On Multiple Miscarriages, by Stephanie Gray Connors

“I just wanted to thank you,” I started to say, as the tears began too. I didn’t want to cry when conveying my gratitude. Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones. Or maybe it was the gravity of what she had done in sharing with me. But there I was, blubbering away as I tried to get the words out.

I was at a minor medical appointment related to my ear with my Nurse Practitioner. I hadn’t seen her in a while. Coincidentally, the last time I was in her office was one year prior, almost to the day. On that previous occasion, I had been on the tail end of a third miscarriage. Fast forward to the present appointment, and I was pregnant again. This time, everything is going well with sweet one growing in my womb. And as my burgeoning, 22-week belly beckoned her attention, so did my tears and words.

When I had seen my NP twelve months ago for another minor issue (my pregnancies were being handled by OB care), I happened to share my many miscarriages with her. And she shared with me that she had had two miscarriages. And no more children—by choice. By choice, she conveyed sadly, at the time. She then said, “I regret not trying again. I regret not trying for more children.” Fear had kept her back. Now, with the reality of aging, it was too late. But she was sharing what she regretted with someone—me—who was younger and could learn from her.

“I just wanted to thank you,” I said at my appointment the other day, “For sharing with me back then that you wished you’d tried for more.” I conveyed to her how grateful I was to have tried again, to be pregnant with this baby.

But in between her words a year ago and this second-trimester pregnancy I am currently experiencing, was to be for me yet another—a fourth—miscarriage. When my husband and I found out last spring, at a routine 12-week pregnancy appointment, that our fifth child had died like his three older siblings, my shattered spirit cried out in anguish, “I never want to get pregnant again.”

My reaction to so much death of not wanting to be pregnant again, was a natural, human response to suffering. It was the reaction my nurse practitioner had once had too.

But both of us could ultimately recognize that such a response was based on fear. It was based on the fear that a subsequent pregnancy would result in yet another miscarriage. And it could. Three in a row surely taught me that. But it also could lead to a live birth. A myriad of medical tests turned up no explanation for my losses. I have been under incredible care from a top notch physician in the world of restorative reproductive medicine/NAPRO Technology. Other than a need for progesterone supplementation (which I’ve had for five of my six pregnancies), no pathology has been identified. There is nothing to fix.

If I avoided pregnancy again I would have the guarantee of avoiding another miscarriage. But then I considered the future. And wondered what it would be like to be 80 years old and look back and always wonder, “What if? What if we had given life another chance? What if the next child, or even children, would survive?” I didn’t want to live with that depth of regret looming over my future. If God bestowed more life on us, He would be in charge of its trajectory. But I didn’t want to be closed off to letting His life even enter my womb to begin with.

After one of our losses my husband wisely remarked, “If we’re going to be open to life, we’ve got to be open to death.”

It was a hard truth. When pregnancies proceed healthily and parents live to see their children’s children, when our society has access to top notch medical care and has low infant mortality, we can forget the reality that every living person faces an ultimate earthly destination of death. Since four of my children have died within my body, I have become keenly aware of that fact. I have experienced the fragility of life. And it has crushed my heart each time.

But it has also reminded me that this earth is not our home. It has reminded me that my children are very much alive in the Heaven that awaits me. It has reminded me that until our epic family reunion, my days are meant to be spent loving God and loving others better and better. It has taught me to live with an eternal perspective, to realize that the value of a child’s life is in that life—not in its length. It has taught me that the worth of my children is in who they are as unrepeatable, irreplaceable individuals made in God’s image; it is not based on how much time I get to spend with them on earth. My, and my children’s, ultimate destination is Heaven. How long we live on earth before getting there is not in my control. But loving life here until it reaches its destiny, however long or short that may be, is within my control.

So here I am, pregnant again, a tabernacle again for the sacred, for a human body and soul described by his or her creator as “very good” (Genesis 1:31). The other day my 2-year-old was repeatedly saying what sounded like, “Body! Body” so I responded, “You have a body.” And then I said, “You are a body and a soul!” And she immediately said, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord” recalling the words of Jesus’ mother that my husband and I sing to her before bed. Yes, her sweet little toddler soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, as does each of the souls of my other children, four of whom are doing so perfectly already at the wedding feast of the lamb and one of whom is kicking in my womb as I type this. My pregnant body also proclaims the greatness of the Lord; it proclaims that death is not the end of the story, that God is a God of life, and that the resurrection follows the crucifixion (incidentally, the last baby I miscarried I lost on Good Friday. The one growing in my womb today is due on Easter Sunday).

After my fourth miscarriage, a friend e-mailed me who had lost a pre-born child of her own. She wrote, “It may seem far, far from your present reality, but the joy your dear children are experiencing in their heavenly home right now is so very real, and wouldn’t be possible without you. Through God’s Mercy and your desire for their baptism, they are now saints. Thank you for your courageous love that allowed this.”

Courage, I once read, is not an absence of fear, but a will to do what’s right in spite of your fears. I don’t know precisely what the future holds, and at various times in this latest pregnancy I have been afraid. But regardless of my past sufferings and present unknowns, this new child is wanted and willed. I have come to see that when we choose life, we flourish. And when the thief of death rears its head in our broken world, I know that that isn’t the end of the story. I know that the depths of loss we experience when losing a beloved is a reflection of the heights of our love. I know that one day that love will be lived in perfect form in eternity, where, mysteriously, death on earth leads us to eternal life in Christ. Until then, I choose to be a worker building up His kingdom here on earth.

The Pregnant Belly that Beckons, by Stephanie Gray Connors

“Can I touch your belly?” the 5-year-old boy asked.

His mom was embarrassed by his request but I was happy to oblige:

“Sure,” I said. “The baby is getting big.”

I was 7 months pregnant and my husband and I were on a road trip to Virginia where I was scheduled to give a pro-life presentation. We turned our travels into a bit of a babymoon and stopped off at the beautiful beach destination of Hilton Head, South Carolina. As we sat at a pool area, we met a vacationing family which included the inquisitive son.

The little boy’s curiosity and attraction to my child in the womb reminded me of an experience I had had a month prior. I visited a friend who has 3 children and when I was leaving, one of her daughters ran up to me and said, “Hugs!” I crouched down, assuming she wanted to hug me, but was taken aback (in a good way!) when she wrapped her tiny arms not around my shoulders, but around my pregnant belly.

She wanted to hug my pre-born child goodbye.

In our abortion-supporting world, it is the sweet gestures of these young children that teach a lesson to adults: A pregnant belly is different; it is set apart. Encountering a pregnant woman is to receive not just one person, but two.

Oh to have the eyes to see not just she who is visible, but to have awe and wonder at the precious life hidden within.

Living with LaeLae: Thoughts on My Miscarriage, by Stephanie Gray Connors

“To love another person is to see the face of God.” –Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

  On October 8, a second line on a pregnancy test would declare that I was a first-time momma at the ripe age of 40.  My husband and I received this news with great joy, celebrating by opening the Scriptures to pray, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior…for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name” (Luke 1:46-47, 49).  Only a few weeks later, however, we would be devastated to lose our little one to miscarriage.  We named our baby Laetificat Judah (“LaeLae” for short). Laetificat, from Latin, means “I delight, cheer, gladden. I make fruitful; I fertilize, enrich.” Judah, from Hebrew, means “praised.” Jesus has been called the Lion of Judah.  As is typical with loss, those who care for us say all kinds of things to express their sorrow and to try to help. 

One very supportive friend gently suggested that if my husband and I get pregnant again, we might consider waiting a little longer before telling people.  My friend meant well, but I have a different view.  People are unique, and life experience and personality are contributing factors to how we respond to things, but cultural influence is also a factor.  And our culture has established a norm to discourage disclosing one’s pregnancy until the first trimester passes.  Have you ever thought about why?  The truth is, it’s because miscarriage is common and although people aren’t often conscious of what they’re saying, it’s as though the message is this: “Your child might die, so don’t tell people until that’s less likely.”  The truth is, everyone will die, and if a child makes it past the first trimester there are no guarantees they will have a live birth.  And if a child makes it to birth, we have no guarantee of decades with one’s offspring.  How long must someone live before we celebrate them?  I have a friend who miscarried at 9 weeks and another who lost a child at 13 weeks.  My cousin miscarried at 21 weeks and my aunt had a stillbirth at 40 weeks.  One of my friends lost her child at 2 years old.  Another friend lost her son at 19 years old.  I don’t want to be quiet about my child’s existence because they might not live as long as someone else.  Instead, I want to live life fully with my beloved child for as long as they are present. 

A Life Fully Lived

The three weeks when we were aware of LaeLae’s life were absolutely glorious.  We happily told family and friends, and I shared the news with the world in three livestreamed presentations.  As one of my friends later wrote me, “Even though her life here was short, your baby brought joy to many people.”  There were so many adventures in a brief time: My husband and I returned to the island where he proposed just because we wanted to give LaeLae a beach outing.  Then there was the cool Florida evening where my husband and I, with little one in my womb, retreated to our backyard and were surrounded by the sweet smell of jasmine bushes; I strummed the ukulele, we prayed, and gave LaeLae her first family fire pit experience.  LaeLae was also part of our Canadian Thanksgiving celebration held south of the 49th parallel.  I loved writing notes and texts to “Daddy” to let LaeLae be the bearer of my various messages to my husband.

I loved introducing LaeLae to Jesus.  I would go to Mass and when I received The Body of Christ, I would imagine I was giving my child a “John the Baptist Experience.”  Just as he leapt in Elizabeth’s womb at the proximity of the pre-born Christ child entering his home in Mary’s body, my child got to experience the proximity of the Eucharistic Jesus entering the tabernacle of my body as my little one nestled nearby in my womb.

LaeLae was also my companion for major debates against two leading abortion supporters, on October 20 against abortionist Malcolm Potts and on October 22 against Princeton philosophy professor Peter Singer.  LaeLae helped me bear witness to the dignity of the child in the womb, and her existence even elicited, perhaps surprisingly, congratulations from both my opponents.

Entering the Vestibule of Heaven

I once read an inspiring article about a palliative care physician, Dr. Michael Brescia.   He said, “[W]hen someone is dying, you think that room [they are in] is part of this earth? No! You are not in this world. You have entered the vestibule of heaven.”

On Thursday, October 29, my husband and I entered the vestibule of heaven as our little LaeLae would begin to leave my body.  I heard from a Jewish friend that when a Jewish person dies, someone sits with the body and prays through the Book of Psalms (my spiritual director, a Byzantine monk, subsequently informed me the Eastern Catholic tradition is the same). Although we don’t know when, precisely, LaeLae died, that night, when my body was showing signs of miscarriage (which an ultrasound the next day confirmed), Joe and I prayed through the first 27 psalms to send Laetificat Judah to our Heavenly home.  I am struck by these passages:

•  “O Lord, our Lord, how awesome is your name through all the earth! You have set your majesty above the heavens! Out of the mouths of babes and infants you have drawn a defence against your foes, to silence enemy and avenger.” -Psalm 8:2-3

•  “You will show me the path to life, abounding joy in your presence” –Psalm 16:11

•  “Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.” –Psalm 17:8

•  “He reached down from on high and seized me; drew me out of the deep waters.” –Psalm 18:17

•  “God’s way is unerring; the Lord’s promise is tried and true.” –Psalm 18:31

•  “One thing I ask of the Lord; this I seek: To dwell in the Lord’s house all the days of my life, to gaze on the Lord’s beauty, to visit his temple.” –Psalm 27:4

That night I sobbed, but even amidst the ache of losing my child I realized the deep sorrow was because I let myself deeply love.  I was reminded of a powerful scene in the movie Shadowlands and said to my husband, “The pain now is because of the happiness then.”

I Can Only Imagine

One rainy afternoon, before we had become parents, my husband and I watched the movie I Can Only Imagine. It tells the true story of musician Bart Millard who wrote MercyMe’s song, I Can Only Imagine. Bart had been brutally abused by his father growing up, but before his father’s death his dad became a Christian and reconciled with his son.  After his dad’s death, Bart composed, “Surrounded by Your glory, What will my heart feel? Will I dance for you, Jesus? Or in awe of You be still? Will I stand in your presence, Or to my knees will I fall? Will I sing hallelujah? Will I be able to speak at all? I can only imagine.”

So as part of my grieving and healing, I let myself imagine.  I’ve thought of my friend Anita who I had done pro-life projects with.  She was a post-abortive woman who came to regret ending the life of her child.  She repented, experienced God’s mercy, and shared her testimony through Silent No More Awareness and Rachel’s Vineyard.  She passed away a couple years ago at the age of 76.  I imagine her in Heaven with a grandmother’s delight in LaeLae, telling her stories that would start with, “Your mom and I worked to save babies your age, and there was this one time…”

Miscarriage is common, and various friends and family who walked this rocky path before me were like flashlights steering me through the darkness.  Many of them named their little ones too, and now I imagine LaeLae playing in a Heavenly park with her tiny new friends: Hope, Paul Francis, Karol Agape, Pierre, Grace, Miriam, Judith-Ann, Faith, Providence, Karol, Owen, Asis Gabriel, and Pieta Marie, to name a few.

And then I imagine how, one day in the future, I will stand at the gates of Heaven and see my Savior, a kindly Jewish rabbi named Jesus, holding the hand of a little girl who has thick, curly brown hair and who’s wearing a blue dress, and she’ll whisper to me,

  “Welcome home, Mommy.”

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.” –Victor Hugo

Final Note: For anyone who may experience the tragedy of miscarriage, know that no matter how young your child, you can collect the blood and bury it.  Your baby may be so tiny that no body is discernable; you may not even know how early your child died, but out of an abundance of caution you can bury whatever you collect.  You may find, as was my experience, that you pass a discernable gestational sac and you can bury that.  No matter why your child died—whether your baby was so disabled she or he didn’t keep growing, or your body had a hard time sustaining a pregnancy, or some other reason—no matter how little time your child lived, you can hold a funeral.

Photo by Julia Wallin on Unsplash

My Sibling I Never Acknowledged, by Stephanie Gray

For as long as I can remember, when I met people who would ask, “How many siblings do you have?” my answer was always “one.”  But I recently had an epiphany: That answer isn’t true.

I don’t have just one sibling; I have two.  So why wasn’t my eldest sibling in the count? 

I never met Paul Francis.  He lived—and died—before I ever came to be.  Why should my sister be acknowledged because she has lived 40 years (and counting), but my brother not because he lived only 6 weeks?

  That I never had the chance to play Hide & Seek with him doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be acknowledged. 

That I never rode my bike to piano lessons with him doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be remembered. 

That he never got to experience family trips to Scotland and Nova Scotia, road trip adventures, and lots of singing and silliness, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be counted.

I don’t know why Paul Francis died, but I do know how he died (miscarriage), and more importantly, I know that he lived (albeit briefly).  So why do the early miscarried get swept aside?  “It’s common to miscarry, especially your first child,” people will say.  So what?  Why should the fact that the loss is common make us act as though the individual never existed?

  “It hurts to bring it up,” others might suggest.  That reminds me of a Facebook post by a friend of mine whose child died several days after birth.  She shared this quote by Elizabeth Edwards: “If you know someone who has lost a child, and you’re afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died—you’re not reminding them. They didn’t forget they died. What you’re reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and…that is a great gift.”

  Paul Francis lived, and he deserves to have that acknowledged.  If mere mention of a miscarried child’s short life brings indescribable pain and one runs from referencing him or her as a result, burying the reminders not only doesn’t serve those little lives, but it doesn’t serve the grieving heart, whose incapacity to acknowledge is evidence of a need for healing.  And we don’t find healing by stuffing—we find healing by releasing, wrestling, grappling, and honoring. 

  Those who have lost a child to stillbirth or to miscarriage late in pregnancy often—and rightly—memorialize their children with hand and footprints, even photos.  But such tangible memories can’t be made with children like Paul Francis, who die as young as 6 weeks post-fertilization; so what can be done?

  One website about miscarriage shared this quote from a grieving heart:  “The mention of my child's name may bring tears to my eyes, but it never fails to bring music to my ears. If you are really my friend, let me hear the beautiful music of his name. It soothes my broken heart and sings to my soul.”

  My sibling can have a name.  My parents never knew if Paul Francis was a boy or girl, but if they’d had a son, that would have been his name.  Incidentally, Paul means “small; humble” and Francis means “free.”

  My sibling can be continually referenced in my life.  Now, when asked how many siblings I have, my response is matter-of-fact: “two.”  And I leave it at that.  If asked, “Brothers or sisters?” and “Are you the oldest?”  I casually reply, “My brother is the oldest, and he’s in Heaven; then there’s my sister, then me.” Sometimes there are no further questions.  Other times, there are, and I treat the conversation about the life, and loss, of Paul Francis before birth, as I would if any other sibling of mine lived and died after birth.

  My sibling can touch lives.  As someone who spends her life advocating for the rights of pre-born humans, I realized my lack of reference to Paul Francis was a betrayal of my beliefs—for if the pre-born are as valuable as the born, if I would reference a sibling who only lived until the age of 2, 10, or even 20 years, why not acknowledge this sibling?  Do I really believe Paul Francis was just as human, just as precious, just as unrepeatable as a late-term fetus, infant, toddler, or teen?  Would I hide the death of an older sibling?  Then why hide the death of a younger sibling?

By referencing my deceased sibling, some people inevitably ask what happened, and when you explain miscarriage, that individual is challenged to look at miscarriage in a different light—to look at it as a great loss, as losing a born child is a great loss.  As a result, my deceased pre-born sibling becomes the impetus for a discussion about how we view the pre-born, and an opportunity to normalize treating the pre-born like the born.  By not dismissing his death as “oh, well, it was just a miscarriage” but treating it seriously, my example invites others to share their stories of loss, revealing even their own miscarriages.  At which point I can ask questions to further healing such as, “Have you named your children?  Have you thought about planting a plant in memory of your children to have an object of life to remember them by?”  When we do this, we often validate the feelings many women and men have silently felt, but never viewed as legitimate.

  In response to this new approach of my sibling count, a friend responded, “If I were to do that, when people ask how many siblings I have, I’d have to say 17 because my mom had 7 miscarriages.”

  Well what an opportunity!  You can be guaranteed my friend will get some kind of reaction to an answer of “17,” and it will open doors to talk about how we view the pre-born and how we work through the heartbreak of losing children.  It will also acknowledge each and every one of her siblings as valuable enough to warrant attention.

  Had Paul Francis not died, he’d be celebrating his 41st birthday right about now.   And as I think about it, I’m a lifetime overdue on writing him a poem (something I like to do for loved ones) to honor his life:

I do not know what it is like,

To live with an older brother.

But one thing that I do know,

Is that you made our mom a mother.

You were first to grow in her womb,

And in that way we’re connected.

We both spent time beneath her heart,

And with love we were infected.

Would you have written poems like Dad?

Or, like mom, sing me to sleep?

Maybe like our sister you’d have been a peacemaker,

Or an avid reader of all things deep?

I tell others about you now;

I didn’t do that before.

I pledge to remember your existence.

Telling of you opens a door.

Why, Paul Francis, was your life so short?

Do you have the answer now?
For us we stay in mystery,

Trusting God, to whom we bow.

A similar version of this blog first appeared at https://www.endthekilling.ca/blog

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Present at a Birth, by Stephanie Gray

     I couldn’t have known when I said yes to a speaking commitment 8 months ago, that it would allow for a Divine Appointment that would make one of my dreams come true—a dream I had been waiting for since 2006.  On April 28, 2018, twelve years after writing my dream list in which number 37 was “be present at a birth,” I was the unexpected support person for my friend’s out-of-town—and emergency—caesarean section.  As a quote attributed to Paul Carvel says, “To witness the birth of a child is our best opportunity to experience the meaning of the word miracle.”

     Last August, I agreed to speak in Michigan this past April 24.  Being so close to Windsor, after the event I drove across the border to visit some of my Ontario friends.  As it should happen, my friend’s cousin, also a friend of mine, planned to join us for my last weekend there.  Angie came with her 4 born daughters and her 37-week baby girl in-utero.  She brought her family’s only vehicle, leaving behind in her small town her husband and 4 sons.  The plan was to go to a banquet dinner Friday night and have a girls shopping day Saturday.  But when Angie started having contractions soon after arriving, it seemed like the weekend was not going to go exactly as planned.

     First there was the hospital visit to be checked out.  Then there was the hospital admission.  Then there was the 4am assessment from the doctor that that baby needed to come out, that morning, and by C-section. 

“This is my body given for you” -Luke 22:19

     Journeying with Angie through the process reminded me of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemani.  Hers was a real suffering: She was in pain; her husband was not there; she wasn’t where she lived; her own doctor was not present; she didn’t want to be cut open; she wanted to try a VBAC.   It wasn’t supposed to happen at this time, in this way.  The prayer of Jesus became her lived experience: “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39).  So surgery would happen.  After Angie was prepped, I was brought into the operating room to sit next to her, and for those unaware of how a C-section works, the mother’s arms are stretched out like she’s on a cross.  As she lay there, riddled with anxiety about being aware while being cut open, her experience was once again like Christ’s: “This is my body given for you.”  Angie would do what motherhood has continually called her to do—to be other-focused, to lay down her life.  In short, to love.  But with the impending arrival of her baby, soon a resurrection would follow this type of crucifixion.

     I don’t know what was going through the mind of the Ob/Gyn and his resident as they performed surgery, but if I could have selected a “soundtrack” for them as they cut into the person of Angie to retrieve the person of Mackenzie, it would be these words of Joseph Cardinal Mindszenty:

     “The most important person on earth is a mother.  She cannot claim the honor of having built Notre Dame Cathedral.  She need not.  She has built something more magnificent than any cathedral—a dwelling for an immortal soul, the tiny perfection of her baby's body.  The Angels have not been blessed with such a grace.  They cannot share in God's Creative miracle to bring new Saints to Heaven.  Only a human mother can.  Mothers are closer to God the Creator than any other creatures.  God joins forces with mothers in performing this act of creation.  What on God's good earth is more glorious than this: To be a mother?”

“It’s like watching fire.”

     After I got to cut the cord, I held 6 pounds and 3 ounces of pure goodness up to Angie so she could see her little one.  While the doctors were still working on Angie’s abdomen, she did what she could from her awkward angle to plant tender kisses on Mackenzie and we both just stared in awe.  Then Angie said, “It’s like watching fire.”  Having just come out of a long winter where I had sat in the presence of more fires than usual, I thought about how fire draws one in.  Fire captivates.  It hushes people to silence.  It comforts.  It leaves you in wonder.  On a cold winter evening, in the presence of a fireplace, you’re drawn into the present moment, into what is in front of you, and everything else fades away.  That’s what this silent, tiny, vulnerable little baby did for us.

Reverent Silence

     As the doctors were finishing sewing Angie up, a nurse asked me to bring baby Mackenzie and follow her to the recovery room.  After she helped me get the surgical gown off, she walked away, leaving sweet one and me alone for about 15 minutes.  Blown away with incredulity of all that had just happened, I was tempted to immediately text my 3 best friends from childhood, all of whom are doctors and have regularly experienced what was a first time for me.  But then I thought, “No, the time for communicating with others is for later.  Now is the time to just be with Mackenzie and revel in the gift of her life, in the gift of her presence.”  And so together we simply were.  Me cradling innocence and beauty.  Someone who was unrepeatable and irreplaceable.  Never was before.  Never would be again.  Perfectly unique. 

     Robert Cardinal Sarah once wrote, “Through silence, we return to our heavenly origin, where there is nothing but calm, peace, repose, silent contemplation, and adoration of the radiant face of God.”

     Was this what it was like for Mary cradling baby Jesus?

     Mackenzie breathed gently.  Her one eye opened while the other was sealed shut by the vernix yet to be cleaned off.  At one point she rooted (“Sorry, baby girl, on that front I can’t help you!  Momma’s coming soon!”). 

     As we waited, I prayed. Tracing the sign of the cross on her forehead, praying over her future… that she would always love the Lord… that she would resist temptation to sin… that she would run to the mercy of Christ when she failed…that her earthly journey would ultimately take her to her Heavenly home.

     And then music came to my heart, and so I sang: “Oh Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the works Thy hands have made…Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, how great Thou art, how great Thou art.”

Love Doesn’t Divide.  It Multiplies.

     My flight to Vancouver was scheduled for that afternoon, and so a few hours later I found myself on a plane home.  Mackenzie’s birth was to finish my two week work trip which began with debating an abortionist at the University of California, Berkeley, in front of 200 of his students.  As I thought about how my trip began—and how it ended—I wished that those students could experience what I just had, that they could know intimately, personally, the pure gift of life, that they could experience the awe and wonder that comes with pregnancy and birth—if we allow ourselves to see it.  That they could understand that new life isn’t to be feared but instead to be revered.  That they could believe that when a woman becomes a mother she isn’t reduced to the status of slave but is instead lifted to new heights of love. 

     My wish for the students is that they could come to know what Angie texted me today: “Being open to life and being gifted all these babies, I believe is a testament to how God’s love multiplies. When you have one kid, you can’t fathom having enough love for another one—but you do.  And so it is with each subsequent child.  It makes it easy to understand how much God loves me!!! (And you) :).”

     Amen.

The Joy and Pain of Love, by Stephanie Gray

     The other evening I babysat my nieces and nephews while my sister and her husband had a date night.  Their littlest guy, who is 17 months old, took their departure remarkably well (it helped that he didn’t notice they left).  But when I was getting him ready for bed a couple hours later, he was captivated by the picture of his parents that hangs above his change table: “Mommy,” he said, “Daddy.”  “Yes,” I responded, “They’re at Costco,” knowing he was familiar with adventures there (and yes, my sister and her husband consider that a date night; go, Costco!). 

     But as Carl kept repeating “Mommy” and “Daddy” and reaching up to the photo, his eyes began to fill with tears.  You could see that his little one-year-old heart felt the special connection any child should feel to his parents.  He felt desire for the presence of the two people he has the deepest bond with.  Because of that, he also felt the profound ache of separation.  As I reflected on this, I thought about both the joy and pain of love.

     That concept is brought to light in the 1993 film Shadowlands, the real-life story of author C.S. Lewis finding love.  Upon a friend’s recommendation I watched it last year and was profoundly moved by its message.

     Lewis, played by Anthony Hopkins, didn’t marry until his fifties.  At that time, an American woman came into his life and initially their relationship was a non-romantic friendship based on shared intellectual interests.  In fact, although Lewis civilly married Joy Davidman Gresham it was simply so she could legally remain in Great Britain.  At that time they did not live as husband and wife.  When Joy was diagnosed with cancer, however, Lewis realized how he truly loved her and, in the presence of a minister, they married around her hospital bed.  In a mercy, Joy recovered—unfortunately, though, for only a few short years before cancer would take her from this earth. 

     In one poignant scene where Lewis and Joy travel around the scenic countryside of England, they discuss what inevitably will come:

Joy: “I’m going to die.  And I want to be with you then too.  The only way I can do that is if I’m able to talk to you about it now.”

Lewis: “I’ll manage somehow; don’t worry about me.”

Joy: “No.  I think it can be better than that.  I think it can be better than just managing.  What I’m trying to say is that the pain then is part of the happiness now.  That’s the deal.”

     The pain then is part of the happiness now. 

      There is a trade-off inherent to love—to truly embrace it means to also embrace loss.  One can only avoid the suffering of loss by refusing to enter into love—but the experience of not loving is much worse than the experience of loving and losing.  Lewis explains this in his book The Four Loves, which was published just months before Joy died:

     “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

     To be deeply happy with Joy while she was alive, Lewis had to let his heart deeply love.  Yes, what would await him at her death was the tragic loss that only a heart that loved would feel.  Certainly, no love would mean no loss.  But no love would also mean no life.

     I have written before about John Paul II’s statement that “Suffering unleashes love” (here and here).  And when someone is loved, it unleashes life, whether literally or figuratively.  But in our imperfect world, life will also end, which will lead to loss, which will lead to suffering, which can lead to unleashing more love and life if we let it.  Perhaps that’s what the person who penned these words had in mind: “I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”

     Could a situation be created where my nephew Carl would not have felt the (temporary) loss of his parents?  Yes—but that would mean ensuring he didn't bond, ensuring he was not loved.  And we know where a story like that leads: the orphans from Ceausescu’s Romania say it all.

     Does separation from those our hearts have loved, whether through death or life circumstances, result in anguish?  Yes, but as Joy wisely observed, “The pain then is part of the happiness now.  That’s the deal.”

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Thankful for Fertility? by Stephanie Gray

     It was shortly after 10pm on a summer night and I was texting with my sister.  As a mother of 5 under 11, her days are long and full.  And in our brief exchange she conveyed that she was so very tired.  Having visited her earlier in the day I saw that her house was a total disaster.  When I walked in she announced, “This is what a house with 5 children looks like.”  It made sense that she’d be exhausted.  At one point in our text exchange I messaged her, “5 things you’re grateful for?  First 5 that come to your mind.”  When she responded I was struck by the final item on her list:

     5. Fertility

     Her answer provoked me to pause because amidst challenge she could see gift, and because we are living in a culture where the default is not my sister’s answer; instead, it is to suppress fertility.  Actually, our culture’s default is more than to suppress fertility, it is to be downright hostile toward it.  I have spoken to so many abortion supporters who hate that fertility is a part of sexuality.  But what could be more incredible than being so intimate with one human soul that in doing so you produce another human soul who had never before existed?  One plus one equaling three in a way that defies math.

     It doesn’t mean fertility is always easy.  I lived with my sister and her family for a season and I saw the toll that pregnancy takes on the body, let alone the challenges of forming and rearing (several!) little human beings.  But I think it’s helpful to step back and think about what the word “toll” means.  It’s a charge for use or access to something (think bridge toll).  We pay the toll because the benefits outweigh the cost.  And we recognize the greater the value of something, the greater the price. 

     The same day I visited my sister, I drove out to see my parents and to help my dad weed his magnificent garden.  In reflecting on my time rummaging through dirt and in-between flowers and bushes, I was reminded again of the gift of fertility—the fertility of the soil, of the flowers that bloom each year—of new life, which brings an array of colors, types, sizes, and smells.  And it’s the beauty and diversity of fertility that makes the garden so awe-inspiring.

     But the oasis of my Dad’s garden did not happen overnight.  It took years of careful cultivation.  It took work.  It took weeding, watering, digging, and pruning.  It still does.  It took, and takes, a toll.  But it’s more than worth it.

     Mother Teresa once declared, “How can there be too many children?  That is like saying there are too many flowers.”

     So should we be thankful for fertility?  It is fertility that resulted in a sweet 1-year-old nephew nuzzling into my shoulder as I lifted his sleepy body out of the van.  It is fertility that resulted in my delightful 4-year-old niece giving me a long hug before saying goodbye.  It is fertility that has given me a 6-year-old nephew whose sensitive spirit teaches me to go gently with people.  It is fertility that has given me an 8-year-old nephew who loves to challenge my competitive spirit with his own over a game of checkers.  It is fertility that has given me an 11-year-old niece who is learning to play the ukulele with me.  It is fertility that has given me a sister I cherish as a best friend.  It is fertility that has given me my parents and their combined 17 siblings.  It is fertility that has given me a brother-in-law, cousins, and friends around the world. 

     When I logged onto Facebook recently I noticed a friend made this post: “I have made a million mistakes in 14 years of parenting... but one thing I know for sure we did right was being open to life and giving our children siblings. That in itself has not been easy, but we are blessed by it every day.”

     Thankful for fertility?  Yes.

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What Question Have You Asked Lately? by Stephanie Gray

     Recently a friend gifted me a new book, and as I’ve poured over its pages I’ve found myself experiencing the fruits of a book well-written:

• I feel inspired and energized.
• I share details of what I’ve read with others.
• I act on what I read by contemplating its content, applying it to my life, and looking further into details it references.

     The book?  It’s written by Warren Berger and is called, “A More Beautiful Question: The Power of Inquiry to Spark Breakthrough Ideas.”

     One of its questions, which struck me as I read more yesterday, is particularly helpful when a person is at a crossroads, deciding one thing over another: “When I look back in five years, which of these options will make the better story?”

     How great is that?

     As I sat contemplating the various ideas swirling in my mind, one thought led to another, which led to another, and prompted me to text this to my sister: 

     “Reading a great book on the power of questions.  My wandering mind led me to the revelation that Monica [my sister’s eldest] will be going to university in 8 years.  Francis [my sister’s second oldest] is 8 years old and look how quickly that has passed.  Only 8 more years with Monica under your care.  What do you want those 8 years to look like?  No need to answer me.  I’m just sharing the concept of the book.”

     Or consider this question documentary filmmaker Roko Belic once asked,

     “Why is it that people who have so little and have suffered so much seem to be happier than other people who are more fortunate?”

     He sought the answer to that question and shared it with others in his inspiring documentary, “Happy.”  I never heard of the film until it was mentioned on page 191 of Berger’s book.  But I was so intrigued by the reference that I went home and asked my roommate a question: “Want to watch the documentary ‘Happy’ tonight?”  She said yes and we both were hugely inspired. 

     “Happy” was the second movie we watched as a result of this book.  The first film we watched a couple weeks prior.  It was a small reference on page 35.  The question this time was, “What if a car windshield could blink?”  Berger answered that question by telling about Bob Kearns, the inventor of intermittent windshield wipers.  His story was featured in a 2008 film called “Flash of Genius,” about how the Big Three car companies infringed on Kearns’ patent.  Watching that film caused my roommate and me to ask, “Did the real story really happen that way?  What happened to his family?  Does there come a point where prudence should compel us to stop fighting injustice?”  These questions, provoked as a result of the film (and the subsequent Google search we did at the end to learn more), led to a very thoughtful conversation about life.

     Berger’s book is great because not only does it ask the reader questions, it inspires the reader to ask their own questions.  These questions will lead us on a journey to answers that will enrich our life—if we are willing to step into the adventure of the unknown.  So what question will you ask yourself today?

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A Birthday and Suicide, by Stephanie Gray

     Facebook reminded me that today is the birthday of a friend from my UBC days.  But there will be no party because he committed suicide several years ago.

     He didn’t choose to kill himself, though.  The demons in his mind drove him to such despair.  I remember when his mental illness first came out.  We were in second year university.  We lived in the same dorm—he on the fourth floor and me on the third.  Before the sudden change, we had been “partners in crime,” working together in the lab for the one science course I was forced to take thanks to the requirement that Arts majors have a science class.  I chose biology and found myself growing mosquitoes.  There was way too much larvae for my liking and I don’t think I would have survived that course if it wasn’t for his camaraderie.

     He was part of the group of my friends who would walk to Vancouver’s best beach of Spanish Banks and watch the most stunning sunsets while singing songs in harmony.  I remember he had an amazing voice.  As the sky went from blue to purples, pinks, yellows, and oranges, we would raise our voices with “How Great Thou Art” and other such hymns.

     Then one day he wasn’t around.  One day turned into several.  And then our circle of friends got word: he was in the hospital—on a mental health ward.  I remember the day I went to visit: it was gorgeously sunny and he sat by a window with earbuds in.  He had a peaceful smile on his face but he was not the same person.  When he saw me, he pulled them out and told me to place them in my ears.  “You have to listen to this song,” he said.

     And so I was introduced to Robin Mark’s Revival in Belfast song, “Jesus, All for Jesus.”  I fell in love with that song then and have listened to it many times in the two decades since.  It has been a source of inspiration for me in prayer as well as in preparation for giving presentations.  When I hear that song, I think of him. 

     When I think of him, I think of his love for Jesus; I think of his defence of pre-born children who he was a strong voice for on our campus; I think of his joy; I think of skipping along the street, speaking in fake accents, singing, and laughing.  Yes, he got sick with an illness that tormented him and led to a tragically short life.  But he also forever touched my life, and others', in a positive way.

     On this, what should have been your 37th birthday, my dear UBC buddy, may you be resting in peace, raising your voice in song with a chorus of angels.

The Circle of Life, by Stephanie Gray

     As my family gathered to celebrate my mom’s 75th birthday, I sat at the table cuddling the latest addition to our family: my 3-month old nephew.  As I cradled Carl, my mind wandered, prompted by the increasing temperature of the blanket on my lap that swaddled his body: “Did he pee through his diaper?” I wondered, “Or is that just warmth from body heat?”  Thankfully it was the latter, but it caused my mind to reflect on the total dependency of Carl on other people.  And then my mind wandered to the elderly, some of whom are just as dependent on others as babies are.  And with society’s increasing acceptance of euthanasia, a topic of late that I have been giving presentations about, a thought came to mind:

     “What if the world treated Carl like it sometimes treats the elderly?”

     Would we leave him in his crib alone all day, turn the TV on for distraction but otherwise have minimal interaction with him?  Would we scurry about to do lots of things but never take time to simply be with him? Would we possibly consider ending his life because, “What’s the point anyways?  He can’t do much.”

     Now some might say that Carl, as opposed to an individual at the end of her life, will one day be a “contributing” member to society, and his is a life we shouldn’t end.  In other words, we would preserve Carl’s life for what might be, but we would end a dying person’s life for what is no more.  But what if Carl never matured enough to do what most adults do?  What if he only lived for the next 6 months—knowing that, would we kill him now or would we savor and celebrate the little time we have left?

     And so, as I thought further, it occurred to me that our world would be a better place if we asked a different question: “What if we treated the elderly the way we treat Carl?”

     If that were the case, we would sing and play music.  We would smile, laugh, and engage.  We would soothe during seasons of sadness.  We would hug.  We would look at the other and simply delight in them.

     As I have watched my four other nieces and nephews interact with their littlest brother, I’ve noticed something: When vulnerable, needy people are in our midst, it can bring out the softer, gentler, more caring sides of us.

     I think about my 7-year-old strong-willed nephew who demonstrates such reverence for his little brother, delighting in holding him and sweetly kissing his cheeks.  I think about my 5-year-old nephew, a very sensitive child, who held his crying baby brother and repeatedly said “shh-shh-shh” until he had shh-ed him to sleep just like he observed his mom has done.

     I think of my 3-year-old niece who loves to sing, dance, and be loud but who, when I arrived one day, crawled out from under the kitchen table and said “Boo” in the quietest of whispers because Carl was nearby sleeping.  I think of my 9-year-old niece who’s like a second mother, carrying her baby brother around like a doll and who is so good at comforting him.

     Far from being a burden, the presence of Carl draws virtue out of us.  His need becomes an opportunity for our kindness.  The same is true of the elderly—if we let that be the case.

     A couple years ago my sister texted me a story from her evening: She was trying to put her then-youngest baby, my niece Cecilia, to sleep and promised her oldest daughter, Monica, that she would come to her room later and read to her.  But it took so long to put Cecilia down that by the time she got to Monica’s room my eldest niece had fallen asleep—with the unread book in hand.  My sister texted me a photo explaining what happened with the caption, “MOM GUILT!”  So I texted back, “You’ve given Monica something better than a bedtime story—you’ve given her a sister.”   She excitedly responded, “RIGHT! Perspective! Perspective! It’s all about perspective!”

     I realize not everyone can give their child a sibling, but everyone can give their child, and themselves, encounters with those who are needy and vulnerable, be it the elderly or someone else.  Perspective teaches that far from such encounters being burdensome, they can become moments to make life richer by being opportunities to enter into the human experience of love.

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