when we try to have another baby, it will be with humility that we ask God to grant us another child. 

It wasn't but a few days later that it kind of all came crashing down on me. God did give our baby life. And God chose to take it away. We weren't actually trying to get pregnant yet. And God gave us a baby that He knew would not ever be held in our arms. God chose suffering for us. And for whatever reason, that alone has me crying out to God asking Him to please not let me waste this. God knew my heart and arms would ache for this baby I'd never lay eyes on. God knew that when He knit that baby together in my womb that it would be for such a short time. But my confidence in my good God has not wavered. I love this excerpt from a book my friend gave me (Inheritance of Tears, Trusting the Lord of Life When Death Visits the Womb): 

"We must choose to believe (because it is true!) that the one who went to such great lengths to prove his love for us has not made a mistake in allowing us to miscarry. Our good and loving God did not spare his Son but gave him up for us, and this same God sovereignly orchestrated the loss of our babies; we can therefore humbly trust that his painful providence is meant for and will produce our ultimate good." 

So, with often tear-filled eyes I say, "God, have your way in me. For your glory and my good. Whatever that looks like." 

This morning after I had my first extended time of prayer since losing this baby I started singing Keith Green's song Create In Me a Clean Heart. The more I sang it, the more I was convicted to ask God to truly restore the joy of my salvation to me. If everything else is stripped away, God rescued me from my sin and gave me the righteousness of Christ. For THAT, I can always be grateful. For THAT, I can endlessly praise the name of the Lord. 

*Keenly aware of the pain and loss other women in my own life have experienced that is of far greater magnitude than what we're walking through right now. I can quickly chide myself for feeling so sad over a baby that we knew about for so short a time. But I also don't want to rush my own processing. 

A Weary Christmas

We took down all of our Christmas decorations today with the exception of our outside lights (because it was literally 19 degrees). I've never had a Christmas when I was so eager to take it all down. I was ready to clean house 2 days after Christmas, but I held off until the new year. 

Four days before Christmas I started miscarrying our sweet baby that we knew only for such a short time. I had no idea what the process would be like, but it was so much more than I anticipated. 

Back in August, Adam and I seriously started discussing the possibility of adding another child to our family biologically. We discussed it off and on for the next few months. We knew we wanted another baby, but we couldn't quite nail down the best timing. Things with fostering are so unpredictable; it's hard to plan around something that's so big and so fluid. 

The first week of December I found out I was pregnant, and I was shocked and so thankful God decided the timing of our next baby for us. I was going to try to make it until our anniversary to tell Adam, and now, I'm so, so grateful I didn't. The day after I took the test, Adam oddly started talking to my stomach like there was a baby in there. And I couldn't keep it in. 

Per usual, Adam's excitement was more than I could have hoped for. I really didn't know what he'd think, but he was thrilled. 

From the beginning I was unusually nervous about the pregnancy. I figured it had just been over 3 years since I was in the beginning stages of pregnancy, and I probably just forgot what it was like. But something in my gut or my heart just didn't feel right. As a way to combat the anxiety I started reading Knowing God to fix my eyes on the character of God. I circled the last Monday of January on my calendar because that would mark 12 weeks, and I could feel significantly more at ease about it all.

But we'd never make it that far. When I went to bed on Wednesday the 20th, I knew something was wrong. I had spent the evening trying not to move at all. I went to bed with some discomfort in my abdomen and knew- this wasn't right. Sure enough, I woke up at 5:45 in the morning losing the baby. I was only 6.5 weeks along, so it was quite early but the loss felt heavy.

It was a hard, hard day on Thursday. And the days that followed were hard, too. I was hopeful that Christmas would still be a joyous day, but it was just hard. We had planned to tell our families good news that day, and instead we carried grief in our hearts and probably on our faces. We ate lunch at home before heading to my parent's house, and Adam and I literally cried into each other's arms at our table feeling such sorrow for this sweet babe we'd never meet. I just kept stopping in my tracks all morning asking him, "Why is it so hard today?" But it was. I wanted to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but I felt so heavy hearted for the baby I wouldn't birth. There was no family picture taken. No Facebook post about what a Merry Christmas. We just made it through the day.

Just as quickly as hope rushed in for this new life that would join our family and be in our arms next Christmas, it felt like it got snatched right out from beneath us. 

I thought of my friends who have experienced miscarriage with no children in their homes! My boys were of great comfort to me. I can't imagine what it would be like to have no one to hold and cuddle in the middle of the pain. 

The day after Christmas was just as hard or harder as we had Tomberlin Christmas that day. By the time 4:00 rolled around, I was maxed out. I couldn't keep going. I was ready for Christmas to be over. It all felt so harsh.

I'm relieved to turn the page of the calendar. I am quite certain 2018 will not include a new baby for the Tomberlins, and I trust that at some point, that disappointment will wear off. It's an unsettling feeling to wonder if we'll ever have a healthy pregnancy again. I know that I have no reason to assume another miscarriage will happen. But now I have no reason to assume a healthy pregnancy will happen. Miscarriage steals that from you. There is no more certainty. The reality is, there never really was. But once you lose a baby, you're well aware of how fragile that little life is. 

My friend texted me yesterday letting me know she's praying for me. And she said, "Know this: God wastes NOTHING! He has good purposes in that little life." I was about to teach our 3s class at church, and I quietly just prayed, "Oh, let it be so!" I can only hope and plead to God that this brings me closer to Him and deepens my knowledge and love for Him. I would hate to waste this. So, I bow low in the aftermath of the loss asking that it all be for His glory. 

I literally danced around the living room today as our furniture got moved to it's normal spots, and Christmas came down. Nolan was confused by my excitement but quickly joined in the dancing. I'm hoping it's a good foreshadowing of 2018!