Still,

I bring my son to play dates 

where he plays 

with kids his age…

and their siblings. 

And their mothers 

look at me and wonder 

if he 

will ever be 

a brother. 

None of them want to know I tried 

multiple times, 

but they look at me.

My womb is empty; 

still 

I fill 

my bucket with blueberries. 

I fill 

my kettle with water. 

I fill 

my cup with tea.

The crib is empty 

already 

(still) 

but the toddler bed is filled 

like our days 

of nature walks 

and sidewalk chalk. 

Still, 

there are names that make me wonder 

what my boy would be like as a brother: 

Mack. Margo. Ransom. Stevie. 

Names I had chosen when I thought maybe 

another life could live inside me.

My womb is empty 

still. 

I fill 

my nights with bitter prayer. 

I fill 

my son’s days with love. 

I fill 

my cup with tea.

the vigil

No one prayed while I paced the path between the sink and the bath tub.

No one sang “It Is Well” when I birthed you into a watery grave.

No one held my hand as I flushed you away, 

twenty-seven weeks away from a timely birth.

No one brought a light luncheon to the 3 am vigil in a bathroom.

Your father and brother slept on, 

not knowing you had come and gone.

No one sent flowers.

No one offered condolences.

Because funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living and the living never met you.

the songs my grandmother sang

My grandmother used to sing Billy Joel songs to me, 

usually the love songs 

and she would sing 

about a room in a heart like a sanctuary 

not to worship love but to protect it jealously.

My grandmother used to sing Nat King Cole songs to me 

and the look she gave me from the L to the E 

was so pure 

I knew that I was lucky to know love like hers. 

My grandmother used to sing Harry Connick Jr. songs to me, 

and we would drive from New York to Vermont for a weekend 

and I felt so grown up because I was her friend. 

My grandmother used to sing Norah Jones songs to me, 

and I swear to God I could hear her heart break 

over every octave change. 

My grandmother used to sing Michael Bublé songs with me 

and we promised love to each other 

over and over and over 

and that felt like everything. 

One day, she didn’t sing anymore. 

In fact, the radio was off in her car 

and she says it’s because her voice is too old to sing along. 

And I didn’t believe her 

because she is my grandmother 

and my grandmother sings, 

especially jazz. 

At last, 

I sit beside her in church 

waiting for her voice to rise above the rest in clear soprano 

and only then do I know 

what she’s known 

for the past five years: 

Vocal cords age 

and minds wrinkle like skin 

turning to dust before we’re even in 

our graves.

So I sang Billy Joel to myself in my car,

but it’s really to my grandmother.

And soon enough 

she returns to dust, 

singing in glory 

and I keep her in that room in my heart like a sanctuary.

the shadow I carry

sunburned strawberries. 

midnight toast with jam.

kisses in the kitchen, 

in the bathroom, 

on the stairs. 

highlights in my hair. 

curly blonde halo

snacking on cheerios.

slow songs on stereo.

it’s dark outside 

but there are bright spots 

if we look for them.

I’m looking.

I’m trying.

I swear that I am.

Train Watching

We sit in the car 

and shift into park 

as the blinking red guard 

glides into place.

The old diesel engine heaves 

a holler as it steams 

ahead pulling a freight that seems 

weightless, dressed in graffiti 

on a one way track.

I ask: 

“Do you see the cars? 

Do you see the art? 

Do you see how far 

the train goes on?”

The boy in the back seat 

is too small to speak, 

too small to really see 

my tears in the rear view mirror.

His third sibling has died 

despite how hard I tried 

to sustain its short life 

inside my womb.

The old diesel, now out of sight, 

chugs on in my mind 

pulling its burdens and mine 

on a one way track 

unseen, it seems, 

by everyone but me.

my son might have my hands (12.13.22)

My son might have my hands: 

Hands that have held worms and grass and mud.

Hands with fingernails clipped down to blood.

Hands that break plates and drop cups.

Hands cold and fidgeting in too-small gloves.

My son might have my hands:

The ones that have wiped tears and broken noses.

That have pounded on windows before the door closes.

That have picked flowers and double crossed promises.

That clench and unclench, feeling stress and hopelessness.

My son might have my hands.

Desperate.

Searching.

Hungry.

Learning.

My son might have my hands.

Gentle.

Determined.

Stubborn.

Burdened.

My son might have my hands:

The hands that needed to learn their own lessons.

And became shields after being weapons.

He might hurt people. He might help them.

He might use my hands better than I have.

two thousand twenty-two

2022. Simultaneously one of the best and most difficult years of my life, and I haven’t written about most of it. 

I began last year by giving birth a boy who is now a year old. I still can’t master the compulsion to check while he’s sleeping to make sure he’s still breathing. I love being his mother. My year ended with two separate miscarriages and my body that had started feeling like a home again, feels foreign and lonely. I feel, somehow, like less of a mother than I am.

Tan and I have grown as a team. We’re learning how to support each other through the mundane. We function in crisis mode so well, but we’ve found that the little daily struggles are the battles where we fumble and often fail to have each other’s back. Love grows where and when we water it so we’re becoming better gardeners.

The future, our future, of ministry feels so far away. I struggle daily to press on toward the goal. A little voice that started as a whisper is getting louder in my head, “What if all your efforts are in vain? What if you never make it? What if you fail?” Some days I don’t have anything to say to the voice because everything feels in vain. Some days I can tell that voice that failure is not an option; when our lives are set in motion by the love of God wherever we end up can be called success.

 

In this year ahead, this impending future, I hope to live every day set in motion by the love of God.