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Look at a mother’s hands.

They may not look like much. Hands that were once manicured and polished, are now speckled with colored markers and non-toxic paint. The chips in her nails arrive courtesy of countless Lego stacks pried apart and Paw Patrol stickers scratched off walls. Her hands have seen more loads of laundry than ever thought possible. And her palms have pushed swings and carried coats and gripped stroller handles until they were calloused.

But her hands? Oh, her hands. They are evidence of such deep love.

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Accomplishing milestones in his own time

Accomplishing Milestones In Their Own Time

As a baby in the NICU, it seemed to take our son forever to learn to eat. After seven weeks in the hospital, we were beyond anxious to bring him home. But the nurses simply smiled and said that he wasn’t ready. “He just isn’t strong enough yet.”

And then one day he yanked out his nose tube and decided to bottle feed. They sent him home a day later.

He does things in his own time.

He was fifteen months and wasn’t even crawling yet. He’d just sit there. And then one day, while making dinner, I looked over to see him nonchalantly walking down the hallway by himself. As if he’d been walking for ages.

He does things in his own time.

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Take heart, dear friends because God's not done

Dear friend, I don’t know what you’re struggling with today.

I don’t know what battles you’re fighting or what sort of weight you’re carrying. I don’t know what news you’ve received or what valleys you’re slogging through. This world feels heavy sometimes. You may be battle-weary and bloodied from the fight. But take hope, sweet friend. Because God’s not done.

The pages of our lives don’t always read the way we wanted them to. Our life stories are significantly messier, more scarred, and more tearstained than we’d like. And this year, it may feel like you’re sinking — struggling to keep your head above the waves.

But in this midst of this current season — in the disappointment and the rejection, the searing pain and the devastation, the loneliness and the brokenness — I pray for that flickering ember of hope within.

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I’m not the mom who loves to play.

I’m not the one who enjoys scuttling around on my hands and knees, driving cars around an invisible track or fighting off pretend pirates.

Imaginary play is NOT my strength.

And sometimes, I feel guilty about that.

I want to be the mom crawling around the park, pretending to be a crime-fighting dinosaur named Nora. The mom who spends hours acting out intricate storylines about robots and aliens, running around the house in costumes as we dodge lava pits and trolls. The mom who doesn’t get bored after a couple minutes of playing with Lego people.

I want to be that “uber fun mom” with endless energy and creative passion for free play. I want to give my kids that experience.

But that’s not me.

And that’s okay too.

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Hey there!

I just wanted to say that I have been so incredibly encouraged and inspired by you! I started this little blog over two and a half years ago, and have been truly touched by the relationships and friendships that have grown through this journey.

Thank you, dear readers, for your encouragement and your comments. Thank you for sharing your hearts and your stories with me; and thank you for listening as we have shared our hearts and story with you. You have partnered and journeyed with us over these past three years, and we are beyond grateful for the purposeful ways that you have loved on and supported us in our grief.

Pregnancy loss touches upon so many families, and yet, it isn’t always a comfortable or easy topic to discuss. Thank you for helping to break stigmas surrounding grief, and for bravely stepping forward to embrace the beauty found within the mess. For those who are hurting and grieving, and for those who are standing alongside the bereaved, there is hope. We mourn, but we do not mourn without purpose.

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