Happy Birthday, Brooklyn! We love you more than words could ever describe.
Seek
They are as blue as the sky, but run deeper than the ocean. They look straight past your weaknesses and pull out hope and strength and faith and the I-can-do-this will you never knew you had lurking beneath the surface.
They pierce your soul and make you search, dig, and discover that what makes you “special” is hidden inside your heart and has nothing to do with the way you look, what you have, or what you can’t do.
They are strong and determined and gentle and breathtaking. They inspire my heart, keep my mind focused, and encourage my spirit.
In one glance, I am reminded of the artistry of this life, of His creation. The beauty He carefully placed in all of us.
You just have to be willing to look for it.
“So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
2 Corinthians 4:18
That Night
One year ago today was that night. I actually had to look up the date, but I knew it was coming. I could smell it in the air; I could feel it.
I’ve been wanting to write about it for a while now, but never really had the chance. When the opportunity arose to audition for this show, I decided it was time to get it on paper.
Unfortunately, my piece wasn’t chosen for the show, but I know I was meant to write it…if only for me.
So although I am in a pretty good place right now – today – I still wanted to post this piece on the very day it happened. Perhaps to prove to myself just how far I’ve come in a year, or perhaps to further the healing. I’m not quite sure.
Whatever the reason, I need to post it…if only for me.
Inside Out
It was the night my heart broke. Shattered in fact. Sure it had been broken before, but this was different. The pieces were smaller, the breaks much too complex for complete and total restoration.
A new heart would have to take shape, would have to beat in spite of the cracks. Cracks that would never quite heal, but yet, were never meant to heal. This new heart, this broken vessel, would find a way to beat harder, stronger, better. After all, a mother feels from the inside out—from the day her baby starts to form inside of her until the day her baby has babies and the emotion only grows deeper. For a mother, there is a sixth sense that is all about feeling, but has absolutely nothing to do with touch.
I remember what I wore – my favorite peasant maternity top that made me feel beautiful and Bohemian and all sorts of glow-y. What I made for dinner – a warm pot of chicken cacciatore that would never quite taste as good as I hoped it would upon our return home. The slightest hint of spring in the winter air that persuaded me to leave my leather gloves in the car.
And the bounce of my four-year-old’s almost-curly waves as she skipped up the sidewalk into the entrance of the ultrasound facility.
“Do you think it’s a girl, Mom? What do you think, Daddy?”
She was so excited, our soon-to-be “double big sister.” I pretended to be. This was our third child, our surprise. I was only playing along with the find-out-the-sex game to appease my husband and our two daughters. I honestly didn’t care. I just wanted assurance that everything was okay. There was no reason to believe it wasn’t, but there were nervous whispers; whispers my head kept pushing aside, convincing my heart that it was just third-child paranoia.
But nonetheless, my heart was jumpy that day, perhaps anxious for the reformation it was about to endure. As the first image revealed a squirmy little baby, the tears started to fall and my emotions started to take over.
A feeling close to relief spread throughout my body, but the tears remained steady. “Must be the hormones,” I nervously joked to the technician.
She was chatty, the technician…until she wasn’t. I tried not to notice. Emma was getting wiggly and starting to lose interest. I could see the beating heart on the screen overhead; this was real, everything was okay…
until it wasn’t.
“Turn this way. No, this way. Wiggle your belly like this. Again. Again. Again. Okay, I’ll be right back.”
The doctor then came in, a middle-aged woman whose face told me she too was a mother.
She moved the scanner over my swollen belly and looked me straight in the eye, mustering up something deep within. “There is a problem with this baby,” she said gently.
I saw her hand touch my leg, but all I felt was a gut-wrenching pain from somewhere deep inside my soul. A familiar, but stronger pain that had nothing to do with me but had to do with the helpless life I carried. An inside, out pain that only another mother could possibly understand.
Through the darkness, I watched as my husband processed the information, his face growing white than red, twisting and awkwardly contorting into an emotion somewhere between utter confusion and total understanding. Another pain grew within me.
I saw Emma’s innocent eyes watching, watching, and I noticed her jittery feet began to dance faster. Another pain emerged.
My heart was already broken at this point; my soul aching as it desperately tried handle all of the emotions, all of the pain. None of which was my own.
Not yet.
Spina Bifida. Open Defect. Nerve Damage. Paralysis. Fluid in the Brain. Cognitive Challenges. 1 in 1,000.
The words were swimming round and round the room, on the outside, trying their hardest to penetrate, but it was too soon for that. The pain had taken over the inside. My baby. MY baby. How could this be happening to MY baby?
That night, within the safety of my bed, the pain found its way to the outside. The tears and cries lasted all night long, until the inside strength provided by my Savior rose with the sun, taking over my outside and enabling me to begin a new journey, one that was planned long ago.
In the days and months to come, those swimming words would penetrate. On the outside, a belly was growing and preparations were being made. But the real changes were happening on the inside. A beautiful life was forming for the first time, but another was forming for the second.
With every surge of pain, a mother was learning how to love deeper, live fuller, and appreciate each and every blessing. Like a magnet, the crumbled heart pieces found the space where the love pulsed deep and, slowly, built a new home. This new creation was now beating for new reasons, reasons that not only held the broken pieces together, but formed them into a shape far more beautiful than the original.
The pain also found its proper place inside; a place my heart and soul agreed upon; a place I am allowed to visit when I need to be more than a mother caring for a child with special needs, but when I need to be human.
While the reason for my pain is different, I know I am no different than any other mother who feels for her child. The mother who forces her feverish infant into a lukewarm bath at 3am. The mother who watches her toddler get rejected for the first time at the playground. The son that doesn’t make the team. The daughter whose heart has been broken. Their pain runs through our veins, takes over our organs, and provides grief stronger than we ever wanted to feel. Pain that breaks our hearts, turns us inside out, and never leaves us the same.
But it is the pain of motherhood that makes us better mothers, and even more so, better people. A confusing love-pain mix that gives our lives purpose far beyond motherhood and slowly uncovers our true self. A self that is in fact not broken, but reformed, reshaped, renewed, and wonderfully made—from the inside, out.
A Thanksgiving Testimony
(*This is the testimony I shared at our church service today.)
Good morning, everyone. Happy Thanksgiving!
Today, I feel God called me to tell you about something very important in my life that has filled my heart with more Thanksgiving than I knew possible.
Socks.
Yep, today I am thankful for socks. Actually, white socks with hot pink ruffles, green polka dots, and the embroidered letter “B.”
A year ago, I may have thought these socks were cute, but I never would have imagined the overwhelming sense of gratitude I would feel when I finally got to put them on my 3-month- old baby.
Such a small thing, socks. But as I have learned these past 8 months, God often reveals himself in the small things just as much as He reveals Himself in the big things—if you are paying attention, that is.
You see, 8 months ago my husband and I experienced what I guess most would say is a “big thing.” During a routine ultrasound, we learned that our third child, Brooklyn, had Spina Bifida. For those of you that don’t know, it’s a neural tube defect that affects the central nervous system. Basically, when our baby was forming, her spinal cord failed to close properly, leaving an open defect in her back that exposed her spinal cord and caused an irregular flow of brain and spinal fluid.
The news, of course, was a huge surprise. We had two very healthy, active little girls at home already. We barely knew what Spina Bifida even was, but we quickly learned more than we ever wanted to know: Our baby may never go to the bathroom on her own. A build-up of fluid in her brain could cause cognitive challenges. She may never walk.
Big, big things we never thought would happen to us. But they did, and I can honestly stand here and tell you that I have never been mad at God about that.
From the beginning, I have felt this overwhelming peace that this is part of God’s plan—or, better yet, that He was going to use it for His glory.
Even that first night, when I lay in bed, sobbing for hours and hours, I felt God was right there with me—crying. It was the worst night of my life, yet knowing that God was in control, that He knew this was going to happen, made me cling to Him and His promises like never before. My heart was broken, yes, but when the morning came, God picked me up and, as I like to say—our journey began.
What I experienced the next 5 months of my pregnancy was nothing short of awesome. Prayer after prayer answered. Brooklyn’s legs, which at one point, were not moving, started to kick in my womb. We found physicians and specialists that were among the best in their fields. I had nurses PRAYING with me at doctor’s appointments. Hundreds of family members, friends, and strangers were sending notes of encouragement exactly when we needed them. Prayers of healing were being sent up, and my faith grew like never before. God was guiding me through every day—the good and the bad. He provided my heart with constant encouragement and gave me wonderful images of Hope that will forever be imprinted in my heart. He gave me strength to share our story, but more importantly, used my weakest moments to help me understand.
It was His plan.
And then she was born. Brooklyn Hope Bonnema. I had been so anxious to meet her, to hold her in my arms. But, of course, I couldn’t at first. In fact, I wouldn’t hold her in my arms for 6 whole days. The longest days of my life.
But in those 6 days – and every day since then—I have learned to be thankful for the little things.
Like the first time I got to feed her a bottle. Yes, she was hooked up to several machines, and was lying on a portable sleeping table, but she didn’t need an IV and she was swallowing on her own. I was thankful.
Or the first time a nurse allowed me to hold her. Yes, she was carefully positioned on a foam bed that separated her from my lap, but I was able to kiss her and feel the weight of her body on mine. I was thankful.
Or the first time I got to burp her. Yes, she had to be propped up sideways because her left leg was deformed and her back was still healing from her surgery, but I could kiss her warm head and take in her sweet smell. I was thankful.
The first time we brought her home. 18 days after she was born. We were all under one roof. Finally. I was thankful.
The first time I got to wash the upper part of her left leg after her casts corrected its position. I was thankful.
The first time I saw her beautiful smile. A smile that told me the fluid in her brain was not causing major damage. I was thankful.
The first time I held her after she came out of her second surgery, remembering I was 20 miles away during her first surgery. I was thankful.
And the first time I got to put those ruffle socks on her little feet, which were reformed and finally free of plaster casts. I was thankful.
On January 5, Brooklyn will go in for an MRI to evaluate whether or not her anatomy is conducive to a brain surgery we are now considering for her. I can tell you now, that on that day, I will be thankful.
I will be thankful for the medical professionals that will be taking care of my baby. I will be thankful for the family that will ensure my other two children are enjoying their day like any other day. I will be thankful for a God who knows the outcome of that test and every other minute of my Brooklyn’s life here on earth.
Yes, I will be thankful.
Not because I am that faithful — but because God is that faithful.
No, I have no idea what the future holds for my Brooklyn, but I will forever be thankful that some day, the God who carried her throughout her life and mine, will lovingly embrace her as she runs into His arms.
Copyright 2010, Lisa Bonnema
“Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.”
1 Thessalonians 5:18
