When the only question you can ask is "Why?"

When my brother called me on a Saturday around two o'clock, sobbing indecipherable words, I knew something was seriously wrong. When I finally understood him, it was more than seriously wrong.

"The house is on fire Hannah, and Dad is still in there. I don't think he made it. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

All at once I couldn't breathe. I couldn't comprehend. 

You see, Dad was the fix it man, a real life McGyver. He knew how to do so many random things and how to deal with every situation. Surely he would have found a way out of the house. He would be the last person to get stuck in that inferno. The absolute last. 

When I could pick myself off the floor of my kitchen, I told my husband that we had to pack up and drive home right now. I took my entire closet because my mom's and sister-in-law's had turned to ash with the house. My husband took his whole closet for my brother. We half-hazardly stuffed it into the car, called a friend to come and watch our pets, and just started driving. But somewhere deep down, I still was waiting for the call that my Dad was just in the woods doing tree work or that he had gotten out of the house somehow and was being rushed to the hospital. But the only call that came was from my Mom.

"He's gone. He's home in heaven." 

And even after that, I think we all still clung to a little sliver of hope that somehow he made it out, until 9pm when the Fire Investigator came out and told us they had found him in the rubble. 

The only thing left in my head was "Why?" 

Why our house? Why did the fire start? Why did the house go up so fast? Why was Dad even in the house when five minutes before he had been working outside? Why was he in the only room that absolutely no one would be able to get to him in? Why him? 

I am yet to receive an answer for any of those questions. And almost everyday I still ask them. The 'why's haunt me. They follow me around like a terrible stench that I can't escape. And the only relief I have found is at the foot of the cross where every day, every moment, I have to lay down my questions at the feet of a Savior who knows both suffering and redemption; both sorrow and joy; both the beginning and the end; both this life and the next. 

Here on earth, I will never know why my Dad was called home at 52. I will never know why him. But someday I will know. Romans 8:28 says, "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those that are called according to his purposes". My Dad loved God and had dedicated his life to God's purposes. And I believe that even this, even this terrible end, will be redeemed for the greatest good, the Kingdom of Heaven. 

And in this I take comfort, "...Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. Yet which shall I choose I cannot tell. I am hard pressed between the two. My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better." (Phil 1:20b-23). 

My Dad led a fruitful life here, but also one that was familiar with pain and loss and injustice. He is somewhere far far better now- home with Christ, where all sorrow and sighing has fled away and everlasting joy is upon him (Isaiah 35:10). He has run a good race, he has won the prize. And I believe that when my own purposes are done here in this broken world that God will also call me heavenward to something that is so vastly better than this. 

If you have found yourself in the labyrinth of "why"s, I want to encourage you that there is yet hope. What we see dimly from our ant-sized worldly perspective, God can see clearly from his heavenly perspective. This too shall be redeemed dear one. This too shall be made new on the shores of eternity. 

Mother's Day when you have empty arms.

I sat in the gas station parking lot at 10:30pm and cried. Okay, I ugly cried. Alright, I sobbed. 

I had been driving the long stretch of highway between my mom's house and mine and I just couldn't hold it in any longer. Sometimes tears won't be staunched. All day I had tried to hold them at bay, barely succeeding, with a forced smile plastered on my face as I saw peoples' Mother's Day posts, looked at my three sisters' pregnancy pictures, played with my niece. The glow of new motherhood was all around. And I wanted it. I craved it with every fiber of my being and I felt like it had been stolen from me. 

Two months ago I was in the emergency room with a doctor nervously telling my husband and I that our baby was dead. That I would likely pass "the tissue" within a couple weeks. That he would give me a prescription pain killer for the contractions.

But there was nothing that could numb the pain of watching my child bleed out into the toilet.

Two days later I sat in the bathroom at 4am wracked with pain, shaking as I continuously hemorrhaged and passed huge bits of tissue. Each one I had to look at. Had to see if i could recognize my baby. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, heart of my heart. My husband called the ER. Talked nervously with the doctor, then bandaged me up and sped to the hospital. I continued to pour out blood. They had me sign a transfusion permission form. Put a bracelet on me with my blood type. I was rushed into an emergency D&C. 

I woke up several hours later in the recovery room empty. Empty womb. Empty heart. Empty arms. 

And on Mother's Day I sat in that mostly empty parking lot and felt so very empty still. 

My Mom named me after Hannah in the Bible. If you aren't familiar, she is a woman who couldn't conceive but desperately wanted a child. Scripture says she "wept bitterly" and "poured out her soul to the Lord.. praying out of her great anguish and grief" (1 Sam 1:15,16). She asked God for a son and promised that if she were to conceive she would give him over to the Lord all of the day's of his life. 

She came before God with her desires, her grief, her anguish, her tears. She wasn't afraid to ask for the desire of her heart but she also came with open hands. With the knowledge that nothing really belonged to her. Every child is a gift from God and ultimately to God each child belongs. 

My child belongs to God. My baby is in the arms of heaven. Quite literally I gave my little one over to serve the Lord all of his/her days. Like my namesake I have come before the Lord in my anguish and grief and asked through bitter tears for the chance to have another child. For the chance to hold him/her in my arms on this side of eternity. And this I know: The Lord is a good Father. As I love my child in heaven and crave the chance to love another child here on earth, so does God love us. So does He hear my cries and listen to my desires. 

To all you mamas that sat in your own gas station parking lots and cried out with the pain of your empty arms this Mother's Day-

It is okay to let God know your anguish and grief. It is great to ask him for the desires of your heart. And ultimately remember this: He is a good Father. He will care for you, and He will care for your little one. 

The worst question.

"How are you doing?", she asks with tears in her eyes.

It's that friendly lady whose name I forgot and cannot for the life of me remember in the middle of the cereal aisle at the grocery store. 

"Ummm... Fine, I guess.", I say. A box of cheerios hanging from my hand above the cart. 

She stares with piteous expectation at me for another few seconds. I stare back and slowly open my hand, dropping the cheerios on top of a small mountain of food. I finally cave and break eye contact, mumble something about how good it was to see her and thank you for all your prayers. We awkwardly hug across the two carts as several people wait anxiously to get to their Fruit Loops and Rice Krispies. 

I do this impossible verbal dance at least three more times before exiting the store. Or escaping the store. Take your pick. My dad died in a house fire, then I miscarried my first child, then my mother-in-law got diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. All in the course of a month. I kid you not. One month. These days I cannot seem to outrun the uncomfortable question of "How are you?" 

It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with that question, in fact I think most people have genuinely good intentions when they ask it. The problem is that I simply don't know how to answer it. Let alone how to answer it in the middle of a public place, to someone I barely know, who is engaging in small-talk with me over my melting frozen meals. 

"I'm completely terrible, thanks for asking" "I haven't showered in a week, its just too much energy... so not great?"  "I have four pints of ice cream in my cart, for just me. Thats how I'm doing" "I really would love to go break some valuable dishes today" "I'm still wearing pajamas at three in the afternoon..." "I'm not okay... but I'll be okay someday?" 

Each answer flies through my mind as I stare at the well-meaning individual across from me, like a deer caught in the head-lights. More often then not, all that comes out of my mouth is, "I'm fine... I guess". Which isn't technically a lie, but sure as heck isn't the whole truth. 

How do you tell someone that you might never really be "well" again because there is a giant, gaping hole in your heart; a messy wound that bleeds and scabs and then bleeds more. That something is terribly wrong because it seems that a vital part of you has gotten up and left, never to return. That you find it difficult to breathe most days because even in the grocery store there are constant reminders of who you won't see again until eternity, like honey mustard pretzels and cherry coke and his favorite type of chips. 

The fact is, the hole of grief will always be a precipice that I edge around. And sometimes I fall in. And that's okay. Grief won't be rushed, healing won't be hurried. 

We are the walking wounded. And we don't get to march through this life without accumulating some nasty scars. And the thing with scars is- they leave a permanent mark. Jesus held out His hands, with their twin holes, for Thomas to place his fingers in. He kept his scars, even in His resurrected body, to show that He understands our loss. That He has entered into sorrow. That He is not unaware of our pain. He is called Emmanuel, which means "God with us". And Jesus meant it when He took that name. He is with us even to the point of death, even to the living grief. Surely He has borne our sorrows and carried our pain.  He is the only one who can ask "how are you?" and already know my truest answer. 

As for you in the post office or Target or the movie theater or Panera that feels the need to ask how I am- I'm not okay today, but I will be.