"A Pair of Shoes"

I am wearing a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many pairs in this world.
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
No woman deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.
These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.
They have made me who I am.
I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.

Author unknown

The Bradford Pear

(This was what I wrote on Audrey's third birthday this year)

I sat this morning under the same old pear tree looking at the stone that reflects the event that changed my world: Audrey Carolyn Rickard 5-20-2005.

It's such a short description of a short life that left an enormous mark in the hearts of many.

Something is different this year though: I'm not angry and bitter! Don't get me wrong, I miss her terribly, and the sadness that fills my heart today is evident by my tear-streaked face.

But grief is no longer my constant companion - it sometimes leaves me and is replaced by stunning grace. But isn't life like that? Aren't our lives an unfolding drama that swings back and forth between this aching grief and a wonderful, stunning grace?

I'd like to take a pass on this grief part, but I can't. The moments come, like today, when we are drenched in grief. As much as we would like to avoid it and as much as we would like to put the traumatic events in the backs of our minds, grief comes and drops us to our knees. We are face-to-face with the reality of grief. We cannot grow beyond it - no matter who we are or what we have.

But that's only one part of it. Grace is the other part. And it is what has surprised me the most.

This is grace: Lying in the hospital bed knowing that I was about to give birth to a baby that wasn't going to live, a Labor & Delivery nurse walks in that lost her baby at about the same time in pregnancy almost two years before. She took my hand. She held it as I began this journey. That's grace.

This is grace: Riding to the cemetery for Audrey's memorial service, my dearest friend sat next to me, holding my hand. Less than two weeks prior, she had undergone in vitro. She could have said, "You know, I just can't handle this right now." But she didn't. She made me laugh when no one else could. She even helped me come up with a way to break out of the hospital if they wouldn't dismiss me. Now that's grace!

This is grace: Meeting other women who lost their babies around the same time. It was under the premise of a "support group." But we no longer go to a "support group". We just all like each other. They are some of my dearest friends. There's something else very precious about this - when everyone else forgets, these girls still remember. I would venture to say that Chuck and I both have a lot of family members that don't have a clue that today is Audrey's birthday, but these girls know. It's on most of their calendars. That's grace.

This is grace: Your OB/GYN calling you to tell you that he can't stop thinking about you and the fact that we physically won't be able to have children. He's just delivered a baby, and the mother is not going to be able to take care of her. Can he share our story with her? We eventually become parents to this precious baby. That is stunning grace!

I'm trying to collect my thoughts. I just got up and walked to my back window. There, in the middle of my backyard, stands the most perfect bradford pear tree that you've ever seen. It's not all that pretty in the winter. The leaves are gone. It's just bare. But when spring comes, it's the first thing in our yard to bloom. And when it does, it is glorious. It is the first reminder each year of a new beginning of growing and flourishing.

My father-in-law and husband planted that tree the day after Audrey's memorial service. It's the kind of tree my father-in-law wanted to plant in my yard to remind me of this precious little life after he saw Audrey would be buried under one. When I look at it, I see where my grief meets stunning grace.