Momma in the Valley

  Grief is a fickle thing. Sometimes, it is just a little prod, reminding you it’s there. Other times, though, it is like a punch in the gut while you have a stomach bug. Either way, it’s always there, lurking around every corner. At times, it is a small sting that feels like a bee. At others, it feels like a ton of bricks has settled on your chest and you have no escape. The grief can look different day to day, week to week, month to month. It can be a simple ping of sadness at a song or a name that reminds you of who or what you have lost. It can also be an overwhelming wave of sorrow as you remember a birthday, a shared joke, or think to call the person you are missing. It hurts. It is an endless ache, a bottomless, empty pit, a sea of despair. Grief is something that is typically experienced silently. It is an experience unique to you, and unique to each loss you have. It can feel lonely. In short, laymen’s terms: grief sucks. The Devil likes to use this pain and despair and lo...

I keep searching. In the cabinets. In the rooms of our home. In books. In my schedule. In my notes. In music. On the internet. I keep searching for something to take away my sadness, to prevent depression, to speed up the healing, to make it all feel less real. But I continue to wake up in this reality that feels like a dream. I wish I was waking up to feeling my baby in my belly. I wish we were preparing my son to be a big brother. Instead, I pray. I pray for guidance. I pray for strength. I pray for God’s will to be done, even when it pains me to experience the process of getting there. I want to cuddle my babies. I want all of my babies. For now, I get to cuddle my little boy here on earth and wait for the Heavenly cuddles that are to come. I look forward to that wonderful fruition when my family will be all together and we will be face to face with our Lord. Now, though, I ache. I ache for the babies that have left my womb. I ache for the games we would play all together. I yearn t...

  Jude. Derived from Judah. In Hebrew and Greek, it means “praised,” “praises,” or “praise.” Our Lord will be praised and glorified in all circumstances. We praise Him for making us parents of a third blessing, a third beautiful, wanted, wonderfully knitted child. We praise Him for His grace and His omniscience. We praise Him, knowing that He has our Jude in His hands. Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow. Even the hidden blessings we don’t yet know exist. Hollow. Hollow is the only word I can think of to describe how I feel in the midst of this grief. What other words are there to describe how there was a life in my womb then suddenly there wasn’t? How do you describe the feeling of pure joy taken from you…again? I don’t think I can explain the feeling. It just is. It’s like I’m walking around doing what I have to do to survive and showing up places I’m supposed to go, but it feels like you can literally see through me. It feels like someone has taken an ice cream scoop and ta...

I am a proud mommy. I’m not exactly proud of myself or my abilities. Yes, “I am woman, hear me roar.” Yes, I have some qualities that help me be the best mommy I can be. But I am certainly not perfect. I get frustrated. I forget to have Samuel brush his teeth sometimes. I forgot to brush my own some mornings (don’t judge!). But I am not proud of myself. I am proud of my little boy who is both slowly and quickly becoming not so little. This pride is something I feel beam inside of me when he helps me with the dishes or shows me some new skill I didn’t expect. It is also a pride that quickly shrinks to humility when Samuel hits his cousin or says a certain phrase beginning with “oh!” And ending with “it” that we all know he has heard Mommy say a few too many times. Motherhood is an amazing, wild ride. It is terrifying laying in bed some nights wondering if I did the right thing or if I’m spoiling him too much or not giving enough love. It’s also scary when you wonder if for some reason y...

Almost a year ago, on July 21st, 2020 at 8:40pm, light began shining on the Earth for the Hicks family. Colors became brighter. Smells became more fragrant. Ups became higher. Lows became lower. Sorrow became deeper. Joy became stronger. At that time, our sweet little boy was born. Our beautiful, precious, perfect Rainbow Baby. For months, we had anticipated and imagined what he would be like. We had prepared as much as possible for his arrival. But nothing prepared us for the adrenaline we would feel when it was “time.” Nothing prepared us for the fear that would strike us when the nurse said he was throwing “d-cels.” Nothing prepared us for the determination I would muster to deliver. Nothing prepared us for the incredible patient, loving, and steady voice my husband used when cheering me on. Finally, nothing prepared us for the rush of intense love and new understanding of grace bestowed upon us the moment we laid eyes on our baby. My husband recently recalled being in the hospital ...

I am scared. I am scared of Covid. I am scared of “Satan shoes.” I am scared of seeing Samuel grow up in such odd, terrifying, trying times. These are just the things I see right now, tonight, as I quickly skim over the news. This does not even encompass the trials and tribulations, death and destruction that is occurring in every corner of the world. In spite of all of this fear and pain and groaning across the world that words cannot even encompass or express, we are not given a spirit of fear.  “ For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands, for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control” (2 Timothy 1:6-7). We are not given a spirit of fear, but I am still scared! I think the most difficult thing is to give up that fear, accept that I certainly do not have control (even though I try to trick myself into thinking I do), and lay it all at the foot of Jesus’ cross. This Holy Week, it’s...

 I only have one picture with my Bailey. It is a  super awkward picture of me, but the only picture we have with him. Earlier I saw a post that said, “and some babies only know the arms of Jesus.” This made me cry simultaneous tears of joy and sadness. I miss what could have been. I miss the joy we lost. I miss the cuddles and the smiles that would have been. But thank God He has Bailey in His arms. I never felt Bailey in my arms, but Bailey has only known the safety of Mommy’s belly and the safety of His Heavenly Father’s arms. Praise the Lord, oh my soul.