Finding Happy

Though I have no idea how this works when we get to big picture issues, it seems our life has begun to march on, with tender reminders that we are blessed even if the last six weeks has often left me feeling otherwise.

Porter is losing all his teeth, thanks to his daddy's genetics that have given him two huge front teeth that amazed even the dentist. Said the dentist to his assistant after looking over the x-rays: "Have you seen these things!?" Said the dentist to me: "Do you have any friends in orthodontia?"

There are no words for the gratitude I feel when I think of my toothless boy who is growing up all too quickly. He is funny and sweet. So, so sweet. And he daily reminds me to let happiness in.

We had a Yes Day last week because I was tired of sitting in my sadness and decided, instead, to try to manufacture happy. So we ditched work and school, and I told the kids we could do whatever they wanted all day long. I've been a bit apathetic since we lost the twins — nothing feels right. So I left the decision-making up to the little people, and it turned out better than I could have ever imagined.

The first decision of the day: breakfast, and they kicked things off with leftover Booberry Crunch and Fruity Cheerios (we only do sugar cereal on weekends in the Burt home, so this was a treat). But the cereal sat untouched and soggy once Porter realized "yes day" really did mean no rules.

Swimming was a unanimous second once the milk bubbles were cleaned up. We had the entire aquatic center to ourselves and stayed until missed lunch hunger pains turned to tears.

After a late peanut butter and honey lunch (Porter asked to be in charge of the honey), complete with chocolate milk and cheetos, Porter and I spent the afternoon coloring and playing Legos while Nora napped (naptime is non-negotiable even on Yes Day).

And even before she had climbed out of her bed after waking up, my girlie knew what she wanted to do next...

We've been fighting over that tube of lipstick ever since. Turns out, in her eyes, anything acquired on Yes Day is rightfully under new ownership.

The day wrapped with a trip to the library, where I let them wander the aisles for as long as they wanted (though I did have to steer Porter away from an illustrated book called "Our Bodies" in the preteen section).

And though we're big readers in general, I was surprised at just how long they were both entertained thumbing through picture books.

And that's all it took: a few borrowed books, a tube of lipstick, lots of swimming and some spilled milk. It doesn't take much to find happy with these two underfoot.

Grace

In a recent conversation with someone who has also lost a baby, the woman described this kind of grief as "breathtaking," and for a moment, it sounded strange to me — after all, mountaintop views and sunsets are breathtaking, and this feels nothing like a mountaintop view. But then again, it most certainly does take your breath away. It knocks the wind out of you, drags you across the pavement and then kicks you in the shins. It feels as if it robs you of everything, even when its wake is cluttered with a whole lot. It feels like it is more than you could ever imagine feeling and being and doing. And it takes your breath away again and again and again.

Breathtaking in the most heartbreaking of ways.

But there's more. In its wake — the wake of nothing left and yet so, so much — there have been different, new vistas that stop time in an entirely different manner. Somehow, in the face of it all — the loss, the shock, the confusion and even the anger, when your heart feels as if it will never recover and the loneliness of it all feels like it will swallow you whole, there is light.

I stupidly wore the dress I had worn the day before finding out we'd lost the twins. The dress I wore on my last happy, carefree day — the last day I felt like myself. And though it felt different when I put it on this morning, simply because its hem hung a little lower and its folds more loosely from the high waist, it looked cute with the boots I wanted to wear and, in my rush to get myself and the kids out the door , it seemed like a good choice. But as I walked from my office to the car after a day spent trying to be normal, the wind swirled, and I realized for the first time all day just how loose and empty that dumb dress felt — how empty I felt. You're not pregnant and you're not getting your babies knocked the wind out of me as I remembered how happy I'd felt just five weeks ago in my cute dress with my twin baby belly and big dreams.

But as I cried on the drive home, the sunset's light turned the entire sky bright pink. And I immediately thought of my little pink princess at home and drove a little faster, hoping to scoop her up just in time to catch the last of the show I knew she'd think was just for her. And her happy little squeal and "Mommy's home!" when I walked through the door took my breath away.

She came running from the living room as if she had been racing to greet me too. From empty and side-swiped to heart swells and gratitude.

When you're sad, worn out or even beat down, there is comfort. When you're not even sure you want it because there's something assuring about a sadness that affirms the existence of your happiness just before the inevitable fall, there is hope. There is comfort from a Heavenly Father whose love and concern is strong enough to reach you even when you're not sure you want to be reached.

This is grace.

The LDS Bible Dictionary defines grace as "divine means of help or strength." It is God's love in action, doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves. And even as I survey grief's wake with gloomy eyes, grace abounds.

A sunset cuts through tears, reminding you of everything you've still got. And that's just the beginning.

An old friend emails just to say she cares. A newer one stays up well past midnight as we tackle questions that neither of us fully understands. Almost-strangers take time to check in and offer help. And a childhood friend sends a card full of compassion and love that reminds you of the bigger picture — an entire life that has led up to the past five weeks. My Heavenly Father has surrounded our family with love. This is grace. And I am grateful.

Cloudy

I was happy to see a cloud-covered sky this morning to match my battered heart. And I was mad when the sunshine started shining through.

Such is life. Happy. Sad. Happy. Hopeful. Bam! Sad. I'm so worn down, I don't know what I am. I know I   was mad when the sun started peeking through the clouds this morning, because I wanted a reason to curl up, to be quiet and, yes, to be sad.

And I feel like a big, bad mom and a lackluster wife and an unfaithful daughter of God to say that, but it's true: I am sad.

Yes, I have had a great week with my funny, perfect kids. We've snuggled and tickled and laughed. Oh, we've laughed. We've learned new songs. We've played games and told jokes and ate Halloween candy and read piles of stories. They are beautiful and sweet — the epitome of hope.

Yes, I have an equally broken-hearted husband who, though he doesn't say it, is just as scared and frustrated as me. A husband who abides and listens even though he has no idea what to do or say.

Yes, I have the very best of friends rallying around me — friends who, try as I might to tell them, will likely never know just how much they mean to me at this very moment in my upside-down life. This path is dark and winding and lonely. I know that it is not a fun place to be. But they're here, walking beside me, even though not one of us knows where we're going or when we'll come through to the other side.

Yes, I have a somewhat surprisingly unwavering faith that brings me comfort when I begin to wonder just how all of this came to be and brings me hope when I worry it may never be ok again.

But I am still sad. With all the good things I've got — all the sunshine bursting out from the clouds — my heart is still just broken.

But I am trying. Sit tight, dear friends. I am still in here somewhere; it's just a little cloudy.