Thank You.

Glennon Doyle Melton over at Momastery.com posted an awesome video today on brokenness and grief. Couldn't agree more with her words, especially when she says, "when a friend is grieving, all we have to do is be present with her."

I want to take a moment tonight to thank you people. You have allowed me to work my way through this whole process, a lot of which was admittedly grief, and you have offered me your presence. And I think so often people don't know what to say to someone who is hurting (totally understandable), but my own experience these past few months has taught me that words can certainly help but it is presence and time that heal. When I was in the NICU, my friends Molly and Lori each came to visit. I consider them to be two of the wisest, strongest women I know. They each walked into the room and, without saying a word, hugged me and cried with me. No "God doesn't give you anything you can't handle" or "You are strong enough." They knew that I wasn't ready or willing to hear that then. I just needed someone to acknowledge the hurt and be with me in it for a time. It's like that quote, "Life is slippery. Here, take my hand." Don't walk in front of me, don't walk behind me; please, please walk beside me.

I think so often we see people broken and hurting and we want to fix them. We want things to be all better. But transformation, wisdom, perspective--these all take time. There's something to the idea of growing pains. They're painful. Take away the pain and I would argue you take away the growth. As much as grief sucks, if you dismiss it or rush it, you don't fully realize the depth of emotion and understanding that comes along with it. People grieve because they care SO much. You can't just take that away. But holding that person's hand as they feel their way through the raw realness of it? Yeah, that's a gift.

It reminds me again of what Frederick Buechner said about being a steward of your pain. You've got to feel pain fully in order to forever understand and be with others who experience pain.

So thank you. Those of you who read this blog--Clay, Nina, Cara, Blaire, Emily, Lashelle, Katie, Kristen, Susan, Ashley, Kat, Maresa, Julia, Shirit, Ali, Claire, Caroline, Emily, Morel, Kay, Beth, Bob, Liz, Libby, Chris, Laura, Ellen, Molly, Lori, Kristin, Nicole, Katie, Anna, Michelle, Brittany, Gege, and Mom and Dad--have held my hand and let me find my own way through this experience. You didn't judge me, you didn't try to fix me, you didn't dismiss it by telling me it was all going to be okay. You acknowledged how I felt and let me feel it--the whole painful, unknown mess of it. You loved me enough to let my heart break. You let things fall apart. And in that gift, you enabled me to find a new beginning. One that includes a fierce, genuine, heart-overflowing love for my newborn son.

Glennon includes the following quote from Victor Frankl: "What is to give light must endure burning." I think if we try to protect each other from heartbreak and pain, we limit our ability to live a life FULL of every emotion, every experience, every understanding. Instead, we need to let each other experience it. And we need to stay close throughout it.

You know, I don't know if I'll ever say that I am glad Grant has Down Syndrome. But I can say without a doubt that I am glad I have Grant. I see him smile and feel his warmth and see God in his eyes and I know he is meant to be here and he is meant to be mine. I don't think I am a "special parent" or that "God gave me something He knew I could handle"; I don't personally believe those things to be true. And I am being totally honest here: I am not sure where I stand on abortion and I am glad I wasn't forced to make the decision either way. I can understand why this diagnosis would scare people because, well, I was scared out of my mind. But I do believe that Grant's presence, like yours, is a gift. His love is going to make my world and this world better.

The UVA Glee Club came to school today for a little concert, so I was able to relish in my good 'ol college days for a minute as I shouted "wahoowa" to them on my way in the auditorium. I sat down by myself towards the front of the room and thought for a moment about both how important and how long ago those college days feel to me. It was an overwhelming feeling for me, one that was punctuated by their powerful voices singing their way into the room. They started with an African song that I loved but didn't understand. When the song was over, the director explained that the chorus of the song could be translated as the following: "All those who sing have the right to be called the children of God." And once again, I was struck by the grace of things coming full circle. I felt like UVA itself was affirming Grant's presence, that my past was encouraging my future.

And like the song, I don't have to understand every part of this experience in order to love my way through it. In fact, I think it's loving without understanding that enables us to experience grace and joy.

So thanks for loving me, and loving Grant, with or without understanding. Your presence in my life has been an amazing, saving grace.