I have to keep running.

On Tuesday morning, after watching the news coverage on the Boston Marathon bombing, all I could do was run.

I laced up my pink shoelaces, like I do every morning, and with my chin up, I ran. There may have been salty teardrops on that chin, but I ran. There is no keeping the runners down.

Did he realize that, I wonder?

I helplessly stared at the photo of little Martin Richard, the 8 year old who perished in the attack. and I prayed in earnest for his daddy, the shattered pieces of his life still sprawled out across the streets of Boston.

WHY?  I asked.  WHY. 

I know that if there is good in this world, there is also evil. If there is freedom, there is also captivity. But why must the children be the ones to lose their lives?

At the park yesterday our former nanny told me her 17 year old brother is home and waiting to die.

"There's nothing else they can do for him," she told me, tears in her eyes.

I weep. I don't even have the strength to ask why.

I weep for her and for him. I weep for their mommy, whom we love dearly. I weep for Bill Richard and all of the other victims' families of the Boston Marathon attack. And I hate that every time I turn on the news, I see his face - the one responsible. I don't want to see him; I want to see Martin. I want him to continue living, somehow.

But he can't, and Enrique can't either, and it just kills me. I'm gonna keep running, now more than ever. 

goodbye.

Marvel Hutt

...Grandma...

March 12, 1928 - March 27, 2013

She is from fields of corn and wheat swaying in the breeze

She is from brothers and sisters, noisy laughter, smelly feet & dirty dishes

She is from a deep instinct to mother, to deeply love and be loved

She is from grief, heart craters from saying goodbye too much, too soon

She is from brave commitment, lasting love, faith in the one true God

She is from kitchens filled with hungry mouths to feed, steaming eggs, bacon, & sourdough toast

She is from laughing so hard tears begin to fall; wrinkles in the corners of her eyes

She is from all kinds of pain - loneliness, the aching of muscles, the loss of a life partner

She is from never giving up, a pillar of strength, leading a family on

She is from tiny, beautiful hands, delicate fingers and toes

She is from fresh raspberry jam, fingers stained pink, and her famous pot roast

She is from crossword puzzles filling long, sleepless nights and road-trips

She is from a house full of children, babies, grandbabies, & great-grandbabies

She is from persistence.

She is from hope.

She is from grace

just write.

My title implies it's simple. Just do it. 

Like brushing your teeth or watering the plants. Just write. 

In an ideal world I would make the space in my life for it. It would be non-negotiable like working out or showering. But the days pass, and my 'new post' screen stays white. 

Maybe it's a good thing that life is ho hum and nothing major is forcing me to desperately tap out the swirling thoughts. But, I feel better when I write, that's a given, and I deserve to feel better. We all do.

This past week has been emotional. On Wednesday a new mom in New York City, 

Cynthia Wachenheim, jumped to her death from her apartment on the eighth floor. Her 10 month old son was snug against her chest in the Ergobaby. He survived, cushioned somehow by her body upon impact. I cried for Cynthia Wachenheim; I wish I knew her. I cried for that baby and for his daddy. Just like I cried for Kristi Couvillon Wise in 2010 who left behind a beautiful daughter. I wish somehow our world was so good that these things never happened; that no mom ever felt this lost or this alone or this ashamed. 

And so, I must continue writing. We all must.

My dad had double bypass open heart surgery last Thursday morning at the age of 59. I hated that I couldn't visit him in the hospital or bring him hot soup this morning, his first morning waking up at home. Sometimes being away sucks.  But, I'm thankful for God's protection over his life and that his surgery was successful.  I don't know why he got help in time to fix his broken heart and Cynthia Wachenheim didn't. I'll never know. None of it makes sense, really. 

Let's keep on writing.

just write

All our broken hearts

My mind races with images of terrified children, helpless teachers, and an evil unimaginable. On Saturday, Solomon awoke as normal, tousled hair, body warm from a night of deep sleep beneath warm covers, and all I could do was hold him and weep. My tears fell for the mommies and daddies who would wake up that morning, arms aching for the warmth of their babies, whom they would never hold again.

This world is filled with evil. I cannot wrap my mind around it.

Last night I held Rainer close, nursing him under my comforter, stroking his wispy blonde hair, my tears falling on his face. I just... I can't even...

Today, as I read some of the victims' profiles and watched a victim's father address the press, I wept again. Solomon and Rainer played beside me on the floor. I laced up my shoes and went for a long, hard run. Tears streaming down my face as my feet pounded the pavement. God, make this right. God, bind up our wounds.

This song came on, and the image of God wrapping each of those beautiful children in the warmth and comfort of his robe, kissing their sweet faces, brought the slightest bit of comfort to my weary heart. While we are left broken, they are finally whole. The kisses of their parents replaced by the kisses of their creator.

As I listened to the song over and over, face wet with sweat and tears, the horrifying images were gradually replaced with beautiful images of a better place for these children... One where they will never see evil again, never experience violence or fear, hatred or grief. They are safe.

And I kept running. Because that's all I could do.

generations.

There is a little boy playing at my feet. He is obsessed with wet washcloths, and wiping down ALL THE THINGS.

He is just barely one. A lifetime, completely blank, empty, stretched out before him. He is the driver, the writer, the steering wheel, though he has no idea.

At the same time my grandmother is dying. She is a few thousand miles away, lying in her bed, wearing a diaper, and being fed pureed food. Her now frail body bore & raised ten children, and she lived to see some of her grandchildren grow up to begin families of their own. She is the embodiment of selflessness, endurance, persistence, grace.

My sons will never know her, or all of the sacrifices she made in order for them to write their own stories.

There is something mysterious, magical, awesome about grandmothers. Within their state of frailty is a strength we have not yet known ourselves. The road stretched before her is brief, and the one behind her is long, winding, full of inclines & declines, falling & getting up again, interwoven with stories that live on in our children, and in our children's children.

Marvel, my grandmother, a miracle, wonderful, extraordinary.
She suits such a lovely name.

( baby Solo, 2009 )

paradox.

The same world that knocks us down with experiences that lead to heart-bleeding grief gives us gifts that overwhelm that same heart with joy.

a paradox.

I found out on Saturday, at Solo's birthday party, that his beloved babysitter's son has leukemia. She sent her two daughters with hugs and kisses for Solo and a remote control car wrapped up beautifully to the party. She stayed by her teenage son's bedside, where he has been fighting for the past month.

bleeding. grief.

Today my hands will be bright red, dripping with tomato sauce, as I clumsily put together the pieces of a lasagna, a gift for this family, a meager attempt to not feel quite so helpless.

On Sunday one of my best friends from high school lost her nephew in a tragic farming accident. 17 years old. A son, a grandson, a brother. Loss unimaginable.

grief. bleeding.

Last week I received an e-mail from our aunt. Our uncle died in April after a three year battle with cancer. She wrote, "It is said that the death of a beloved is an amputation.  It was as if an amputation had taken place on April 16, 2011 which is as the Bible says, “The two become one.”  Part of me is gone; No wonder the wounds are bleeding profusely and need to be bound up."

Somehow, though seemingly impossible, this same world gives us gifts of unimaginable joy.

Restored marriages. Miraculous births. Financial provision.

Hidden love letters. 3 year old's kisses. Quiet walks in the forest. Naps while hugging my belly.

The baby flip flopping inside me is a constant reminder, a gift I carry with pride.

a paradox.

this world, a mystery.

Today I will hug my babies more tightly, and longer. Breathing them in deeply.

loss.

On Friday, October 1st, Kristi Couvillon Wise of Austin, Texas took her own life. Postpartum Depression steals, kills, and destroys. My heart is broken.

On Friday, October 1st, after fighting this battle for two years, I was at a friends house watching Solo-boy ride a trike. I felt the sun against my skin and smiled as he chased his little buddy around their patio. I scooped up my son and fed him lunch, and helped him go potty. Then we went home and I laid him down for his nap. I watched him sleep with a sense of contentment and joy.

Kristi Couvillon Wise was not in a hopeless or helpless situation, although she clearly must have felt so alone. There was healing for her, but for whatever reason, it did not make it to her life in time.

And for that, I grieve.

You can make a donation on her website to help support her grieving husband and infant daughter, Vivienne. This is the very least I can and will do.

I have said it before and I will say it again. And I hope I will never stop saying it.

You are not to blame.

You are not alone.

You will be well.

Also? If you're reading this and considering suicide, please call 1-800-273-TALK.

www.postpartum.net