Why I got my flu shot.

January 12, 2022 ~ miriamlein ~ Leave a comment

Two weeks ago, I drove 15 minutes to a nearby CVS to get my COVID booster and my flu vaccine. This is only the third time that I’ve gotten a flu shot. The first time was in 2005. That was the year I gave birth to Emma Anne. Because of her compromised immune system and her open heart surgery and continued fragile health status, we asked everyone in our immediate family to get a flu shot to protect her from getting the flu until she was old enough to get her own flu vaccine.

I also made sure Emma had all her vaccinations that she was eligible for before her surgery. This was actually a requirement by the children’s hospital for her own protection, but there were people who questioned my decision to inject her body with vaccines when she was already so weak. My reasoning was simple though. I knew that because of her fragile health, any respiratory illness was likely to kill her, and the most effective way to protect her was to give her immunizations.

Once Emma was 6 months old, she was eligible for a flu vaccine, and I did get her one, mere days before she ended up catching it anyway (likely exposed before the vaccine was in her system). Five days later she passed away. While I don’t know for certain that the flu was the cause of death, I’m pretty certain that the damage it did to her system contributed to the complication of factors that led to her passing.

After that year I didn’t get the flu shot again until 2021. There wasn’t anyone immunocompromised in my immediate circle. I, personally, had only ever gotten the flu once, maybe twice in my life and while it wasn’t fun, it wasn’t particularly worrying to my health. And there were all these messages I was picking up from people around me, anti-vaxers and vaccine hesitant friends. It made me hesitant to get a vaccine I couldn’t convince myself that I personally needed. Why inject myself with something I’m not completely sure of the risks of when my risk of getting seriously ill are quite low? That was my reasoning. And that remained my reasoning until 2020.

I’m sure you can probably guess where I’m going with this. In 2020 we were hit with the corona virus and suddenly there was a lot more increased awareness of “public health.” In American culture I believe our natural instinct is to think of issues in an individual sense. We are used to making decisions, especially medical ones, based on how we are individually affected. What’s my personal risk and what actions should I take to manage that effectively? For many health issues, this is the correct way to go about it. My body, my choice, and all that. I totally get that. But, in cases of infectious disease, the risk is never just individual. When I get sick, I’m at risk of infecting others, so now their individual risks need to be taken into account too.

I’m not sure why thinking about risk in this way doesn’t come naturally to us. If we live with an immunocompromised person, like I did with Emma 16 years ago, then we might learn to at least take that one other person into account. But it’s a really heavy thing when we stop to think about the web of people we are connected to outside of our household, and perhaps that is why we don’t think about it. In fact, as a child I did think about it a lot, and it led to some really unhealthy worry for me until I learned to suppress my overwhelming sense of responsibility for others.

But the pandemic brought a lot of this to the forefront again for me. Because COVID was just enough more deadly than the viruses we’d learned to live with, it forced us to start thinking about what responsibility we hold for the health of those around us. At least it did for me. But in the midst of taking my responsibility seriously, wearing masks to protect others, agreeing to get vaccinated as soon as it was possible, etc, I was confronted with the hypocrisy of some of my actions.

An acquaintance from my childhood shared a post on social media early on in the pandemic when people were arguing vehemently on both sides of the masking issue. She shared about her immunocompromised child, how she always needed to manage the increased risks her child had by taking protective measures. Surprisingly, at least to me, she was not on the pro-mask side of the debate. For her, it was hypocritical that we should all start suddenly masking to protect people like her child when she’s had to take precautions since long before COVID. Protecting her child was her responsibility and she had no desire to make it ours. I never commented on her post, I had no desire to get into an argument with her, especially since I hated it when people tried to give me their opinions about my decisions with Emma. But her post did make me think. Was I being hypocritical? Was it my responsibility to help protect the most vulnerable among us? And if it is now, during this pandemic, should I be doing more even when it isn’t a pandemic? Basically, should I be taking public health into account for more things than just COVID?

At the same time, there were a decent amount of people pointing out how many flu deaths we have each year and how we never seem too concerned about that. These comments were usually made in order to convince us that we were overreacting about this corona virus thing, but they just got added into the jumble of public health questions I started considering. Even though it should be pretty obvious by now that the coronavirus is more deadly than the flu, I think it is worth asking whether we should be doing more to protect people from the flu. I took precautions to protect Emma. Can I do the same for others, even those I don’t know?

This is the reason why when I was sitting in the doctor’s office for a routine post-op appointment last January and was offered the flu vaccine, I rolled up my sleeve. And this is why, along with my COVID booster today, I also asked for a flu vaccine. Because the answer is yes, I can be doing more to protect my whole community and contribute positively to public health. Vaccines work when we each take a small risk in order to manage the big picture risk for the entire community. So, I intend from now on to keep getting my flu vaccine each year, not because I’m personally worried about catching it, but because I want to help reduce the spread and hopefully the deaths caused by this virus. And this is why I will continue to advocate for wearing a mask in public when you are sick, even after this pandemic is over, because why shouldn’t we do our best to protect others from getting sick, even if it is “just a cold.” And when I struggle to keep the big picture in mind, to remember the risks of my entire community when I make decisions, I will remember Emma. I will remember her last few days on this earth, fighting a virus that she wasn’t equipped to handle, and hope my actions will spare someone else that pain.

This space I am in now is different than the worried anxious space I existed in as a child. We can’t live our lives constantly worried about spreading disease. That’s an unhealthy space to live in, believe me, I know. I’m not advocating for that. I think we take the precautions that we can take, while also recognizing that we cannot control everything. Viruses will still spread. People will still die. I don’t blame whoever “gave” Emma the flu. A virus caused her illness, not a person. But I think we can find a healthy space that exists between fear on one hand and indifference on the other. A space of caution and care and kindness. Perhaps we could call that space love.

Let Advent be Dark

December 12, 2019December 12, 2019 ~ miriamlein ~ 1 Comment

Grief. It’s been nearly 14 years since Emma died, long enough that I have to mentally do the math every time anyone asks me. It doesn’t feel completely true to say I’m still grieving the loss of my daughter, but there are definitely still times of grief. Times of sadness, times of confusion, times of anxiety. A few years ago, I had one therapist talk to me for five minutes and tell me that I still had some grieving to do, which was an idea that I rejected in the moment because I was sure I had reached acceptance. I’m realizing now that she may have known more than I gave her credit for.

In my EMDR session last week, my therapist illustrated grief for me with this diagram:

That little double-ended arrow next to acceptance is the most empowering part of this image for me. Grief is a journey. You can reach acceptance and still have times of slipping back into the cycle of anger, sadness and anxiety. And that’s considered normal. This was freeing for me to know, because my EMDR session was on Emma. And it was rough.

There’s a piece of her story that I have never shared publicly, a part that still holds a lot of questions for me and is linked to some self-blaming and shame. Most of the time that piece is safely tucked away beneath my consciousness, but in times of turmoil, when I slip back into the grief cycle, I sometimes get stuck in the anxiety stage (Anxiety is the stage that has sometimes been labelled bargaining. I find that the word anxiety resonates with me more, and still gets across the idea of our tendency to ask “what if”). I get pulled right back to the part of the story that I’ve never been able to completely accept. It is one small moment of one day where I made a choice, the consequences of which I worry may have negatively affected my daughter’s health. It’s a memory that will never have complete answers for me because there is no way to know exactly how this one event affected things, so to accept this part of the story means to accept the unknown. And instead of accepting it, I continue to ask, “What if? What if I had done something different on that day? Would the story have still ended up the same way?”

In my session on Monday, my therapist uttered the most powerful statement I’ve ever heard in relation to that one piece. She said, “The truth is that even though you’ll never have the answers to that question, there is most likely nothing you could have done that would have saved your daughter’s life.” As soon as she said it, something clicked. By focusing on the one moment where I failed her, I have avoided grieving the deep harsh truth that there is no way I could have saved my daughter’s life. I held no such power. In almost every other moment of her life I gave her everything I possibly could. And it wasn’t enough, and that really sucks.

I find myself now, bumping around in that grief cycle once again. But it’s different now as I try to name and acknowledge the grief of powerlessness. Grief is such a tricky thing. It’s not just sadness, but the need to be sad. It’s not just circumstantial, but comes and goes from your core. Grief means looking at the world around you and seeing how dark it actually is. Grieving Emma’s death yet again isn’t just grieving one event or one life or one loss. It connects to all sorts of other losses, and speaks to me in echoes of a broken world.

When I returned to EMDR this week, I was hesitant to delve into this. Christmas is coming. I want to focus on happy things, gift giving, plans for the break, work that I want to get done before the kids are off school. I thought that this was a bad time for my grief. But my therapist encouraged me to be intentional this week at facing the grief and feeling it. I can’t magically skip ahead to the acceptance stage, I have to be in the dark for awhile. She told me that it won’t be easy, but to face it now, when my body and mind are telling me they are ready, will result in a quicker, smoother process overall. I left the appointment with greater intention to do what needs to be done this week, rather than avoid it. And, as I reflected on this, I realized that the darkness of Advent is the perfect time to process grief. In Advent we get the chance to acknowledge the brokenness of both ourselves and the world around us. This is the time to “sit in the shit,” as my therapist says, so that we remember what hope is for. After all, resilience and health are built by descending into the pit of despair, disappointment, heartbreak and hopelessness and then climbing back out over and over again.

If that doesn’t sound like Advent as you know it, perhaps it is time to reclaim it. Some find their hope in the declaration that Jesus is coming! Christmas, for these people, is a time to reaffirm their faith in the hope of an external Savior who came once to save us and will come yet again. For these people, Advent is basically waiting, waiting for someone else to do something.

I personally think a hope in an external Savior is misplaced. What if true salvation cannot come from outside our world, but only from within? If this is the way we view salvation, then Christmas is a celebration not of the coming of God, but the realization that he was here all along. Emmanuel–God with us! What if every single one of us, no matter who we are, has the potential to be both a giver and receiver of salvation? Our ability to do either of those things will be increased by our willingness to spend time in the darkness of Advent. Because if we are the ones who are called to do something about the brokenness, we need to know it intimately.

I encourage you this Advent to take time to name the brokenness in yourself and in the world around you. Let’s acknowledge the darkness of this world, so that when Christmas comes we will each light the candle that we hold, see once again the saviors that live among us, and work together to build the steps of hope to bring us out of the darkness and into the light.

Individual vs. Collective Hope

October 10, 2017 ~ miriamlein ~ Leave a comment

Last Sunday I sat in Christian formation and felt the familiar rise of emotion. I have been enjoying this class each week as it encourages me to think, and it hasn’t failed yet to rile me up. As we discuss different stories and themes from the Bible, usually the Old Testament, I am struck by how many different ways there are to understand certain things and how rather than floating on a boat of apathy in a peaceful sea of uncertainty (which is where I thought I still was in this process of faith shift), I find I have replaced many of my former beliefs with rather strong ones that are often in opposition to the ones I once held. This group gives me a chance to examine those, and to find ways to share them out loud in hopefully respectfully kind ways, while also learning to listen to competing viewpoints with a critical ear (not just critical to their side, but just as much so to mine). Still working on that.

Most of the time I just listen, it often takes a few hours or days for me to fully process the conversation we had and decide how I feel about it. And this Sunday, the emotion that rose in me was stronger and very different than that which I have been feeling. It was grief. Strong, undeniable grief. The kind that causes your face to flush and your breathing to rise as you fight the urge to burst into tears in front of a group of people you hardly know.

The theme we were discussing was the Exodus. What this central story from the Old Testament meant to the Israelites and what it can mean for us. Hope. Hope was the word that was coming out of the story. Hope that no matter how low we drop, how horrible the circumstances that surround us, we will come back up again. We will be delivered.

I listened as one person after another shared what that meant to them personally. And because one person specifically brought up something that had happened to his daughter when she was just an infant, and was sharing how he coped with and still copes with the permanent effects this had on her, my gut wrenched with pain. This conversation had suddenly veered too close to home. The words he shared were very similar to words that I have shared in the process of grieving the loss of my 7 month old daughter. They were words of searching, searching for purpose in the tragedy, for hope for himself in the midst of his daughter’s pain.

But, oddly I found myself resonating much more with another man who shared something that was rather different in focus. Instead of looking for purpose in his own story, he instead focuses on presence. God was there and is there in the midst of it. And for him, that was enough. Someone else tried to explain the purpose of pain in the world, or the reason for it, but the explanation was not enough for me. I’ve heard it before and it no longer made the sense I used to think it did. And then another woman shared a hope that went beyond herself and to her family, the hope she held that they would survive and thrive even if she were to die from the cancer that she had just been diagnosed with.

There was so much emotion writhing in my gut. I spoke once, and it was only to share the less than cheery fact that in the story of the Exodus, the people that were brought out of Egypt, were not the same people that entered the land of Canaan. A whole generation died in the wilderness, waiting for the promise they were given. The hope of the Jews is not an individual hope. It is a collective one. WE will be saved. WE will rise again. WE will gain our promised land.

Why was it that that one part of the story is the only one I felt compelled to comment on? Why did some of the hope that was shared in that circle Sunday morning sound so hollow to me, while other versions of it resonated? Why did the whole conversation leave me feeling so unsettled? It was as if there was nothing answered for me, but rather a stirring of the waters that left everything murky and dark and confusing.

As I talked it over with John Sunday evening, while the echo of the emotion still sounded in my shaky voice and the tears I hadn’t cried that morning wet my eyes with just a touch of sadness, I realized that I felt unsettled because there were no simple easy answers to the questions that pain and suffering stir up. The world does not appear to work in a purposefully ordered way. God does not appear to work in a purposefully ordered way. The only thing I could cling to was that an individual hope was not enough. Because too often an individual hope is proved false. What happens when 58 people’s lives are cut short by a senseless shooting in Las Vegas? Where is the hope for those people? What happens when someone continues to live in despair and pain even after crying out continually to God to save them? What does hope mean to them? What happens when a 7 month old baby girl dies for the inexplicable reason that her body was just not born as perfect as it should have been?

An individual hope focuses on ourselves. It looks for what happens to me. How can I find hope in the midst of the senseless violence? How can I go on after the death of my daughter? How many blessings do I have that others don’t? These aren’t entirely negative questions. It is normal for us to find the personal relevance within the questions. It is normal to look for purpose in the pain. I believe that we have to do that to a certain extent in order to survive.

But I also believe we are missing something much greater when we focus solely on an individual hope. In our US culture, an individualistic point of view is common and expected. Our faith has to do with the individual. Our salvation has to do with the individual. Our hope has to do with the individual. The majority of Christian faith that I have seen in the US tends to be rather hopeless rather than hopeful. We have given up on a world that does not appear to be getting any better and began to focus on a hope that only truly exists in the afterlife. Even there that hope is limited, limited only to those who somehow individually find their way to God. This is not the way that everyone has or does live. The Israelites hope was collective. I am not as well studied in this as my husband, but I believe that their identity as a nation was much more important than their individual identity. Why else would a story in which nearly everyone dies, still be a story of hope? Where a remnant remains, there is still hope. Hope that the nation, the community will survive.

This is a hope that is so much bigger than the individual. This is a hope that goes beyond one person. This is a hope that can look at senseless suffering and say, “Things look bleak. But I hope for a day when people live in a world where violence does not take lives. I hope for a world where all people are cared for. I hope for a world where peace is the rule of the day. I believe in the kingdom of God. I believe that it can and will exist.”

I find greater peace in this absolutely almost foolish hope than I do in the attempts to find purpose in the suffering. This hope for me goes beyond death, because I can hope that even if it doesn’t happen in my lifetime, it can still happen in someone’s. And the weird crazy thing about this type of collective hope is that when enough of us believe it can be true, then it actually begins to hold the possibly that it will be.

My reflections on Lent.

February 24, 2015October 16, 2015 ~ miriamlein ~ Leave a comment

Having been raised in a tradition that doesn’t routinely commemorate the season of Lent, I have found myself a little confused on what this season really means. I had heard of Lent, usually in the context of friends giving up a food item, or facebook, or something else for Lent. This was my only frame of reference to go off of.

Last year we began some Anglican traditions during the period of Lent. We didn’t start attending an Anglican church though until right around Easter, so I still didn’t have a clear explanation of what Lent was. So, the only thing I added to my previous small understanding was that certain words, like Hallelujah, were not said in worship during Lent.

This year, I have found myself full of curiosity on what this season is truly about. We are now part of an Episcopal church and I’ve enjoyed following along with the church calendar, learning more about these exciting traditions. But for some reason, the meaning of Lent, seemed illusive to me.

I’ve tried to take in the descriptions, invitations, liturgy and everything else in the church services and discussions, and every time I think I have it figured out, a new element is added. There are layers here, layers that go so much deeper than I am used to going in church worship. They are layers that are not bright and light and cheerful, but rather dark, deep, and somber. At first I thought that meant that it was sad, but it isn’t sad. Our deepest hope and our greatest joy are found in the dark. That is a truth I already knew, having experienced it as we walked through the valley of the shadow of death with Emma.

So, let me attempt to write what I have learned so far. This is by no means an in depth explanation of the season of Lent, but rather just glimpses into a season that I have never looked at closely before. I’m still figuring out how it all fits together and I’m not even sure I have it all right, but that seems to be the best part of living our life in the path of the church calendar, we learn by doing, and we learn more by doing it again the next year, and the next, and so on, and so on.

Lent is a recognition of the truth that we are human beings and that one day we shall die. Last Wednesday, I attended my very first Ash Wednesday service. I knelt at the altar rail as the priest put ashes on my forehead in the shape of a cross and said the words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It sounds morbid, but it isn’t. As we recognize the truth that we cannot save ourselves from our eventual death, we begin to look for the hope of something beyond the physical. Our soul longs for the life eternal, the spiritual truths that go beyond our physical bodies. As our rector says, “We are not God.” And when we recognize that we are not God, then we are ready to look to the One who is God.

Lent is a time of repentance. Repentance literally means “changing our minds.” I get really confused about repentance. I don’t think I’m very good at it. Oh, I’m really good at confession: saying I’m sorry. I’m also really good about intending to do better in the future. But that actual real changing of my mind so that practical change ensues is harder. I haven’t really learned how to DO this. But I know this is part of what Lent is for, recognizing where we have gone wrong, and deciding to return to the way of life.

Lent is a time of spiritual discipline. Many people practice the discipline of fasting or giving up some of our luxuries during this time. When done with the right intent, I think this is a good way to focus our attentions on what truly matters in life. As Jesus said when he was tempted in the wilderness, “Man does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.” (Matthew 4:4) Our rector encouraged us not to think so much about what to give up for Lent, but rather to ponder on what areas of our life God would have us work on. Once we discover that, then we can decide if giving something up or adding something in will help us accomplish that growth.

Lent is a communal season. Together we feast on Shrove Tuesday. Together we kneel on Ash Wednesday. Together we worship on each feast day (Sunday). Together we pray. Let’s not approach Lent alone, but rather draw close to those around us. We are all on this journey together. We all share the same sorrows, face the same temptations, and search for the same joy.

Lent is a season of hope. Through all the prayers of repentance, the words of mortality, and the songs of fasting, there is an overwhelming sense of hope. We don’t ask for forgiveness not knowing whether or not we will be forgiven. We don’t sacrifice our luxuries in order to appease an angry God. We don’t focus on our mortality with no hope of a life after death. Even as we recognize our need for a Savior, we turn and worship that very Savior. Christ has come, he has risen, he is triumphant. We begin the season of Lent already knowing that what comes after is the celebration of Easter. Even the ashes that touch our foreheads come from the palm leaves of the previous Palm Sunday. Everything we do is always tied to that hope that Jesus has given us.

I think there is more, but this is a good start. As I’ve pondered these things, I found that the beginning of Lent overlaps with Emma’s heaven birthday. This has been incredibly appropriate as I’ve learned more of what Lent is supposed to be. Emma’s death stands as a stark reminder of our mortality and our inability to evade death, either for ourselves or for our loved ones. Even though I wasn’t fasting for 40 days, I have been fasting from my computer and TV every February 21st since Emma died. And I’ve seen firsthand how sometimes God can use this time to speak truth into my life. This year, on February 23rd (the day after Emma’s heaven birthday) a dear friend had to say good-bye to their daughter, just as I did to Emma. Knowing that they were facing this pain for several days before it happened has reminded me what a blessing it is to be able to share this pain with others. Because I have known the pain of loss, I can face theirs with them with confidence. I can’t really lessen their pain, but hopefully I can walk beside them as they walk the path of grief. And there is HOPE. Emma’s death has been possibly the greatest encouragement in my life to hold on to hope. Without hope, it is meaningless, but with hope, it is full of meaning.

Emma's 8th Heaven Birthday

February 24, 2014 ~ miriamlein ~ 2 Comments

At the beginning of this month, I was not sure how smoothly the month would end. I was feeling homesick, wishing for Emma’s photo album which got left in the States, and wishing I could visit her gravesite.
Last week I had the opportunity to share a testimony at the German/English bilingual Bible Study I attend, and this gave me a chance to process some of these emotions. Even though my testimony ended up being less about Emma, and more about depression and anxiety, I found that working on it was very therapeutic. And this month was full of other blessings which showed me how much God loves me and is so willing to provide for each of my needs, even emotional ones. There are always those who remember Emma’s birthdays and that means a lot to me. What surprised me about this month were how many people here are already willing to connect with me over those memories. I received notes, flowers, and visits from these ladies, and am filled to overflowing with gratefulness. I even have a kindred spirit here, someone whose daughter, also born in 2005, awaits them in heaven just like Emma. What a blessing that God put us together to hold each other up and support each other through our memories.
Below is the testimony I shared at the CBSI Bible Study if you are curious:

My husband and I attended a parenting seminar recently. One topic covered the importance of teaching our children a theology of suffering. As we have seen in our study of Acts, suffering is a normal part of the true Christian life. But we have a promise of comfort and of joy in the midst of our trials. Paul understood this well. In 2 Corinthians he wrote: “Praise be to the God…who comforts us in all our troubles” He continues to share why we are not overwhelmed by trials: “do not lose heart…For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” Our troubles are small when compared with the eternal life that God has given us. Even physical death can be seen as something small to the Christian, because it is just like changing our clothes. We leave behind our earthly body and are clothed in our heavenly one.

I am thankful that my parents taught this theology of suffering to me. There are several things that happened in the lives of my grandparents and parents that could be considered tragic. I grew up hearing all these stories, but they were never told to me as sad stories, but rather as stories of victory. Suffering is a part of life, but because of God, we have victory over it. He protected and provided through all these things, and on top of that he gave us joy.

When I was a little girl the two things I wanted to be were a wife and mother. I got married at age 20 and had my first daughter 3 years later. John used to tease me that at the age of 23 I had achieved my life goals. My life was just how I wanted it to be, and things should have been perfect. But they weren’t. I cried all the time. I was filled with worry. I had a hard time motivating myself to get off the couch. I was dealing with postpartum depression. I ended up on anti-depressants for a couple months. Depression and anxiety plagued me with the following 3 deliveries and off an on between babies as well. Even though I pled with God not to take me through those dark days, he still did. But each time I found him there in the darkness. When I felt like I was spinning out of control, like I couldn’t hold on any longer, it was as if he said to me: “Go ahead and let go. I’ve got you.” I always started anti-depressants fairly quickly after delivery, so things were not bad for long, but the days I spent directly after birth were the hardest thing I ever have had to deal with. And yet, I am still thankful for them, because of what I have learned about God, about myself, and about others.

When Elise was 2 1/2 years old, her sister was born. Whereas Elise had been large and healthy and had developed at an exceptional rate, Emma Anne was small and weak and delayed in her development. She was born on July 14, 2005 and 7 months later on Feb 22, 2006 she was born into heaven. Emma had several heart abnormalities, some brain damage, unique physical issues, and breathing and eating difficulty. Her life was spent in and out of the hospital as the doctors tried to determine the underlying factors and how to treat her. I remember clearly the day I realized that I was the mother to a handicapped child. I fled the hospital room that Emma and I were staying in and found a bench in the hospital garden and sat and cried. I was sorry for Emma and I was sorry for myself. I realized this meant I was committed to caring for her needs through all her childhood and most likely into her adulthood as well. I cried for Emma, what she might not get to experience, and I cried for me, for what I might have to sacrifice in order to care for her. And then I dried my tears. I returned to our little hospital room and I never again spent time feeling sorry for myself or Emma. I found real joy in caring for Emma, and God protected my relationships with John and Elise even though I didn’t get to see them that often. Having a child with extreme physical difficulties can destroy a marriage, but I think it strengthened ours.

And of course losing a child is something that many marriages do not survive, but when Emma died we experienced firsthand the amazing protection of God. Not only did he provide for our financial needs during that time, which were great because of the hospital bills, but he also cared for us emotionally. Instead of falling into a dark depression, which I felt was a real possibility, I felt held up and supported by God, by family and by the church. I grieved, but I was able to grieve openly, to share with others the joy and comfort that God gave me during Emma’s life, after her death, and still does in my memories of her today.

Several years after Emma’s death John and I thought our family was complete. God had blessed us with two little boys, Will and Seth, and we were beginning to explore opportunities in missions. We officially joined TeachBeyond in December of 2011, and in January of 2012 we started support raising. By the fall of that year we felt very stressed with continued support raising and no real idea of when we’d be able to leave for Germany. And then we found out that I was pregnant again. During the first few weeks of that pregnancy I began struggling with fairly extreme anxiety. After a very serious panic attack, with side effects that lasted for almost a day afterwards, John and I realized I needed to get help. I was dealing with what is termed antepartum depression and anxiety. It is just like postpartum, it just happens before the baby is born. Anti-depressants were not a good option for me at that point because of the risks for the baby, so I started once a week counseling and taking natural supplements. Thankfully things improved, especially once I got past the first trimester. But I was worried about how hard it would be to transition to a new culture and country with my emotional instability, and I was worried about dealing with postpartum depression away from my friends and family. God’s gift to me this year has been to provide a new support system, and to grant me an incredibly smooth transition to life in Germany and an almost entirely anxiety-free postpartum period. It means a lot to me that not only did God prove that he had the power to overcome, just as I always believed he had, but that he loves me so much that he chose to overcome. And of course, there’s Dietrich, my special German blessing.

Emma's 7th Heaven Birthday

February 24, 2013 ~ miriamlein ~ Leave a comment

It’s hard to believe that it has been 7 years since we said good-bye to our precious Emma Anne. Her birthdays still have the power to bring up emotions in me, but I’m not afraid to live through them. This year I actually had the wrong date in my head, so we celebrated a day later, but it was still a good day.

As usual, I took a day off from the computer to mark this special anniversary. I wish I could say I spent a lot of time in prayer and reflection, but as often happens we ended up having several interruptions to the day. But they were all good interruptions, things that showed me God’s care and love. I’ve been feeling quite isolated the last two weeks as we’ve fought the flu. I’m limited to what I can get out and do even though I am better, because the boys are still sick. But on Friday I was able to get out to see my counselor for the first time here in Germany and to visit with another new friend as well. It was helpful to me to be able to share a few details of Emma’s life and her place in our family.

We obviously weren’t able to go to the cemetery as usual. But we went the day before we left the states and were able to get our usual pictures. On Saturday, Elise and I walked down to a cafe in town and bought some slices of fancy cheesecake and other cakes to celebrate Emma’s heaven birthday. We had a nice relaxing family day.

Power, love, and self-control.

June 15, 2012 ~ miriamlein ~ 2 Comments

This partnership development phase of our journey towards ministry has been full of lots of ups and downs. Some days we are encouraged and excited, other days we are depressed and worried. This post was written several weeks ago and I am just now getting it put up on here. So keep in mind that this is a good illustration of part of our process, but we are actually quite a bit past the events written about here. Also, thank you to Gary Yandell for the beautiful picture used here.

“It’s a good thing these sermons don’t have anything to do with what’s going on in our lives,” John said with irony as we loaded the kids into the van after church. I smiled, and asked him to elaborate. We had just heard a sermon on the message of peace that Jesus offers, if we but submit to him. John and I had both been lacking peace during part of our week.

For John it was feeling overwhelmed with what he wanted to accomplish in comparison to the very little time he had to accomplish it. It meant giving up some the control over our support raising plans and turning them over to God. He had started to realize this even before we headed to church Sunday morning, but it was nice to have that realization of the absolute necessity for daily submission to Christ reaffirmed.

For me, I had been dealing with fear and worry that week. Fear that something terrible would happen to my children, that God would take one of them from me. I don’t usually deal with that fear, but over the last two weeks I had felt God prodding my heart. “You need to put your husband and your children in my hands.” He’s told me this before, and I did it before. Before Emma. . . Whenever he’s asked that of me after Emma, I have balked. “But God,” I want to say, “Look what happened last time. You held Emma in your hands, and you took her from me.” The question I feel he continues to ask me is: “Do you trust me?” It’s not that I believe my children aren’t safe in God’s hands. It’s not that I believe that God doesn’t know what is best for them or that he can’t give them more than I can. In fact, I know they are already in his hands, and my saying so doesn’t change that fact. But I still feel that God wants an attitude of submission in me, an acceptance of his trustworthiness.

I’ve also been dealing with some worry lately. Worry that when I go over to Germany, away from my support system and surrounded by the unknown, that I will deal with depression again. I don’t want to return to that place of struggle, and yet I know that I have no guarantee that I won’t. I know that worry isn’t helping anything, and so I am trying to be prepared, while at the same time releasing the worry and accepting God’s peace. I know that whatever he asks of me, even if it does involve suffering, I will endure through him.

The verse that God brought to mind this week as I processed these emotions and thoughts was 2 Timothy 1:7: “For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and love and of self-control.” Fear does not come from God. Instead, he makes these other three qualities available to us. Power, his power, allows us to endure suffering. Love motivates us to make the right choices for ourselves and for others. Self-control (or as the KJV translates it – a sound mind), is the very opposite of emotional instability, and leads to rational choices.

I do believe I was able to get somewhere as I poured my heart out to God and pondered this verse. I know I have many more chances to submit ahead, and much more to learn. But my experience thus far has taught me that with each submission comes greater freedom and joy.

“So do not be ashamed to testify about our Lord, or ashamed of me his prisoner. But join with me in suffering for the gospel, by the power of God, who has saved us and called us to a holy life–not because of anything we have done but because of his own purpose and grace.” 2 Timothy 1:8-9a

6 years.

February 23, 2012 ~ miriamlein ~ 4 Comments

What would it be like to have you here with us? To hear your laughing voice as you egg Will and Elise on in their races. To see your wavy brown hair dance in the wind. To hear you read to Seth and do a puzzle with Will. To see you snuggle up with Elise as she shared her favorite story with you. To feel you close as you kissed my cheek. To hear you hurry to greet your Daddy as he walked in the door.

I can only imagine what it would be like to add you to our crazy life. What your place would be. What you would look like, what you would say. I don’t think about it often, and when I do, it hurts. Because the reality is that you never even got to see a Spring.

Although, how can I compare Spring on earth with the perfect season of heaven. I know, that no matter what you missed here on earth, you have more than I can ever imagine in heaven. I know that no matter how many days we live without you here, there will be more than I can number with you later.

I love you Emma.

Moving . . . again . . .

January 26, 2012 ~ miriamlein ~ 2 Comments

This weekend we are moving again. We love it out here where we’ve been living for the last 6 months, but really need to be done with the long drive as we try to meet with people several times a week for support-raising.

I really wasn’t excited about this move when we first started talking about it. I liked the idea of being back in town, having access to biking and walking trails, and being a short walk or drive away from most of my friends and family. But it meant giving up the chickens, the goats, and the cats a lot sooner than I had expected to. It means saying good-bye to two cute little goats who’ve squirmed their way into my heart. It means saying good-bye to a cat who has been my companion since before I had kids. And it means giving up some of my dreams (at least for now), good-bye to fresh goat milk and farm eggs.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m a sentimental person. I cling to things that bring me memories and good feelings. God has worked with me on that in the past, and I am realizing that this move, and more importantly the bigger one coming up, will hurt a lot if I don’t hold these things loosely. Because if he has to tear them from me, it is going to mean wounds that will have to heal. But if I hold them loosely, give them up willingly, I know I will begin to feel free.

I’ve purged a lot of things this last week. There were things I’ve gotten rid of that I had refused to let go of in the past. But when I was faced with storing these things for years to come vs shipping them in expensive packages over the ocean, it has made me think more carefully about what I am keeping and why I am keeping it. Really, some of these things are pretty silly. I think it’s funny the things Elise will hold on to, because I know they will be meaningless to her in 2 or 3 years. But at the same time I do the exact same thing. There was a large Chemistry and Physics resource book that has been on my shelf since my freshman year at JBU. It was awarded to me for “outstanding scholastic achievement in Freshman Chemistry.” This book was huge, and John has given me a hard time about it every time we’ve moved it. “Have you ever even opened it?” he’d ask. “Yes. Once, I think.” This last time it ended up in our new house and John didn’t even mention it. I was sorting through books, trying to fit everything we’d had on a bookshelf and a half onto one bookshelf because I didn’t really want to squeeze another bookshelf into our new home. I picked up the book and I took a good long look at it. I opened it to the first page and read through the certificate pasted onto it, and smiled. I am still proud of that achievement. I called Elise over and read it to her. “Pretty cool, huh?” I asked. I’m not sure she was that impressed, but she knew I was proud of it. “Why am I keeping this book?” I wondered to myself. When I was truly honest with myself I had to admit it was just because of pride. It looked impressive on my shelf, it reminded me of how I had stood out in my class, and it made me feel good because of man’s praise. But that isn’t what I’m supposed to be living for. It really isn’t that important that I got good grades in college. Especially if I was doing it to win favor from man and not from God. And so I closed the book, took one last look at it and placed it in the box of give-aways. It’s gone now, sitting on a shelf somewhere at the thrift store, or perhaps more likely, sitting in a trash can outside because really, who wants to buy a huge chemistry/physics resource book?

I even got rid of some of the things I’d tucked away in Emma’s box of things. As we were sorting through the box, and I was taking out piles of medical reports, letters, and other papers I had kept, Elise asked me why I had kept it all. “Well, I didn’t really want to get rid of anything that was connected to Emma back then,” I said. “But now, some of these things don’t seem as important anymore.” I think that is how it is with a lot of things. Now if I could just fast forward to the part where it doesn’t mean that much anymore, so I could get rid of everything that I need to now. 🙂

Flowers for Emma.

July 18, 2011 ~ miriamlein ~ 1 Comment

July 14. This date usually looms in my head for at least a week if not more before it hits. But not this year. For some reason, perhaps the hectic activity surrounding our move and the arrival of our goats, the date snuck up on us. My good friend Laura wrote on my facebook wall that she was thinking of me today as I remembered Emma’s birthday and I suddenly realized what day it was. Funny that someone else thought of it before me this year. Is that good or bad? I’m not sure, but regardless I was glad someone brought it to mind, because if for some odd reason I had gone through the whole day without realizing that it was Emma’s birthday I would have been terribly disappointed once I realized it on the next day. Laura wasn’t the only one who remembered, another good friend Melinda texted me her encouragement and many others commented on my facebook post in remembrance of Emma.

With remembrance of course came emotions. Not bad ones, just strong ones. Longing, I guess it could be called. With the kids gathered around me, I shared with them the reminder that today was Emma’s birthday. Will piped up immediately. “Are we going to the grave?” Hmm, yes, I guess we could do that I thought. Funny that without trying too hard we have developed a tradition, one that even Will knows. I’m so happy that they want to go to commemorate Emma’s special days, and that they believe we should all be there. And I’m thankful that John agrees as well. So I sorted out the logistics and we had a plan.

During Elise’s gymnastics class, I took the boys with me grocery shopping. We picked out some bright purple and green flowers that seemed to fit the emotions I was feeling. We took them home and put them in water waiting for the evening when Daddy could go with us to the cemetery. Our visit was quick as we were running a bit later than I had anticipated. And we were on our way to a swim party, so the kids were all dressed in swim suits for our usual picture, but it doesn’t matter. Because now I can remember what we did that day every time I look at the picture, and it seems fitting that in some small way Emma was included in a family celebration.