Easter Morning and the Four Easter Baskets
The last time I wrote anything was Nine Pregnancies, Two Sons, and a Mother's Journey toward Easter. It was 6 years ago, almost to the day. Right before our lives imploded and shattered us into tiny fragments. That moment altered us. It altered the entire landscape of our lives.
I woke up at 3:46am this morning, not from pain or despair, but a Holy stirring. I don’t fully know what it is yet, but as I sit here, by dim light, I look in amazement at FOUR Easter baskets. FOUR, for FOUR children who will soon awaken with delight, to find their rocks of sin have been removed and replaced with good gifts. Who would have ever thought the last time I wrote, we would have FOUR Easter baskets in our home, much less FOUR children.
The last time I wrote anything was right after my last miscarriage. Seven in total. And I told Tim then, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t do it again.
I have always had a manner about me, if it seems good (even if not good for me), I want it. And I will do anything to get it, whatever that “it” is. I will beat myself black and blue trying to make it happen, until, I lay lying on the ground, beaten, almost dying, and then, I give up.
When I finally put all the pieces together that I had been sexually abused, I decided I would give it all I had to get healthy, to get free, and to conquer evil.
When it was hard to conceive and deliver a live baby, I just pressed even harder, to quickly move on, and to not let death win.
When we found out a close family member had sexual abused others in the same manner, in the same place, as my own perpetrator… I decided, we as a family, would do it right. Sin would not win. It would not defeat us. I would make it work with healthy boundaries AND relationship intact. I would do it.
So many good things I have fought for over the years. But I did it in my own strength, in my own way, in the power of my own spirit. And it ALWAYS left me black and bruised and dying on the side of the road, breaths from death.
The first time Easter became precious to me was almost 20 years ago. It was right after a 3-day trauma intensive, that opened my story up like I had never seen before. After that event, I naively thought I was finished. I was healed. The evil was gone. It had been defeated. But alas, I had no idea, the ripple effects, or the journey I had just begun.
Hosea 2:14-16 says, “Therefore, behold, I will (allure) her and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her. And THERE I will give her HER vineyards and make the Valley of Anchor (valley of trouble) a door of hope. And THERE she will answer as in the days of her youth, as at the time when she came out of Egypt.”
Trauma has a way of invading the crevasses of your soul and fabric of your life like the smell of cigarettes. It marks what it has been near, and it leaves it’s scent on you. It feels almost impossible to rid yourself of the smell after you have left its presence. It lingers. Unwelcomed. Unwanted. But it stays.
It is “almost” a comedy of errors when I think back. Eight years ago, before “the implosion,” I remember, being in a counselor’s office trying to decide if Tim and I, were going to prioritize marriage counseling, in the hopes of helping our connecting ability and intimate life, OR if we were going to focus on trying to have another baby. The two could not be done at once. I will save why for another day, but in my little mind and in the counselor’s mind… one had to be chosen over the other.
I chose the baby. I chose to press forward. I chose my way. I chose the only way I could see to get what was obviously good.
Two more miscarriages.
*(Let me be very clear at this point, I do NOT, in any way, believe this was punishment from God for choosing to press forward. That is not God. Satan on the other hand, lives for these moments. Satan plants seeds in these moments, because he always preys on the vulnerable, the hurting, the wounded).
Death.
Eventually it catches up to you. After my 7th miscarriage, I was done. I was done fighting. I was done trying. I was beaten.
We had wanted more than 2 children, but that just wasn’t in the cards. We needed to accept more just wasn’t going to be our life.
And then… disaster struck. And it struck like a meteor. I am surprised anything good managed to live beyond that moment. Because at this point, I didn’t have a choice. The crevasses of my mind had opened, and the details of my abuse, that I had once only lived in black and white, were now a 3-D movie I found myself as the main character within. I could not find my way out of the movie. The only way out, was through. This time… I had to live it. And live it, WE did.
We laid. Shattered. Muted. In ruins. Lost. Seemingly destroyed.
I say we, because trauma doesn’t just affect the primary victim, it spreads. It spreads until the head of the snake is cut off!
Easter is coming! But first, death.
Everything in our family stopped. We did nothing, and I mean nothing, but survive. Our life was stripped to the bare bones. We focused only on eating, Tim working, the kids going to school, and me learning to be still, present, and resting. That is, it. That is all we did, for three straight years.
Then, I missed a period.
I was almost 40. We were getting settled into our new normal. We had accepted less than we wanted or thought we would have in life. Not to mention, because of the intense trauma work I had been doing, Tim and I were still not regularly having intercourse. So, I honestly didn’t even think it was possible.
I took a test, and I was pregnant.
At first, I was angry. God, is this a joke? I do not want to miscarry again. Plus, I literally gave up on this whole idea. Now, I am too old for it. We are settled. We only have space big enough for the four of us. Why? Why this? Why now?
I wrestled with Him for 24 hours, through a Sunday night. I stayed up all night and I knew… I would deliver, this baby, alive. I also knew this baby would be a girl, and her name should be Spirit.
Nine months later, we delivered a live baby girl, named Evangeline Spirit.
What a gift! After all we had been through. NEW LIFE. NEW HOPE FOR THE FUTURE. A sign of life and promise of unexpected GOOD gifts from God.
Then six months later, with an infant, in the middle of a world-wide pandemic, and our plates completely full, I knew God told me we were going to have another baby, a girl, and her name was to be Glory.
I was completely freaked out. This could not be true. A fourth? In my forties? We literally do not have anywhere to put another baby. WHY?!?! I must be wrong. This can’t be true. This cannot be right.
But sure enough, a year and a half later, I delivered another, live baby girl, Elowen Glory.
Now here I sit, as the last darkness of night lingers, before the dawn of Easter morning begins. There is much more to this story than I have been able to write, but one line from the last post resounds in my mind, “Just like the empty wine glasses of years gone by, the tomb is empty… BUT WITH JESUS, empty is NEVER FINAL!”
If you find yourself alone, lost, hurting, in despair this Easter, may I offer you a breadcrumb of hope? Because of Jesus, today isn’t the end of the story. Because of Jesus, good news is always coming.
