deck Church

 It's a postcard perfect night on the Church deck.

The boys of my home are all asleep for various reasons, so I rest in the quiet whir of the Heights.  String lights begin to glow as the sunlight reaches in its farthest wavelengths of reds and purples. Soft waves crest with the faintest hint of breeze. Birds and bats transition between their homes and the sky.

My Love built this deck in his grief. Tear stains, and dog pee stains, blend in with the actual wood stain. This deck has hosted celebrations and rituals, reunions and goodbyes. The deck became my favorite part of our home because our deck became the Church. 

It's just wood. Well, it's a lot of wood. But, that's as ordinary and holy as a Church needs to be. The Church exists among God's people, and that's how the deck became Church. Throughout every changing rule of COVID, the deck is a space for relationship. Even for my own family, the deck is sacred space.

Yesterday I built a pillow fort on the deck with my Little Love. We made a house with many rooms and my heart dreamed of Heaven. Snuggling my son in a little room, I see the reality of Heaven on Earth. The world is broken. You can see it from the deck. Yet, the Church is hopeful! There's an air of hope on the deck that you have to experience to understand. That's the purpose of Church: experiences to understand Jesus.

We share Communion with our friends every Sunday on this second-hand table I'm typing from tonight. The sunset turns to twilight. The string lights glow brighter in comparison. You can see the lights from the freeway, or even across the Inlet, if you know where to look. It's an image of the community made possible in Church.

"For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. We know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be destroyed, and we might no longer be enslaved to sin. For whoever has died is freed from sin. But we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him. We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him. The death he died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God. So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus." -Romans 6:5-11 NRSV

Death isn't a stranger on the deck, but LIFE in Christ is a resident!

owning my scars

A cluster of dogwood flowers are now engraved inside my left arm, a reminder of the babies who entered our lives for the shortest season. I warned the tattoo artist that I could start weeping at any point during the appointment. Instead, I winced and gritted my teeth. My tears never welled up, because the pain was only physical. The specifics of each loss already blur together in my mind, just like the flowers compete for space and complement one another.

I am still in the thick of grief.

This new tribute to my never-mets is a reminder of God's faithfulness. Each loss was painful, dark and scary. Each life, beautiful. My hope for myself and my never-born children is the same: a resurrected Savior. The Christian symbol of rebirth seemed fitting to honor the hardest experience I've yet endured.

And scars, ultimately, save me.

"Jesus himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed." 1 Peter 2:24 NIV

Dar la luz

 So many summers ago, I learned the beautiful Dominican phrase for birth "Dar la luz." To bring into the Light. It's a picture that fills in the gaps of my theology of life and birth and loss. A reconciliation of sorts for the acknowledgment of life never truly exposed, corrupted or enlightened.

I long for the unfulfilled reality of any of my five last pregnancies to manifest in a person I can snuggle, mother and learn alongside. Yet, here I find myself in the Light without any of their lives beside me. Not alone, of course.

This phrase burrows deep into my soul. Dar la luz. The hope of Life and Light together. Of birth and breath, of sight and knowledge. Job longed to be a stillborn child, calling woe onto the day of his entry to the living. He could not unsee his suffering. He could not escape the burden of lost children. I'm not there. I still love the Light.