Mary Anne Morgan Blog

365 Project Day 338: I See Her Dancing

Posted on 07. Dec, 2011 by maryanne.

Canon 5D Mark ll,70-200 2.8L, 150mm focal length, 2.8 aperture, 1/60 shutter, 1250 ISO

(*Caveat~ the photos in this post are of Salena and Sean Donnelly, who graciously agreed to help me try to express my heart for this post by posing for me. The words are not about them, but I love them dearly!)

 

I lost a dear friend this week. Or should I say, the world did. She was an incredible woman, full of years and wisdom. And laughter. I think I will always remember her laughter.  I can still hear it lilting and lining the edges of her words, her blue eyes sparkling. She had the heart of a child, even in her later years.

I heard about her passing yesterday and my heart sank. And yet simultaneously, I felt something else along with the grief. I sensed a deep joy rising up in my spirit for her. It was a unique feeling, this sadness edged with joy.  I mourned for my loss, for the loss of everyone who ever had the joy of knowing her, but I as I began to think about her, really think about who she is and was, I knew she was happy. Truly happy.  I see her dancing in my head. I know she is dancing, and that laugh of hers is echoing throughout eternity, mingling with the worship of heaven.  I wanted to portray that here, for her, and for those who are missing her deeply. (Thank you, Salena and Sean for allowing me to photograph you to try to depict that.)

I see Daisy dancing. At last in the presence of her Savior, and again united with her beloved husband, who went on ahead of her many years ago. She missed him deeply. I see them dancing together, young again and full of the life and vigor of youth. This is the joy of heaven, of giving our hearts to the only One who can save us. I feel sure she will know the words “well done, good and faithful servant”, and they will go deep into her being. It is what her life was about. Faithfulness. How she loved the Lord Jesus. How everyone loved her. Artist, teacher, prayer warrior, fighter, mother, friend, mentor, painter, encourager.

Daisy. Oh, how the earth sighs with your passing. But those of us who hold eternity in our hearts, we know.

We know you are dancing. So,dance on. We will be with you soon, and we rejoice with you as you breathe in your reward.

We love you, and we are anxious to hear your laughter ringing in our ears again.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 ~ “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

 

 

Add your comment...

365 Project Day 250: I Will Remember

Posted on 08. Sep, 2011 by maryanne.

Canon 5D Mark ll, 50 1.2L, 2.2 aperture, 1/125 shutter, 800 ISO

(*This post may not be for everyone. It is about death, but God’s goodness will always prevail. I believe this with all my heart.)

Psalm 27:13 ~ “I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.”

I prayed and thought often before I decided to write a post about Evelyn Juliet. But, after talking with her mommy Chelsea today, I felt not only that it was okay but appropriate. Evelyn Juliet Wallis was stillborn to her mommy and daddy, Erik and Chelsea Wallis on August the 11th of this year. She was 9 weeks from her due date. Her memorial service is tomorrow. More than the ache of not having her baby in her arms, Chelsea fears that Evelyn will be forgotten. That is why I am posting this blog. I will not forget. 

Three days before Evelyn was born, Chelsea was told the sad news that her baby was no longer living inside her womb. As if this news were not heartbreaking enough, this was the second third trimester baby they had lost in a year. This time, she wanted to have some photos of her sweet baby, to hold her and remember her for always. A mutual friend of ours sent out a message to me and several other photographers to see who could come. My heart dropped when I got the message on my phone. Chris and I were returning from a date. My countenance changed and he asked what was going on. I read the email to him and we were both silent for a long time. I knew in my heart that I was to go. One by one, the other photographers stated they could not come, and I found myself volunteering, not knowing at all what I would encounter. I did not know Chelsea and Erik, but having lost a baby of my own, I was familiar with the ache they were having to endure.

I loved them from the moment I met them. So young, and so brave. They were there in that hospital room waiting for their baby to be born. They knew what was ahead of them. They had done this once before. I asked if I could pray for them and I held her tight as I prayed, my heart already connected to hers. Then, I felt it, the strong presence of the Living God. He was there too. I felt Him as I prayed, warmth spreading through me like it does when I sense God is near. He was hovering, like a mother bird, over these kids. It was like holy ground.

Time passed and Chelsea with the grace and strength of a woman much older than she, continued to endure. Quiet, yet openly weeping, she waited. Erik was never far away, holding her hand, hovering and speaking softly to her, as he shed tears of his own.  I was so grateful to be in the presence of so much love and grace in the face of raw, excruciating pain. I stayed with them for more than 24 hours, watching, waiting, and praying,

Evelyn entered the world so peacefully it was hard to believe. Chelsea had chosen to give birth naturally, holding on to every moment, even in the pain. She is a beautiful mother. They did not know if their baby was a girl or a boy as they had chosen to be surprised, even in the face of death. When she was born, they wept, laughed and cried. They named her, bathed her, weighed her, and oohed and ahhed over her delicate features. I wept openly behind my camera as I tried my best to capture their most precious memories, gathering them up before they flew away. She was sweet and pink, so perfect, like little baby girls should be. She looked like she was sleeping.

Tomorrow is her memorial. I have the honor of reading a letter that Chelsea and Erik wrote to Evelyn Juliet. I will not forget, Chelsea. Evie is forever etched in my mind and on my heart. I am so honored I got to see her with you for the first time. I am grateful to God it will not be the last.

Erik and Chelsea do have a sweet toddler boy, Brayden, at home who keeps her busy and continues to open the windows of heaven with laughter and joy. Please pray for them when God brings them to your mind.  Chelsea has started a blog of her own sharing her journey called Tears in Precious Bottles. So honored to know them both. I am looking forward to seeing the crowns of beauty, the oil of joy, and the garments of praise that are promised to them.

Isaiah 61: 1,3  ~”The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me  to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners… to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion— to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

Add your comment...

When Grief Finds You

Posted on 25. Oct, 2010 by maryanne.

I was grateful to awaken to the rain this morning. Its gentle pattering whispered the day in.  I needed that. I sighed and buried my head back into my pillow, my room darker than usual. I wanted to stay there. I could hear Chris moving about in the other room. I breathed in the comfort of knowing I wasn’t alone.

Today marks the day we discovered our last child was no longer alive in my womb. I don’t want to give an acknowledgement to this anniversary. I want it to go away. I don’t intentionally remember this pain or even the date, but it comes and finds me anyway. My heart constricts. I pull the covers back and look into the face of this day. I light a candle in the kitchen and am consoled in its aroma and warmth. These candles, they bring comfort. They soothe the wound. Bring me a truckload today. I press down the peppermint coffee in the the french press, and find my favorite cup. The little things. The rituals. I pick up my journal and Bible, but just stare out the window at the rain. If this day were a garment, it would fit me perfectly.

Chris and I walked last night, and remembered together. He let me talk as I carefully trekked tenuous paths of pain. “Remember when we moved here,” I asked him, “and I said, it wouldn’t be a home until we brought a baby home to it?” “Yes,” he answers patiently. ” My heart was so full when I thought we would bring our fourth Morgan child home here…” I trail off. There is silence.  The moon shines on us as we hold hands and walk down to the barn. I turn on the water for the horses. “And then I lost him”, I finish my broken sentence. “We”, he begins,”we lost him. It wasn’t your fault.” I am doubtful of his words. All this time, and I still feel responsible. It is just the mothering way. We always feel responsible.

I am grateful for the rain. Yes. A heavenly acknowledgement that I am not alone. That this day does not go unnoticed. This pain, this heart, this girl does not go unnoticed. The cold, the glossy leaves, just the wetness somehow affirms me. I feel alive. Hurting, but alive and not alone. For these things, I am grateful. And, I have friends. Faces  who love me through their eyes, who sympathize, and and bring encouragement. They say, I don’t understand, but I love you and I am here.

I feel loved.

There is color in the seasons as they catapult us forward, even  though we protest. This cannot be disputed. Pain makes the colors of life more vivid. I don’t know why.

Still. It hurts.

Grateful for the rain…

Add your comment...

Weary

Posted on 28. May, 2010 by maryanne.

To say that it has been a rough week seems ridiculous to me. Words like “rough” or “difficult” pale in comparison to the grief and pain we have witnessed and felt in this past 10 days.

Twelve days ago I saw a status update by chance on Facebook that our dear friends who were in Maine on vacation needed prayer as their 18 year old daughter was missing while on a kayaking trip with a friend. I don’t check Facebook that often these days, but I was so glad I did. We immediately started to pray and make phone calls to get more details. It was not good. Irina McEntee and Carissa Ireland had left that Sunday afternoon (May 16th) for a short afternoon kayak/adventure to a nearby island and were supposed to return several hours later. Irina was a trained kayaker and had done this very trip so many times. When they did  not come home as planned, Irina’s parents called the coastguard. After searching all night, they found the girls the next morning, still in their life jackets several miles from their original destination. They could not be resuscitated. The agony of hearing the news trickling in over those hours was so difficult to bear. We hoped and prayed until we heard the final the reports, still unwilling to believe. I could not speak for hours, and still find it hard to put words to my feelings. My kids were also in shock.

What makes this story even more unbearable is that Irina’s brother Oleg,16, died in a tragic accident just the spring before. How much can these parents endure? My heart has been overrun with shock and pain and just the weight that grief brings, especially over the loss of a child. No one can make sense of it, so we will not try. We will love, though. We will love and be present for our friends. We will pray through the hours of the night. We will carry their burdens as our own. It is our honor.

The photo above was taken after Irina’s Life Celebration Service. That is what her parents called it, and that is what it was. Several came to Christ at her service as they gave an invitation at the conclusion of it. She loved her Jesus, and that was apparent in her life and in her death, as many spoke of this young woman’s quiet conviction to follow God, and her beautiful and bright smile.

My daughter Annie had the honor of speaking at the service, and I would like to include an excerpt here of her beautiful words:

“Images keep coming back to me—the coast in front of the Peaks Island house, grey water crashing into grey rocks, and the green of summer filling up the islands. Irina in long shorts and a red t-shirt, greeting the ocean with wide-thrust arms. Walking the shores in bare feet, she and my brother and Oleg leaping ahead of me to collect the wildly bright orange and yellow buoys that lobstermen had lost. It seems like a dream now—now that she and Oleg are both gone. I can’t get my head around it. I keep seeing her face cracking into that familiar bright smile in my mind—the smile that was like watching the sun leap up over the horizon at dawn—nothing at first, and then a burst of light.

And that was Irina, that was the way her life became.

I remember telling her more than once that God adored her—that you could see it all over her, almost glowing. To me, it always seemed so clear that he had pulled her from a very dark place to show her His love, to give her a life brimming with it. Hers, more than anyone I have ever known, is the story of redemption, of God’s heart for us.”

Her words sank deeply into our minds as we saw Irina through Annie’s eyes, and through God’s.

I twittered my grief often this week.

here are a few of my own thoughts written in fragments as I could not say much more:

~Heart broken   May 17th

~One of the hardest and saddest days for so many today. The McEntees will need much prayer as the days continue.  May 17th

~pictures from Maine on my screen saver today. Makes the sadness deeper. Not fair how life just treks on in the face of tragedy.  May 18th

~tragedy makes me feel so small, and yet I sense the largeness of my God. He is near, and the protector of the broken-hearted   May 21st

~ It’s okay to ask why. Even Jesus asked why when He was on the Cross.  May 22

~Loving and supporting friends in deep grief is such a great honor.  May 22

~Hate this stage of grief. The numbness, the burden, the elusiveness of my own heart. May 22

~Wavering between numbness and deep sorrow. I prefer the sorrow. Numbness doesn’t help anyone.  May 24

~It’s okay to cry, yes even imperative that we do. Those we love are worthy of our tears, the visible reminder that our hearts ache for them.  May 26th

I posted my daughter Katie’s photograph above, because it symbolizes what grief feels like. So exhausting. She could not keep her eyes open after the service. We love our friends so much, and we know they are being carried by their Saviour, who knows Himself the burden and pain of grief. Even God knows what it is like to lose a child, and then, ( praise Him!) have that child returned to Him in resurrection. That is our hope, our lifeline.

So thankful now for the truth and life that we can find in His word:

^“Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope.”  1 Thessalonians 4:13

“For the Lord is close the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit”~ Psalm 34:18

I cannot conclude this entry without a few more thoughts, although I know it is already quite lengthy.

Nearly five years ago on October 26th, 2005 I lost a child of my own.  He was still in my womb and I was 16 weeks pregnant. We named him Benjamin David Morgan.

I will never forget the tragedy of that day or that season, and I will never forget him, as I already loved him dearly, like only a mother (or father) can. Even as I write these words, my heart feels compressed, still needing air and healing in those painful places. I bring this up for a couple reasons. First of all, to be transparent about my own journey, so that I can live my life fully alive. Secondly, as I experienced life with the McEntees this week, I remembered parts of my own journey that were so important for my healing.

After the loss of my child, I went through some depression, and was afraid to be alone. My sweet Chris helped me set up a schedule with people I loved and trusted to come and “sit” with me. When our counselor first suggested it, I was appalled. I felt embarrassed at the thought of having to have people come just sit with me. What would we do? Would I have to entertain them? However, as the days and nights went by, and Chris could not always be with me, I accepted the idea. Now, as I look back, I am so thankful for these people, who left their lives to come and help me stay in mine. My sister Liza took Sunday nights, and I would watch  Extreme Homemakeover with her family, bundled in a blanket on her sofa. So comforting. My friend Susan would take Wednesdays. I always looked forward to hearing her sweet voice as she came in my mud room door. We wouldn’t do anything in particular, but I made it through another night. I love her for that. There were, of course, so many more friends and family members who held my hands and encouraged me to live, to be present again. I cannot leave out my mom, who slept in the chair next to me at the hospital when I experienced complications after the surgery to remove Benjamin’s body from my own. Thank you, mom, for crying those tears with me. I am so thankful for every single person who prayed a prayer, who brought me food, who whispered comfort to me, and who came to “sit” with me in my pain. Thank you. I am in my life because of you.  You are indeed the hands and feet of Jesus. May we be that for Jack and Gerri now.

Add your comment...