Therein Lies the Silence

I'm at my computer again two years after the last time I stared at this blank blogger page, tapping out letters that made words, words that made sentences, and sentences that didn't make paragraphs that made sense or conveyed how I felt. I typed and back-spaced over and over until I gave up and a blank page stands in draft status reminding me of the futileness I felt in trying to put my heart into words.
I've put off this attempt because the emotional toll it takes is exhausting and time consuming. Silence is easier in some ways but it leaves me feeling misunderstood and to be understood seems to be one of my greatest desires in life.

***If you are pregnant or "planning" to be, or are a loved one of someone who is, you may not want to read this. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, but I can't apologize to you for writing it, if you chose to read it.***

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. The 15th of that month is considered a remembrance day, wherein candles are lit at 7pm across the world in what is called a "wave of light" in memory of the babies. Many banners mention "breaking the silence". Just like any other awareness project, those of us whom have experienced pregnancy and infant loss don't need any reminder. We are painfully aware. It is for those who haven't dealt with it in some way. We don't think our grief or pain is greater than anyone else's. Some of us have great support systems in which we can share. I am one of them. But outside that system, it is just not "comfortable" for people to talk about.

Therein lies the silence. 

"I didn't just lose a baby. My child died."

I remember saying, "Jack is dead. My baby is dead." nine years ago when we found out that he didn't have a heartbeat. No one wants to hear it this way. I still say things like, "the baby we lost" instead of saying that he "died". We didn't lose him. I know exactly where he is. If you could stand with me though and see the reactions on the many faces of people when I mention him, and see them recoil when I speak of him in that way, you would understand the tendency to find a softer way to say it.

Therein lies the silence.

"If you ask me if I have kids, don't be surprised if I tell you about the losses."

I think I need a t-shirt printed with this on it. It isn't "normal" now-a-days, is it though--to hear about baby death? Thankfully, so many are saved because of monitoring, careful lifestyle choices, prenatal care, medical testing and advances. But sadly, statistically, out of 4,058,000 live births, there are 26,000 stillbirths, 64,000 ectopic pregnancies, and 600,000 miscarriages. 50% of the time there is no explanation. In 2014, there were 582 infant deaths for every 100,000 live births. My son was a stillbirth. He was born still, but he is my son. Please let me talk about him without making me feel like I breached propriety in mentioning him.

Therein lies the silence.

"For those who understand, no explanation is needed. For those who do not understand, no explanation is possible."

I know it is different for different people, but for me, I'm glad when someone mentions my son, Jack, and includes him when they speak of my children. It gives me a feeling of relief to know that you are mindful of him. I have a friend who had added children to their brood and was expecting another. I know that he didn't mean to hurt me and was just being friendly when he smiled, teased and said, "Y'all need to have another one so you can have 5 like us." My heart literally squeezed in my chest and there was a pain when he said it. I have 5 children. One just isn't here on earth. I pray neither that friend nor any other ever has to experience what we have gone through losing a child. I get that there is no way to explain it to someone who hasn't had it happen to them. I'm not angry, but it hurts just the same.

Therein lies the silence.

"You were unsure of which pain is worse--the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will."

We drive past a cemetery on our route home every day. Recently, when Dinah (my 6 year old daughter) and I drove past it, she asked, "Is that the place that my brother is buried?" (She has only been to his graveside a few times. I don't find it a place of comfort and don't go there often but when I do, I mostly go alone.) I shook my head.

"He is buried in another cemetery, Dinah."

"What is he wearing, Mama? Is he still wearing his baby clothes? Or is he big? Do we need to get him some new clothes that are bigger?"

I tried to explain a little but I ended up just changing the subject. How do I tell her? How do I explain to her the facts of burial and what happens to an earthly body after death? It is something that I have always avoided thinking about. He's my BABY.

I remember going to the graveside the day before he was buried so that we could see where he would lay. The crew was there digging the hole in the ground. When I saw it, my breath was taken away. I literally couldn't breathe for a moment. Do you remember when you fell out of a tree and had the "wind knocked out of you" as a child? It was like that. Just like so many things I had never thought about, because no one ever plans to have a child die, I hadn't thought about how small the grave would be. I stood for a moment while I waited for the world to stop spinning and I tried not to think about it. The next day, his tiny casket was covered in sprays of tulips. They were removed I saw the box that held him. A box so small that my petite mother could carry her grandson from the funeral car to the place where he would lay.

Dinah asks often of what he is doing and if he gets to talk to her Grannies. She wants to know how old he is and if he runs and plays or if he is a baby still. I don't know and I tell her that I don't know. All I know is that I believe that his soul is in Heaven with God. That is where my mind must rest.

I see other friends children who were born around the time that he was. I smile at their toothy grins and their fun-loving, care-free play. They are at the age where the opposite sex still has cooties and they don't care if their clothes match or are wrinkled. It flashes in my mind that he would be doing the same things those children. He would probably look just like Ty did at that age because he sure did when he was born. Then I stop that train of thought because I don't want to go there--to what might of been. "What might of been" hurts. I try to think of what was and what is--how I loved him, how I still do.

I don't talk about these things.

Therein lies the silence.

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn"

This phrase is credited (and subsequently discredited) to Ernest Hemingway. The story goes that the words came from a ten-dollar bet he made at a lunch with some other writers that he could write a novel in six words. After penning the famous line on a napkin, he passed it around the table and collected his winnings. Whoever wrote them, they are still powerful, aren't they? So much is said with so little.

There seems to be a baby boom around me. It has been such a joy to watch bellies grow, plans made, and little ones arrive. I like to crochet and try really hard to make a blanket for each of those precious infants. As I stitch, I stop counting long enough to pray for them and and their family. I pray that they are born healthy and strong. I pray that their adjustment to life will be as seamless as the Lord can allow. I ask that the Lord would guide their mamas and daddies and grandmas and grandpas in their raising. I mention their siblings and ask that they are accepting and loving to the new invader into their space.

Recently, I excitedly explained the progress of a laboring friend to another mother who has long stood beside me through my walk in grief. I stood beside the expectant mother. I saw the belts across her belly. I heard the swoosh-swoosh of the heart-beat. I watched the rate for steadiness. I pointed out the contractions on the monitor for her and her loved ones. They were impressed. They thought my knowledge came from nursing. My friend made it known that I had labored a "few times" before. They asked as anyone would, "How many children do you have?" I had that split second to decide whether or not to mention a dead child in a birthing room. I took a breath and determined again (as I have had to do on numerous other occasions) not to betray his memory out of fear of what someone might think or say. I relayed that I had delivered 5 children and that 4 were living.

After I had told her this, she asked me, "Aren't you afraid for her?" She explained that deliveries made her anxious for the birthing mother.

I thought for a moment and honestly replied, "No."

I continued to explain that I had thought about the fact that it could go wrong. It became something I was more aware of after I had experienced it. I told her that I prayed that I could help her if she needed me, but that I wasn't nervous or distressed for her.

If you are a mom, you know that the delivery room brings out all the birthing stories of the women present. Mostly, I tell about the "favorable outcomes" but my mind relives them all.  I remember when they only put one belt on, instead of two. I remember a room so quiet, only whispers from the staff, muffled sobs and simple prayers of "Please, help me, God." No swoosh, swoosh. No laughter and excitement.

------------------------------------------------

Another friend, had a baby shower and she was telling of how she loved washing and folding the new clothes, putting together new items and decorating the baby's room. I know how she feels. It is a precious time of preparation. But as I smiled with her, my mind was thinking of the time I had all those new things around me and they brought me pain. How I couldn't see them without weeping but couldn't remove them and pack them away either.

I keep my stories to myself.

Therein lies the silence. 

"I carried you every second of your life and I will love you every second of mine."

Tomorrow, I will attend another Pregnancy and Infant Loss ceremony, so lovingly and thoughtfully put together by a dear pediatrician and friend in our town. Thousands of ceremonies much like it will be held in other places around the world. In memory of my son, Jack, those cherished babies, their families and loved ones, I have broken my silence. It isn't for pity or for attention.  It isn't to make anyone feel guilty or contrite. I share with the desire that others don't feel so alone in their feelings and experiences. It is also with the hope that with newfound awareness, you might be able to make easier the path of the sufferers of these overwhelming sorrows.

"We remember all the babies born sleeping. Those we've carried and never met. Those we've held but could not take home. The ones who came home but could not stay."

I praise God for those who have been my listening ears and strong shoulders, through out my journey of love, loss and mourning. You have wept with me and reminded me of Truth when I was overwhelmed with despair. I am forever grateful for you love and affection that has been literally life-saving.


Anna Becoming

Love Hurts

"Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars

Any heart not tough nor strong enough

To take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain

Love is like a cloud, holds a lot of rain

Love hurts, love hurts"

Love Hurts~Everly Brothers

I've been having trouble with my heart lately. It seems to be regularly breaking. Some of the reasons for the wreckage, sadly, are usual ones, but it seems to me, that even more grievously, that there are new reasons, coming from the places that my heart were supposed to be SAFE.

I've never had the ability to just not care. I ALWAYS CARE. Some of the problems are big ones but some of them aren't. Lack of confidence and a need to be loved have put me in such a place of vulnerability (both of these I realize are my own issues that need to be worked through), small things slay me. The offender may not even realize what they had done. Or if they did, why in the world would someone get upset over that? After the hurt, it takes so much for me to "put myself out there" again, but I try all the same.

Lately, though, I have to keep battling my reaction. I want to just shut up shop. Slam the door. Bolt the lock. Hang a message on the door that says, "CLOSED". Put my back to it and slide into the floor, and say, "There. You won't get me again."

To be honest, I have had moments where I sincerely considered running away--States-on-the-U.S.-map, away. After that moment when skipping town seems to be the only answer, the next moment reveals all the new hurt it would cause.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless-- it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."

C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Sometimes, I would probably wish for an "unbreakable" or "impenetrable" heart to save myself, but I know I've never and never will desire an "irredeemable"one.  

As always, I write these things when the pain is not as sharp and the days are not as dark. I don't have the ability to compose when the hurt is fresh. I have to wait for the scab to form and the scar to begin before I can have perspective enough not to just rant with my fingertips against the keyboard. 

I know I am not the only one. I am sure many of you feel alone at times, maybe often. I might even be the reason for one of those times of pain. If I was, I am sorry. It stinks, doesn't it?

The most important One that isn't a stranger to this feeling is our LORD. All through history, those that He loves so dearly, betray Him, deny Him, laugh at Him, ignore Him, blaspheme Him, lie to Him, and only run to Him when they need help.

As I reflect on this, being one of those that He dearly loves, and treating Him thus more often than I can count, I am thankful for my hurt. I am thankful that it slaps me in the face. That it draws my attention to my own sin, against Him and others. 

Isaiah 63:8-9

New Living Translation (NLT)

⁸ He said, “They are my very own people.
    Surely they will not betray me again.”
    And he became their Savior.
⁹ In all their suffering he also suffered,
    and he personally^[a] rescued them.
In his love and mercy he redeemed them.
    He lifted them up and carried them
    through all the years.

"Surely they will not betray me again."

But they do.

But He, the One True God, "in all their suffering He also suffered,":

"...personally rescued them. In His love and mercy He redeemed them. He lifted them up and carried them through all the years."

I'll keep my heart that breaks, in hopes that in it's brokenness, I will somehow learn to love as He loves. 

Return to Zero, The Movie

In March, my friend, Lucy, sent me a message with a link and wrote, "Have you seen this?"

The link was to a website for Return to Zero, the movie.

I had not.

The theme of the film is something that is close to mine and Lucy's hearts but one that isn't spoken about, written about, or dwelt upon very often: STILLBIRTH.

Lucy and I "met" online through our mutual friend, Amy, in January of 2010. Amy called to ask me, mother of baby Jack, a STILLBORN baby, if I would mind contacting her friend who along with her husband, Mike, had twins a couple of months before. The babies were a boy and a girl. Their baby girl, Allie Grace, was born healthy, but their baby boy, James Michael, was STILLBORN.

Lucy needed a connection. She needed comfort. She needed direction. She needed someone to talk to that knew her pain. I would provide a little bit of all these things for Lucy, until she was able to find them closer to home and then she would eventually provide those things for some other mother who had experienced STILLBIRTH.

There are thousands of moms and dads just like Lucy and me. It isn't just something that USED to happen. You know, when the medical care wasn't good enough. A statistic is cited in the clip below that in the U.S. alone there are 26,000 STILLBIRTHS a year. That is:

500 pairs of empty mommy arms a month,

72 grieving daddies a day,

3 broken and heartsick sets of parents every hour.

The makers of this film would like to "break the silence" about STILLBIRTH specifically, but also all infant loss. Not everyone who experiences baby loss wants to talk about it but I think none of them wants it to be forgotten. I think the silence that needs to be broken is the one that feels like it is being imposed on those who have experienced the loss. It should be their choice whether to speak or to be quiet.

Even though I feel like I'm doing my own bit of "breaking the silence" now, after we lost Jack, I struggled to include him in my conversation. When I talked of him, I made others uncomfortable. Some, not all, would just walk away. Literally.

It is delicate. It is difficult. And as a result it is easier NOT to talk about it than to wade through the hard parts. I found out that once I got over sacrificing the memory of my beloved child for the sake of making someone else feel better, MOST were receptive. Sometimes they said something that was hurtful or ignorant, but in time, I found ways to let them know without making either of us feel embarrassed or hurt. Hopefully, the next time they encounter a similar situation, they will know what to say because I spoke.

While the subject of baby loss should never be blasé, it should be familiar enough that by being aware, we can help others.

Please watch this Glimpse of Return To Zero






I am a local leader for the film.  (Local leaders in Mississippi) As a local leader, I have pledged to tell others about the film and help get it to theaters by gathering support for it.

You can see a map that shows local leaders nationally but this is a global effort. Individuals and groups from all around the world are signing up to be local leaders and pledging to go see this movie. If you would like to Become a Local Leader also, please do so.

You can pledge to see this movie by clicking on this link: Pledge to go see this movie

You can put my name in as local leader on your form: Anna Janzen-Lancaster

And by all means, please share it if you would like others to see it also.

http://bit.ly/16H3uNz



Disclaimer: I have NOT SEEN this movie and it is not rated yet. I can tell you that it does have some foul language and has adult situations. It is a film about adult life. If those things will keep you from seeing a movie, you probably won't want to see this one. You know that I have written before about how we try and limit our exposure to media of all types, especially for our children. Our children will not be seeing this movie. I don't want them or myself to be exposed to those things unnecessarily. But sometimes, to tell the REAL LIFE story, it is necessary, because that is how it REALLY happens. It is up to you. It is not my intention to force this film on you. Just to let you know it is out there and that it's subject matter, MATTERS.


Anna Becoming

I Remember

These past two weeks, four babies in my circles of friends and acquaintances have left this world for heaven. Two precious little ones after their birth and two other sweet babies while they were still growing in their mother's wombs. As I have heard of their situations, I have prayed for them throughout my days. Something or someone would turn my thoughts to them, I would send up a prayer for them and their families, then push them from my mind again and go about my day. It seems unkind to have not dwelt on them or their pain. But I couldn't. I didn't have time to think about this and get upset. I am very careful most all the time not think about babies dying. I am very careful not to touch those things in the closet. I am very careful not to pull out pictures. I am very careful not to look at that teddy bear.

 Because of these precious babies and their families coming into my life and thoughts in unusual numbers, I wasn't able to push those reflections away. I thought of them and how they would be feeling. How their coming days would be so hard. How that in the midst of this most difficult thing they would  have to chose to be faithful and tender and good or broken and hard and bitter.  How they would always carry those babies in their hearts and minds when others had long forgotten. Today, I lift them up and I remember.

I remember a fog. My body moved. I heard my voice. I ate. I slept. I cried. I prayed but none of it was clear. It was almost as I was watching myself do those things. A dream state. That's what it felt like. There would be no waking into the realization that everything was fine. Only harsh reality when I emerged from the fog.

I remember frustration. I don't make decisions, especially important ones, lightly. I want things to be right. I had to choose so many things so fast. Constant fear of living in regret over these decisions. These had to be right. I wasn't given the luxury or the agony of being able to plan for this event. I wanted people with me but then wanted to be alone at the same time. I wanted the chance to ask God to spare him. I wanted my boy.

I remember seeing things I never wanted to see. Knowing things I never wanted to know. Having to say things I never wanted to say. My breath being sucked from my body when I saw the tiny hole in the earth where my baby's body would lay.  Seeing my husband knees buckle under him as he leaned over our baby's casket for the last time. Having to tell our other children that their baby brother wouldn't come home with us after I delivered him. Having to answer their questions. Having to tell them that sometimes God doesn't raise people from the dead like they had heard from their Bible stories. 

I remember heaviness. My head, my heart, my arms, my feet, all so hard to hold up. The weight of grief so difficult to carry. Not wanting to wake, much less get out of bed and go throughout my day as if  everything was normal again when it wasn't.

I remember tears that wouldn't stop. Choking sobs. Suffocating sadness. Groans and gut wrenching mourning that involved my entire being.

I remember brokenness. Being so shattered that it felt like there was no hope of being put back together again. Would I ever be able to laugh? Would my smile ever stop being betrayed by the sadness in my eyes? My joy was in pieces. Part of my heart was torn from the whole and sent away from me to a place I couldn't be.  

I remember fear. Would someone ask me when I was due? Being post pregnancy with no baby, I looked pregnant. Would someone ask me how many children I have? I can't tell them I have 3 because I have 4. What will they say to me? I know they are trying to be kind but sometimes the words hurt. What if they don't say anything at all? When they didn't acknowledge my pain it felt almost as bad as when they did. What if I have to walk past the baby section when I have to shop?

I remember emptiness. Empty arms. Empty cradle. Empty picture frames. Clothes never worn. Bears never cuddled. Family pictures that weren't complete. Christmas cards without all the names.

But along with these above,

I remember clarity. The fog cleared and with the light of day, I knew what to do. God's word was beside us guiding us when we were uncertain or confused.

I remember peace. Though there are things I wish I had known or wish I had done, I never stewed over the decisions we made after we made them. I carried serenity when it was impossible within myself. It was a gift given me by the Father of all. The words of Psalm 23 calmed my soul and quieted my spirit.

I remember beauty. What a beautiful baby boy held forever in my heart! We always say it is so hard to see our children grow. He'll always our sweet small one who never grows up. I remember daffodils and tulips everywhere. The compassion and love I felt and experienced was lovely.

I remember being carried. Paul Lee read "Footprints in the Sand" at Jack's funeral. A poem I've known all my life that never held such meaning as it did in the coming days. When it as humanly and physically impossible, God carried us. My husband, my mom, my siblings, my close friends and family let me talk and talk and they listened and listened. They didn't try to fix me or change me. They talked sense to me when all I felt was nonsense. They helped carry my pain as if I gave them each a suitcase full of it. 

I remember comfort. Never before were the words of God more real. Never before had I felt His presence so strongly. He was almost palpable. I felt Him beside me all the time. We were in constant conversation. To know that my baby boy was in the best place he could be other than my arms brought such rest. My relationship with Eric was stronger than it had ever been. I wanted to be with him all the time. I needed to be near him. He let me follow him around the house. He held my hand all the time. I remember the ones who just hugged me and said they were praying for me. The ones who teared up too when I began to cry. I wasn't alone.

I remember love. I never felt more loved or cared for after Jack died. Our mailbox was full of cards everyday. Our house was filled with food and flowers. Gifts to remind us of God's love and their love. I felt the prayers said for us. Phone calls, visits, thoughts and prayers. They helped make everyday more bearable. "Being Held" just like Natalie Grant wrote. Our pain gave us the chance to be held.

I remember healing. The bad days got better. The black clouds receded and didn't come as often. I didn't cry everyday. My chest didn't hurt as bad as it once did. I was able to comfort others with what comforted me.

I remember fullness. My arms were filled with my family and friends. God allowed me to share with others how He had worked so miraculously in our lives. What joy to be able to share and comfort others because you have been there before. To have something in common with someone you've never met but be able to love on them from far away. And how wonderful when he gave us Dinah. What a sparkler! And how much more I am able to love the children I have because of the one who is away from me.

With the bad came the good. With the hard came the help. With the pain, came purpose. With the sadness came new joy.

The sadness and weeping may endure for the night (or what seems like a very long time) but joy comes in the morning (one day when you aren't expecting it). Psalm 30:5b

"Baby Jack Jack"

Jack Nathanael Lancaster

Born of Heaven February 19, 2008

(Portrait drawn by Cole Sanders)

Desert Alleluias

I drove home this morning in a fog; a fog of the mind. It was made partly of sleep deprivation and partly of sadness. My soul was laden with the pain of others suffering around me. Oh that I could ease it! But God doesn't need me to fix anything. He wants me to trust Him. As I pushed my heavy thoughts and heart heavenward, God transformed my groanings into alleluias. 

Psalm 63 (NLT)

A psalm of David, regarding a time when David was in the wilderness of Judah.

1 O God, you are my God;

I earnestly search for you.

My soul thirsts for you;

my whole body longs for you

in this parched and weary land

where there is no water.

2 I have seen you in your sanctuary

and gazed upon your power and glory.

3 Your unfailing love is better than life itself;

how I praise you!

4 I will praise you as long as I live,

lifting up my hands to you in prayer.

5 You satisfy me more than the richest feast.

I will praise you with songs of joy.

6 I lie awake thinking of you,

meditating on you through the night.

7 Because you are my helper,

I sing for joy in the shadow of your wings.

8 I cling to you;

your strong right hand holds me securely.

9 But those plotting to destroy me will come to ruin.

They will go down into the depths of the earth.

10 They will die by the sword

and become the food of jackals.

11 But the king will rejoice in God.

All who trust in him will praise him,

while liars will be silenced.

Charles Spurgeon writes about Psalm 63:


"A Psalm of David, when he was in the wilderness of Judah. This was probably written while David was fleeing from Absalom; certainly at the time he wrote it he was king (Ps 63:11), and hard pressed by those who sought his life. David did not leave off singing because he was in the wilderness, neither did he in slovenly idleness go on repeating Psalms intended for other occasions; but he carefully made his worship suitable to his circumstances, and presented to his God a wilderness hymn when he was in the wilderness. There was no desert in his heart, though there was a desert around him. We too may expect to be cast into rough places ere we go hence. In such seasons, may the Eternal Comforter abide with us, and cause us to bless the Lord at all times, making even the solitary place to become a temple for Jehovah. The distinguishing word of this Psalm is EARLY. When the bed is the softest we are most tempted to rise at lazy hours; but when comfort is gone, and the couch is hard, if we rise the earlier to seek the Lord, we have much for which to thank the wilderness."


You see, God is good all the time. He is steadfast. He is perfect. He is wisdom. He is LOVE.


When you are surrounded by desert, drink from the Wellspring that abides within you. If you don't know Jesus, it would be my pleasure to introduce you.
(To read more of Charles Spurgeon's thoughts on this Psalm click here)