His Voice

Since I’ve started blogging about Owen, people have told me numerous times that I’m so “strong.”   How my faith is so “solid” and how I’m “inspirational” in how I’ve been doing spiritually.  Let me just say, this is completely the opposite of how I feel.  I don’t feel very “strong” or “solid” or “inspirational” right now.  I feel weak, and confused, and heartbroken.  All the books and blogs I’ve been reading never talk about the destruction.  They skip forward to the “good” parts in the grieving.  Like they’re afraid to say what they’re REALLY thinking.  I refuse to be afraid.  I am not going to type out some long blog post about how, “I’m at peace with everything”  or ramble on about how *well* I’m doing and put up this facade.  I want to be completely transparent.  I want to be vulnerable.  I want to show my grief for what it is…messy.  Because covering up my mess will not help me heal.  So I’m going to dig it up, spread it out in front of me and let the world see.  THIS is what’s really going on in my heart.

The last time I had a conversation with God was October 19th at approximately 9:45pm.  Four hours before Owen’s heart stopped beating.  You see, that was the day and time I cried out to God in an audible voice.  I cried out.  No…I SHOUTED out.  BEGGING Him for a miracle.  I needed an answer.  I needed to know whether the miracle was still coming, or whether it was time to let Owen go.  We had to make the dreaded decision that no parent should EVER have to make.

Johnny and I were sitting in an empty room in the back corner of the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit with a timeline where we had to make a decision.  We had just received a hard blow from Owen’s surgeon that, “Your little warrior…broke today.”  I will never forget those words.  Within minutes of coming back from the operating room from a “standard” and necessary procedure, Owen’s body began spiraling downhill.  Organs were beginning to fail and his heart couldn’t seem to recover.  We had three minutes to decide whether to take extreme measures in a risky attempt to “try” to keep our son alive…or to give up.  Were we supposed to take these extreme measures?  Was THIS when the miracle would happen?  Because it was happening.  That miracle was coming.  I was sure of it.

Keeping him alive meant putting him on a heart-lung machine.  A machine that would essentially take over control of Owen’s body.  It would be doing the job of his heart and lungs, and basically delaying the inevitable.  Should Owen even survive this procedure, which most likely he wouldn’t, his body wouldn’t have been strong enough to receive a new heart…if one even become available.  A new heart was his only chance, and that chance was no longer a possibility.  In that moment, in that silence, the decision was made for us.  We needed to begin to accept that the miracle was not coming and begin to let our son go peacefully.  Rather than risk him dying on the operating table, we were given the opportunity to let him die in our arms…snuggled in a warm blanket…surrounded by family that loved him.

In that moment, in that empty room at the end of the hall,  God was silent.  When I needed to hear His Voice, I heard nothing.  I know God was there.  I KNOW that.  But for the first time, I didn’t know what His Voice sounded like.

You see, we thought something great was going to happen.  God had brought us through SO MUCH with Owen.  His Hand was over Owen’s life from the beginning.  The way God was weaving Owen’s story into place was amazing to see.  People were praying for Owen, and had been praying for him for months…the number was staggering.  Even complete strangers, states away, were praying for a miracle for our baby boy.  Families in Korea and Ukraine…Owen’s story was stretching across the globe.  My relationship with God had never been stronger.  My faith could have moved mountains, and I believed God was.  The answers to prayer, God’s hedge of protection over Owen’s life, the unbeatable odds he was defying every.single.day…the miracle was coming!

Every time a door was closed and a plan from one of Owen’s doctors was ruled impossible, a window would open.  EVERY DAY, doors would close and windows would open.  When roadblocks would land in our path, God would move them aside and reveal the next step.  This was how our lives were for the 8 months I carried him and again through our time in the hospital.  The impossible would arise and God would take the wheel yet again.

Babies with Unguarded Tricuspid Orafice with Pulmonary Atresia DO NOT SURVIVE.  Try Googling it.  You won’t find much because there are only a handful of cases that ever existed.  And here our son was, almost three weeks old and he was strong enough to be put on the transplant list in record time.  A baby that wasn’t even supposed to be here was plowing down those odds and taking names.  He was an excellent candidate to receive a brand new heart.  He was just that strong despite some major issues wreaking havoc on his little body.

I had a supernatural hope that Owen was going to live.  That his life was going to touch so many people.  A little 6 pound bundle was going to be a testimony of God’s goodness.  His faithfulness.  His HEALING.  People were going to see that Owen’s survival was a living, breathing MIRACLE.  His survival would be beyond medical intervention.  Doctors who couldn’t see past the science were going to see that our God is bigger than the medically impossible.  It was going to be awesome.  I was going to be able to look those unbelievers in the eye and say, “My God did that.  THAT’s the awesome God I serve.”

Losing Owen was quick.  So very quick.  Completely out of no where and it was hard to wrap my mind around it.   Our lives changed dramatically in a matter of minutes when we realized Owen wasn’t going to make it through the night.  I felt like I missed it.  Like I hadn’t heard God blatantly tell me, “I’m going to take him.”  Why did I have such a peace about Owen receiving a transplant if that wasn’t the direction we were headed?  Where did I go wrong?  What didn’t I hear?  Why didn’t the possibility of Owen NOT making it ever enter my thoughts?

THIS is why it’s so hard for me to talk to God right now.  I just don’t know what to say.  I just don’t know what His Voice sounds like anymore.

I am struck down right now.  Oh man, am I ever.  I’m beaten, bruised…bleeding.  I would be lying if I said otherwise.  It’s going to take a while.  It’s not going to be easy.  But, I can see a glimmer of hope because I am not destroyed.  I don’t know how to pray right now, but I have those same people who were praying for Owen praying for ME.  Interceding on my behalf because I don’t have the words.  I don’t have the energy.  I don’t have the heart.

So, this Sunday I am going to go back to church for the second time since Owen passed.  I am going to sit in that pew.  And I know full well that I am pretty much going to cry the entire service.  But, I know that’s where I need to be.  I need to be in His Presence.  He’s the One I don’t know how to talk to, but He’s the only One who can help me heal.   I’m going to remind myself that I am not where I was.  I’m going to keep moving forward.   I’m going to continue to forge ahead, one clumsy step at a time, waiting for that glorious day when I know what His Voice sounds like again.

 

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Click here for the very beginning of our 8 year journey through life, loss and our unexpected struggle with secondary infertility.  Starting with what we shared at our 3-week-old son’s funeral.