It's his birthday again.

And as I reflect on this day three years ago, and the many days since, I can't help but be reminded that if I'd carried Elijah to term, if he'd been born healthy, I'd never have Talya, and I may not have Charlie either. It doesn't make July 12 2007 suck any less, but it does remind me:

God's plans are almost always filled with moments of heartache, suffering, and tearful surrender but carry the promise of an eternity of delight.


My life is filled with His gracious gifts, but they are only a taste of what is waiting for me on the other side.

Rwandans in my Home, Rwanda in my Heart

Some friends of ours hosted a basketball coaches' clinic this weekend that about 20 international coaches attended. Last night, we had the whole group over for dinner. (Ben once again proved his amazing-ness by planning and ordering the food. I cut up some fruit and vacuumed.)

Anytime we're around people from another country, I am truly blessed. It's like you can just feel the richness, perspective, and depth that comes from Somewhere Else.

What made last night special, though, was that four of the coaches were from Rwanda - the homeland of the son we're waiting for. It's a teeny-tiny country, so I was shocked that basketball is big enough there to produce a fifth of our guests.

I wanted to corner them, make them sit and tell me their stories while I wept. I wanted to ask a thousand questions - Where were you 15 years ago during the genocide? Who did you lose? What do you remember? After all of that, what do you believe in?

But instead, I just stared, dumbstruck that this huge world is so small. I watched Talya steal food off their plates. I felt the words freeze somewhere in my chest as I muttered things like, "Thank you for coming" and "Your country is already in my heart."

Four men who are my son's People.

When I was pregnant, Ben and I used to wonder in the night who our baby would like. We knew they'd look like him, but we wondered what parts of me would be strong enough to stand up to his strong, dark genes. The first time I saw my babies - even Elijah, whose features looked as though they'd just been created a minute ago - it was an immediate game of, "Oh look, he has your dad's nose," and "I think those eyes are from my side."

But with this next one, there is no mental image to reference; no genetic data to catalogue in my dreams. His eyes will come from someone else, as will his lips. His appearance is a complete mystery to me...

...Then these four men walk into my house and eat at my table. Each of them looks so different from the other, but they all bleed Rwandan blood - the blood my son bleeds. One is very tall, others are shorter. They have no relation to my boy, but I still stare - in their faces I see the appearance of men my boy could become.

And they are so beautiful.

I hug them all tight. We tell them of our son and make plans to meet up in Kigali. They see our Rwandan flag on the dinner table, and tell us they finally feel at home.

My eyes well, my heart warms, and I wait.

July 12

July 12 is the day I learned that giving birth and giving life are two different things. Only God can give life - and I am glad that my second baby lived in my womb long enough for me to feel him squirm. It comforts me that he possessed life before the day of his birth - because that was such a sad day.

I gave birth to Elijah in a lot of pain, and in a lot of confusion as I lay in a bed in a foreign country. I never saw him breathe the outside air, but I felt him move inside me.

Maybe it's a bit gratuitous to continue to mark his birthday, but in many ways I feel I owe that to him. I am the only one that felt those butterfly baby kicks, those assurances of life - and of the image and promise of God.

This morning my Dad sent me a poem he wrote in his remembrance of Elijah's birth. I'm treasuring the entirety of it, but here's an excerpt that I'd like to share with you, as he imagines meeting his grandson someday, on the other side:

I’ll tell him how much I missed him and how much I looked forward to him
Letting me play with him in the basement, playing games I’d let him win.
I’ll ask him to show me ‘round Heaven, maybe show me his favorite toy
And all the while be hoping he’ll take me to Jesus, his greatest joy.

Baby, we didn't have to know you to know we loved you.

If you're new here, and have never "met" by 2nd son, here is the collection of posts about him. And to the rest of you, who lost babies before you could gaze into their eyes, I know. I'm sorry. I'm remembering them too.

As "Luck" would have it ... Enjoying Talya, Remembering Elijah

No, I don't believe in luck. I believe in an Almighty, Engaged, Involved God who created me, adopted me as a daughter, and in His Sovereignty also created and placed in my womb three precious babies. I believe He loves them, fights for their hearts as He does mine, and in His love called one of my babies home. But, oh the irony of "luck."

On Friday the 13th, Talya was born. I - and others - have laughed about how there was no bad luck for us on that day. Indeed. But, I've also been aware that my happy, not un-lucky day was a sad day for others - those who lost babies, sat with their children as they received painful treatments, or whose worst fears were confirmed in a hospital room that could have been down the hall from mine.

And just today, as I looked back over my calendar, I realized that my last Friday the 13th was the day we buried Elijah in a cemetery in India...

These two days will always hold precious places in my heart. Probably every Friday the 13th that passes will be a reminder to me of how I've been blessed by both gift and loss - not by "Luck" but by God, and that

"weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning." (Psalm 30:5)

and that

"it is good to...proclaim your love in the morning and your faithfulness at night." (Psalm 92:2)

Or mourning? Hmmm...

Elijah on my mind....

Bear with me. Elijah's "birthday" is tomorrow, the 12th. So, this week makes me think of him. Because today is the anniversary of the day I found out without warning that he was gone. And Sunday is the anniversary of his funeral. And, it is sad to me that I don't actually know the day he was welcomed Home.

I'm his mother, so one of the things I mourn is that there were not accomplishments and milestones for me to celebrate with him - make him a cake, give him "the red plate," cheer for his victories. I've often heard it said that a parent should never have to grieve the loss of the child. And I think that's true. Because we're supposed to get to heaven first - if for nothing else so we can be there cheering, beaming with pride when our babies get their finest crown.

It makes me smile when I think of his crown - how he never got a chance to earn one. And how I know that that won't stop his lavish God from giving him one. I thank Jesus for earning it for my son, who never got a chance to grace this earth with his own contributions.

And I thank Jesus for earning one for me too.

Since you asked....

A growing belly invites the standard questions:
When are you due?(June)
Boy or Girl? (Girl)
Have you picked a name? (Talya Katherine)
Is this your first or second? (?????)

And that's where I freeze. It's a question that I've stumbled around since first breaking the news about that joyous pink line. And now that I'm getting much more obviously pregnant, I'm running into the question more and more, and I have to admit it's not getting easier. (Maybe you've been through this - does it get easier?)

This is what I say: "I have a two-year-old son."

This is what I want to say:

This was my third positive pregnancy test. The third time I've felt life move within my own body. The third time I've thrown up for no apparent reason. The third time I've gone months without a Diet Coke. The third time I've prayed about a name. This will be the third child that will come out of my body only with pain and pushing. The third time I've waited expectantly for "It's a ______!" But this will be my second season of sleepless nights and nursing even though I hate it only because it's good for this little creature I love. This will my second time spending way too much money at Babies R Us and my second time setting up a crib. This will be the second time I get to comfort a little one with a song because she won't know I have a terrible voice.

This is my third, but the second I'll get to rock in my arms, nurse at my breast, and lay down to sleep in my very own house.

So, maybe you've been through this - answering this question that seems weird only to you. I still get tongue-tied as I think of the right way to answer. I don't want the asker to feel uncomfortable or like they've stepped on a touchy subject. I just don't want to give a socially acceptable answer that cheats my sweet second baby out of the truth of his life, even though it was way too short.

Just my thoughts for the day. Now it's time to get my sweet first baby up from his nap.

This Week

This week I waited for -
for what seemed like forever, tired and sick, and avoiding caffeine.
I saw you on the screen and dreamed of the day I'd see your face and give you a name.
Well, this week's finally come, but it didn't bring you,
like it promised it would so long ago.

This week I should be bleeding,
and hurting, and aching with joy
as I watch you sleep in the room that I made just for you
with your name on the wall.

This week your big brother should be so sick of hearing,
"Quiet the baby's sleeping," and
"Gentle ... Careful ... Watch his head."

This week I should be nursing, and rocking, and ssshhhing,
and crying with panic,
wondering how I'll manage with two.

This week I should be praying for your future
- your dreams and your wife -
instead of trying to make sense of what heaven is like
for one who never knew earth.

But, this week you're dancing, and singing with praise,
instead of clenching your eyes against a world
that'll never make sense -
where I can't teach you love without you knowing much pain.

Maybe this week your Father
(the One that we share, who welcomed you home)
can sing you the songs that I would have sung
and say, "That's my boy,"
like your dad would have done.

This week,
as I hold a new babe in my womb,
your bother in my arms,
and you in my heart,
I marvel at the fullness I'd never have had,
if I hadn't lost someone so perfect,
so precious as you.

Loving "Life"

I'm pregnant.

It's the second time in 6 months I've made that announcement, as we lost Baby Elijah about half-way through that pregnancy. So, obviously, I am so nervous. Will I get to be excited for a whole 9 months, or will I soon be crying in a doctor's office? And maybe I shouldn't tell people, and should I have waited to tell Simon, and is it okay to ride in a rickshaw, and will people think we were too eager to "replace" Elijah, and should I even buy maternity clothes this time?

So here are my answers: I don't know. I don't know. Why not? No. Yes. Probably not. Only if I look good in them.

I don't know if I will get to meet Baby, or if I'll get to bring him home, or if I'll have to break bad news on the heels of good.

But I know God's given me a Life to cherish, and I will - I am for as long as I have him (or her! or them!) with me.

Thanks for celebrating with me!

Elijah Sthothram Thomas

For over four months, we expectantly waited to meet our baby, and Simon loved talking to my belly, and kissing the baby. So, it was with great sadness that we learned at a routine check-up that our sweet baby had been taken to heaven. I was admitted to the hospital to deliver him, and we named him Elijah because he was taken to heaven in a whirlwind. His middle name, Sthothram, is Malayalm for "Praise the Lord," and throughout the pregnancy, when we would ask Sy what we should call the baby, he would always respond with "Praise the Lord!"

How sweet it is to be reminded by our first son to praise the Lord for the life of our second son, even through our grief. If you ask Simon, he will tell you that Baby Elijah is in heaven with "Je-Je," and we look forward to learning together with him more about our eternal home.

There are so many emotions right now, and lessons and truths that we cling to each day. One of the most humbling thoughts, though, is that the son we were supposed to teach about Jesus now knows more about him than we could ever hope to this side of heaven.

We are so thankful for your support and prayers during this time. We know we are not the first to exerience this very tragedy, and we are thankful for everyone that has chosen small ways to share the grief with us. Thank you for the calls, emails, tears, and prayers - we do find comfort in all of them, even from this side of the world.