Like her I was tired. Time bent me slowly. But it was lack of joy, of the story I wasn’t living that cracked me open, hollow.
I’d lived a life before her, or at least the one they gave me, but she moved in, care-free. And I thought,
Now, maybe.
baby swing hanging from tree, framed by roses
And I don’t blame her for the years that passed. Her shoulders bent like mine, curled around her aching heart. I knew that pain too well!
So, I resolved to wait, learned to love the wind right through me, learned to house the life that chose me. And soon I saw,
She did too.
And it was marvelous!
The garden crept in closer, and hope felt like spring, but life fell like leaves. And though the breeze was lovely, and I smiled as she scattered seeds, I longed for the garden story.
Instead, I felt the pain, knife sharp, lightening in my skin. Is this the end for me? Where they decide I am done. . .they don’t need this tree.
The wind I loved felt bitter. The life in me cracked open. . .I creaked and groaned and wondered,
Can gardeners hear trees?
But pain lifted its fingers and in its wake, her laughter. And the wind rushed through like life. And I realized the garden had reached me!
And I danced alongside flowers, and whistled, “It’s nice to meet you!” And every now and then, I see her gazing up at me, happy, all admiration. And all her joy is mine.
We are here!
Both in the garden.
But the thing I love the most is swaying to the rhythm I finally hold in my arms. Not made by breeze or wind, but by a woman who became a mother pushing her child in the swing hanging down
My son kept looking back at me. A grin that reached his young soul. “Do you see this too, Mom? Do you see it? A whole lake! That boy over there could be my friend!”
I do see, son.
In this minute, like you, I only see the lake, the good things coming. I wish I only ever saw the lake. It is magnificent. I breathe for real. A deep one long held in.
But I see more.
How could I not? Headlines crush. Tragedies feel like tally marks. And that’s tragedy in itself. Again. Again. Again. And is it condolences, really? Or just everyone’s hot take? I look away. Not to stick my head in the stand. And maybe I do want my head in the sand when it comes to everyone’s opinions, everyone’s thoughts and prayers. . .
I’m praying too.
But my soul can’t take the noise. It wasn’t meant to. The burden is enough, and it’s too much. Was I meant to know it? I pray to God for healing, redemption. I surrender all I cannot carry. Which is all.
And I look at the lake.
Lean into life. . .this life from God.
My son grins. Laughs. He can’t get enough. Neither can I. I see God’s goodness here. I believe Him.
My daughter sleeps peacefully. I take in the beauty. Their dog runs. They hold their babies and walk into the water. And my own splashes in yellow boots. Waves from boats crash in. Not all waves mean storms.
Still I have no words for the world. I grieve it. And sometimes I don’t grieve as I should or weep with those who weep. God forgive me!
Life here is brutal.
But I look at the lake.
Because there is still life here too.
And I pray as though it’s an act of war. It is.
“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.” Ephesians 6:12
I lean into all that is good and right, lovely and well. That’s war too.
“Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good; Blessed is the man who trusts in Him!” Psalm 34:8
And I live. There are things to do. This is war.
“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” Ephesians 2:10
And I write. Because I need a Lullaby in all this madness.
Even Mothers, Even Here
I’m a beggar
and a mother,
interchangeable.
spare these hearts of mine!
spare these hearts of mine!
these hearts outside of me,
spare them please!
but I know it,
have lived it.
they won’t escape
pain, tragedies
by the tens or hundreds.
but let them be,
let them breathe,
let them laugh and love,
be healed, be held,
be fearlessly here
for all the days of their life.
and bear them up
when they grieve,
or ask questions like,
“but where was God when. . .?”
and give them peace
to face, endure
whatever will hollow
their hearts.
and help them laugh again,
themselves freely to it
when happiness
lifts their spirit.
and God, let us know,
let the mothers know!
even when
they aren’t safe here,
even when
they can’t escape,
our children
. . .our very heartbeats,
are ever safe with You.
but we are weeping, asking for
spines tall, strong with hope,
minds built in the truth,
eyes fixed on You.
and here You remind us
we can fall apart,
we can fracture, shatter
because even mothers,
even here,
are safe with You
too.
I grin back at my son.
It reaches my soul. And there the grin finds my soul well.
In 2020, while a child grew in me, I returned to the thing I had loved to do as a child. Writing poetry. And I wrote the years down. Infertility. My silent screaming. God’s history of love to me. My grief. The garden. The starkness of the bathroom floor. The healing. The escape from the grave. Hope Gives a Eulogy. How thoroughly God gives life! His miracles are many. His presence is everything.
artwork by the talented Emaline Westbrook!
It’s been one year since I published Hope Gives a Eulogy. What a gift to learn I could love God with all of me, fully trust Him and live in hope from Him without ever trying to make infertility the good thing. I could hate the pain without bitterness, grieve the loss extensively, and still completely love and be loved by God. I could experience His kindness without contorting His kindness into the brokeness of infertility. Anything good I experienced during infertility is because God changed it. He made the childless story different. He gave the barren woman LIFE. He didn’t let infertility stay the story.
This is a story I’ll be telling forever. To my children, and should God give them, my children’s children. “Come and hear, all you who fear God,and I will tell what he has done for my soul.” Psalm 66:16
Truly God has kept my soul among the living! (Psalm 66:8)
It has been a profound journey of hope and healing. God turned my life into spring and then He gave me two children and expanded that springtime in huge ways. I know this story of God’s love and glory is far from over. I’m glad to have part of it written down. To have shared it with you. And here we are one year later.
To celebrate one year of Hope Gives a Eulogy out in the world, you can purchase this personal collection of 96 poems for half off the original price! This is the best deal to date and the offer goes through Mother’s Day should you find yourself or know a friend who is in a spring-less season this Mother’s Day. May these poems meet you wherever you are. Let me wait with you for however long it takes spring to burst in your soul again. And then some.💕
Perhaps the eulogy is, indeed, a prelude for new life.
cold hands held the seeds. I among them. it did not feel like celebration. . . maybe once, but these were clammy dreams, lines in her hands going nowhere, just holding me, holding seeds, hoping.
but isn’t it a wonder that fragile beginnings empty of vision never determine the vibrant awakening of a garden.
and she would know it soon.
-S.V.F.
photo of our garden entrance days before we brought our firstborn home to sunflowers and zinnias. what began in a grocery cart during the pain of infertility turned to this.❤
our firtborn a couple weeks old amidst the sunflowers
our firstborn a year old playing in the garden that he loves
I wonder what kind of garden we will bring our spring baby girl home to in a few days or so?❤I’ll be sure to let you know.
Sierra V. Fedorko 