Poem: The Loss of Good Neighbors

This is something I can recommend: share a fence.
Share boundaries, burdens, and bread.
Make room for peach trees and foursquare.
Stand at the ready for hosts of children,
city lit stoops, and park side sun.
Bury, marry, mend, and then mend again.
Pay prayerful attention to silences, quiet spaces.
Offer tender thanks for new blooms and bright faces.
And lift up your sorry hearts!
For presence is a gracious glow
in a window light, ever warm,
and time a faithful witness of every gate-song passage.

Babies & Other Miscarried Hopes

This week it has been eight years since my first miscarriage. I found this out because of the strange relationship I have with my Facebook and its "On This Day" feature. On any given day, it will remind me of a mess of beautiful, mundane, and tragic events in my life's public history and then dictate them to me in a jarring contrast that makes me feel much older than my 36 years. It's like having the world's most insensitive and unaware friend who know you much too well and just won't stop talking. 

For instance, this week, in an array of years past, I: went to an opera, got a new haircut, became Facebook friends with someone I still don't really know, posted a video of my then-toddler getting stuck on a chair, and had my first miscarriage.

I don't feel like I'm the best person to talk about miscarriage, mainly because I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about my own. I often forget about them. I envy those women who can speak beautifully and precisely and tragically about motherhood and their bodies. Many have courageously brought to light this commonplace and historically silent pain; when I come across their work, I suddenly recall my shared experience. But unlike their articulate accounts of grief or distress, my memory is accompanied by a strange feeling of dumbfoundedness and blank confusion. Not that I haven't grieved the loss of knowing those children or that they weren't entirely real, but that with each miscarriage, the weightiest losses have seemed to be the intangible ones. 

By the time our daughter was four-years-old, she was dreaming about her future role as sister/mama bear/teacher/boss to this new family member we were expecting. She was ready and willing, and overqualified. My husband was excited, and I was just starting to come around to the face that parenthood was a thing we were actually REALLY doing now. (Our daughter was an unfairly easy first child, and we were able to just kind of fake parenthood for a few years.) And then we miscarried very early on in that pregnancy. Soon after, though, we become pregnant with our son and welcomed him, happy and healthy, just 11 months after this initial loss - - so the miscarriage just felt like some sort of strange blip on our timelines. But, I do remember it being the first time I ever had to reckon with my body really failing me. I come from a long line of hardy Scandinavian stock with bones that are seemingly unbreakable and relatives commonly living into their 90s. At 27, full of hope and youthful naivety about the future, I hadn't even considered the possibility of a pregnancy not coming to term. So, with this loss came a pause. An uncertainty about the fullness of life here. A brief brush with this veiled and quiet, shadow form of death. 

Four years later and one month before we found out that my husband had stage 3 melanoma, we miscarried again. This pregnancy was further along. The experience was awful and traumatic, and very real. We had wanted a third for some time and were excited and ready. (The oldest, having completed her on-the-job training with her little brother, had agreed to take on another subject.) This miscarriage was invasive, disruptive, and shocking. I am grateful for friends who stepped in and very literally helped walk us through that night. Physically, it was one of the most vulnerable moments I've ever experienced. Emotionally and spiritually, it carried the weight of the significant loss. But even more viscerally, it felt like the start of a fight. A ruthless struggle to push back an enemy who had come out of the shadows and now met us nose to nose, face to face - - an unfair and fixed fight with death.

For the next three months, we made our way through my husband's diagnosis, treatments, surgeries. And after receiving fleeting news that - - hallelujah! - - all of his scans were clean, we decided to try again for baby #3. Why waste time when you had just cheated death? All we wanted was to shove back death far enough down the road to realize the future we had been able to picture so clearly; one more bouncing baby, a little more chaos, a little more laughter. But, life is a vapor. Ultimately, grief over that second miscarriage and any hopeful baby-making plans became quickly overshadowed by the loss of someone already present on earth, someone already alive and known and embraced. And in time, this miscarriage would become additionally confusing because there was relief tied to it. Had it been viable, I would have attended my husband's funeral with not only two small children, but a newborn. And what was lost in that short time was not only two lives, but any lingering hopeful notion that death was a far off and distant threat, or that if it came to visit, there was anything I could do about it. 

And then about 18 months later - - after a funeral, after navigating single-parenting, after abandoning full-time homemaking for the working mom life, after falling in love again, after unexpected heart surgery, remarriage, and a newly-blending family - - there was the third miscarriage. This child had represented in so many different and literal ways, new life. Or more accurately, a new season of the same messy life, and with it, all the anticipated joy a most-likely chubby, blonde, 10 lb, Viking baby could bring. We had hoped. 

For the uninitiated, grief is just a dressed-down version of sanctification, inviting you to sit down and lay it all on the table. So, once again, I took a seat. Consider mortality? Piece of cake. Long for the light on the other side? Constantly. Remember that we are but dust? Sure, tell me something I don't know. On the meta, "giving up" is my jam. Let me throw my hands up in the air, laugh at what small shreds of control exist in this life. I've been tempted to make my home in Lent, skip to All Saints Day, and make Advent last all year-round. I know these Job-like reckonings well.

If I hope for the grave to be my home,
if I spread out my bed in darkness,

if I cry out to corruption, 'You are my father,'
and to the worm, 'My mother,' or 'My sister,'

Where then is my hope?
And my hope, who sees it?

Will it go down to the barred gates of death?
Will we descend together into the dust?"

Oh, Job! Did you ever think He would do exactly what you so plainly claimed as preposterous? That he would descend to the grave, ravage the gates of hell, and in doing so, defeat your every legitimate complaint of hopelessness? I wonder if God laughed when you said this - - the smile of a compassionate, but knowing Father. There was so much more to come that you couldn't see. There is still so much more yet to come.

If you haven't already, you will, at some point in your life, come to know these groans and pains -- this very real waiting for the brokenness of our bodies and world to be made whole in a way that makes Scriptures like this one, personal. For you, it might be a baby, a family, a future, a lighthearted perspective on life, ambition, or simple dreams. When our beautiful mortal hopes are miscarried and fail to attain their expected or intended outcomes -- when they go awry, become distorted, backfire, or turn cold and grey -- that is precisely when a child of God might find themselves, against all earthly odds and efforts, hopeful. 

New Friends

October 17, 2017 · on Facebook post

The short: go now and listen to my friend Alec's beautiful new album!

The long: about a year and a half after Greg passed, I had this resolution in my mind that I was just not going to make any other real close friends from that point on. This was not an emotional decision or even one that I wrestled with; it was simply a matter-of-fact. The idea of making friends that Greg didn't know, who didn't know and could never know him, and the emotional energy required to bring someone else up-to-speed just seemed so utterly impossible. And the reality was that I had plenty of supportive friends and family, so I just figured they were enough to ride out the rest of life with. (This of course makes sense when you are in a place in life where your goal is to just survive.)

Enter Alec and his wife, Allie. While in such a stubborn and fragile place, the friendship they naturally offered was genuine, without motive, personal and had a lightness that provided a safe space and opened up for me this possibility of a community of people beyond what I had know with Greg. (Friendships are one of the many things that need "untangling" after loss). This friendship in particular was a beauty in the suffering that showed me, once again, the smallness of my faith and the unending kindness of my Father towards me.

An added bonus is that Alec is also an amazing musician whom I highly respect and get the joy of playing music with frequently. I'm immensely proud of his new offering (and for letting me contribute to one of the songs, Joy Without You), please go listen and share in my joy and thanks.

First EP / St. Fleming of Advent

✨ It’s here! ✨

This past month, I recorded a few songs for the Advent/Christmas season that you can find at www.losylo.bandcamp.com.

This was a small passion project and my first test-run of the recording process. It’s dedicated to the work of Fleming Rutledge and Philip Ziegler, whose theological works upended one summer of my life and provided my grief a satisfactory holding space within a hopeful, cosmic story.

Hope you enjoy! ✨✨✨✨✨

CREDITS
Performed by Samantha Connour and talented friends Alec Watson, Hannah Bureau, and Doug Malone. Recorded and mixed by the brilliant and kind Doug Malone of Jamdek Recording Studios, Chicago IL.

Lists & Lists

Today is one of those days, which is really every third day or so, where it dawns on me the massive amount of things that are on my plate and need to be done currently and pretty immediately. Usually it starts setting in when things aren’t going so well, like this morning when I had to leave a sobbing Ozzie behind in his preschool class that he didn’t want to go to today. He just wanted to go home. I had spent about 10 minutes or so unsuccessfully trying to console him and peel him away, and was also aware that having left my completely capable 9 year old in the car parked outside the school is actually kind of illegal in Illinois, and so my stress level is increasing with each minute that goes by hoping that no one will catch a glimpse of her in the car and call 911 or take some other ridiculous measure. So I had to just walk out on him and trust that his (incredibly wonderful) teacher would be able to console him. 

And then my brain starts dumping all the things…  I need to clear up the IRS issues and scan and send documents and talk to a lawyer, the medical bills need to be sorted and organized and tallied so I can make the last payments and close accounts, I need to check to see if our health share network will cover the electrophysiology study I need done on my heart to see if I need heart surgery in the next few months, I need to order school pictures tonight because Oz has picture day tomorrow, Blinn’s room organization needs to be finished (my dining room is covered in jewelry, barbies, notes, craft supplies, books and other 4th grader treasures), laundry from two weeks ago that needs to be folded and put away, uniforms need to be washed before tomorrow, Greg’s business bank accounts need to be closed and utilities still need to be put into my name, about 300 thank you notes need to be ordered and sent off to the world’s most generous and wonderful people that have kept my life somehow functioning these last 9 months, so many babysitters to schedule, a tombstone that still needs to be ordered (which is a hard decision not only because it’s a hard decision but because Greg and I are so damn aesthetically picky), Social Security offices to call and update about employment, therapists to call and schedule, I really need to see the chiropractor/acupuncturist, work projects and emails and Advent music to prepare, upcoming trips to plan and pack for, a massive pile of mail to sort and tackle through, Christmas is coming, Thanksgiving is coming, Greg’s 38th birthday would have been on this Thursday, kids that need to be cuddled and listened to at the most inopportune times, homework that I haven’t been aware of or keeping track of, dishes laying in the sink and wondering how we can have so many dishes when we eat out 80% of the time, tupperware that needs to be returned to all the amazing cooks who have sent meals over the last few months, a will that needs to be updated, investments that need to be made, airline refund checks that never came from trips that weren’t taken 9 months ago, photos that need to be ordered and little boys that still need help with potty-training. This is a small sampling of my brain on most days. 

And it’s so easy to be resentful of the girl sitting at the coffeeshop on a Tuesday morning just reading a book. Who has time to read a book? My brain doesn’t even really process words on a page at the moment. (“Widow Fog” is a very real thing. Google it.) Or resentful of you when you said you just worked out or are super tired because you had a big test yesterday. It's hard to rejoice with those who rejoice right now on these days. And it’s not like I’m not trying to work in time to take a break or get out with friends. That’s like a lifeline for me many days. All the things I used to tell Greg about, ask Greg about, laugh with Greg about are now distributed amongst dozens of wonderful people. But that also takes time. You have to schedule coffee or babysitters (because you can’t really talk about these things within earshot of little kids’ ears) instead of just talking in bed in the dark at 12am before you drift off to sleep together. 

And I really don’t want this to sound like a pity party. I am hugely aware that I am not the only one suffering or struggling in this life. Most of the time I feel almost guilty for having such an amazing supportive group of family and friends and for all the ways God has provided. But I’m also aware that when I’m with you all, it’s easy for me to enjoy being with you all (extrovert problems!) and forget about the load I’m carrying. And then you ask how I’m doing and it’s the most confusing question in the world because I know it’s not great in general, but at that moment, with all of you around, I’m feeling pretty good. And I’m glad for the opportunity to hear about your life (which, by the way, I'm sad that I’ve missed out on over the past year). And so I try to be honest, but I can see the look in your eyes when I start to tell you of the load and then I see you become overwhelmed and then I remember that it’s pretty overwhelming and then I don’t know whether to leave you with it or then try to assure you (the one with the overwhelmed look on your face) that it’s going to be ok. 

And then there are good days when things are going ok or even really well, and those are sometimes the hardest because it hits you out of nowhere that someone is missing and things shouldn’t be ok without that person there.

Today, after leaving Ozzie at school, I was reminded of the verse that Greg and I clung to those last few days at the hospital. 

Isaiah 42:16
I will lead the blind by ways they have not known,
along unfamiliar paths I will guide them;
I will turn the darkness into light before them
and make the rough places smooth. 
These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them. 

I wrote a song for our church last year that really was just a cry from myself to my beautiful church family. If I'm being honest, I still need massive loads of help with dishes and legal issues and babysitting (so much babysitting) and laundry and medical bills and a bazillion other things that I would delegate or enlist help for if I knew how to instruct you on how to complete them. But more than that I really really you to remind me of God’s promises and presence on days like this. 

(This is the first rough draft recording I made and emailed to Greg the day I wrote it. There's little kids playing and eating lunch in the background and it sounds a lot more refined now after playing it for a year, but it’s essentially the same. Add “record music at a studio instead of an iPhone” to the list of things to do up top.)

https://soundcloud.com/samanthaconnour-1/family-of-god

Family of God

I am the weak and the wounded, the broken and torn-down
You say that You are the Healer, the Comforter, here now
I am the lame and the leper, the unwanted, cast-out
But You tell me Your arms are open, have always been open

And I hear voices, singing out your praises
As I join that chorus, Your words ring true, Your words ring true

Family of God, remind me again, the life that He lived, the God that He is
The words that He said, the child that I am

I am the thief and the beggar, the unfaithful lover
You say that all is forgotten, that You are enough now

And I hear voices, singing out your praises
As I join that chorus, Your words ring true, Your words ring true

Family of God, remind me again, the life that He lived, the God that He is
The words that He said, the child that I am

Six Months

I was looking today at this picture that our friend Mark quietly took at the hospice, just hours before Greg passed. I hadn't really been able to look at it until now, but I was glad that it was there, knowing it was stored somewhere on my phone or computer. When I was looking at it today I was surprised to see how intertwined we were. I vividly remember that day, being there next to him. I remember the hours. I remember how bizarrely peaceful and warm it felt. I kept brushing his hair back. There are things about being so familiar with someone that you don't even realize you know, like the thickness of the hair on their scalp or the direction their hair grows right above their temples. But I didn't remember his hand on mine or his hand on my thigh. But it now seems to be such a perfect picture of us. We were always that intertwined and it wasn't dramatic or obvious or even thought about, we didn't even really have to try that hard. It was just easy. Falling in love and living with and staying in love with and growing in love for Greg as the years passed, was the easiest thing. We would have conversations about this. Wondering why it was so easy for us -marriage- not in a boastful or prideful way, but in a really humbling way. We had sat with and walked with many friends for whom marriage was not easy or even seemingly enjoyable at times, and with some friends who just couldn't make it work and felt their pain. We knew the vast complexities of being joined together with another sinner from sun up to sun down. We had our share of arguments that lasted until 4am and hurt feelings and just simply being really annoyed at each other. But at the end of the day, reconciling and coming back together was not difficult. Being together was always better. I don't know why it was so easy.

At the beginning, you read and hear a lot about the mystery of "two becoming one." What you don't hear anything about is how in the world you untangle that oneness after till death do you part. It's not easy. Pronouns aren't easy. I'm constantly hearing myself say "we" or "us" and I don't know how or when I switch it to "me" or "I". I don't even know what's accurate. Filling out forms isn't easy. Identifying as a widow is not easy. Carrying in sleepy kids and luggage late at night after a roadtrip is not easy. Lugging out to the alley the well-worn crib that you no longer need to keep around is not easy. Trying to figure out how to sing all the songs you would sing together, by yourself, is not easy. Being now just one of the two isn't easy.

The past six months have been the beginning of the untangling. Trying in the mess of things to figure out what's left after your other half isn't there. Are you half of yourself? It feels like it sometimes. I'm not who I was before I was with Greg, but I'm not who I was with him, either, as much as I would like that. There's a grieving not only for him, but for us, for me. I miss who I was with him. His love for me was a daily picture of God's love for me... freedom to try things I would normally cower from, freedom to cry, freedom to be horrible, freedom to fail, freedom to be ridiculous. I felt more myself with Greg than I had ever known myself apart from him.

The hardest conversation we had at the hospital just a few days before he passed was weeping together, knowing that our time together was coming to an end. This oneness that we had shared and known, though so dim in comparison to the mystery of being one with Christ and going home to be with Him... it was all we had ever known and what we had treasured as an unmistakably undeserved gift. The thought of it coming to a close, even to be replaced with a greater joy, was unfathomable and bitter, because the reality of it had been so beautiful.

In this untangling of us (because I can't live there forever and I know he wouldn't want me to), I'm finding that grieving him is more about making room in my life for it, more than it is a process or some time-fixed thing. There will just always have to be room in my life for missing him. And some days there needs to be more room in it than others. And in each new day, there's also, bizarrely, life happening. There's laughter and new stories. There's new successes and accomplishments, new failures and new embarrassing moments. There's all of the life that I wish he was here for. But even with him not here, it's still happening. It's the most absurd of things, that life still happens. Some days I don't want it to. I just want everything to stop, because he's not here for it. But I guess that's the biggest mystery of all, the light in the darkness. And all at the same time, I don't get it AND I profoundly do, because it's buried there somewhere in the core of me, underneath all the rubble and the muck, by the grace of God.

Final Journey

During the last few weeks of Greg’s battle with melanoma, I kept friends and family updated on a blog and have copied it here as a way to archive this journey that we all took together.

Our friend, Chris, wrote this bio of us for the original blog:

Greg exudes kindness and warmth. He is funny and thoughtful and lacks the ability to be anything but genuine. Greg does nothing small - he possesses both an epic beard and a huge heart. On top of all that, he's a sharp dresser. He is a man of dedication - both to his faith and to his incredible family.

In July of 2014, Greg was diagnosed with malignant melanoma after a biopsy of a mole on his right thigh. A few weeks later he had a surgery to remove the melanoma and a few lymph nodes from that area. Two of the lymph nodes removed also had melanoma cells on them, so in September he had a second surgery to remove all of the lymph nodes on his right thigh area. Everything was successful, a PET scan came back totally clean and all the lymph nodes removed from the second surgery came back clean with no sign of melanoma on them. However, after a few weeks of sickness during the holiday season, a trip to the ER revealed that the melanoma had quickly and aggressively spread to his liver, spleen, ribs, spine and skull. He began radiation treatment and chemo to hopefully stall or shrink the cancer throughout his body. Sadly, after other complications in the hospital, his body wasn't able to recover. With his friends, family, and the Lord by his side, Greg Connour was called home on Tuesday, January 13, 2015.

Greg and his wife, Sam, have two smart, fun, and creative kids. Blinn is nine years old and is a budding event coordinator. She personally oversaw the design of her last birthday party and was in charge of every last detail, down to the giant inflatable palm tree. Oz, four years old, is a developing artist who has a fondness for drawing on walls. Also, Oz really likes sardines. Sam is a devoted full-time mom who exemplifies strength and grace in the face of the challenge that her family now confronts.

---

DEC 26, 2014 / UNEXPECTED NEWS
Hi friends we have unfortunately found out that the melanoma cancer has spread to Greg's liver. We can use your prayers as we're fumbling through, trying to figure out what the next steps are while trusting that our good God loves us perfectly. We are currently at Advocate Masonic and will be staying overnight to get more testing done and see the oncologist in the morning. Thank you for your prayers! We'll make our best attempt to keep everyone updated as we know more.

---

DEC 28, 2014 / RESULTS OF SCANS
So we met with the oncologist this morning after the results from the MRI and CT scan came back and were informed that the CT scan showed lesions on Greg's liver, spleen, ribs and spine. The MRI was clean, so there are no lesions on his brain. We are staying overnight to have another MRI done tomorrow on his spine so they can get a better look at that one and should be able to go home as long as they determine that those lesions are stable and not hindering Greg at all. Other than some mild back and abdomen aches and nausea (which he is receiving medication for), Greg is feeling fine.

However, even with the progression, the plan of action is still the same as it was yesterday, which is to start an immunotherapy drug in the next week or so that will hopefully stall the progression or shrink the tumors. At this point, the cancer is not medically curable but we're hoping to manage it. We covet your prayers and are so thankful for your support and can feel you all surrounding us during every step of this journey.

---

DEC 30, 2015 / GREG RETURNS HOME FOR SAM’S BDAY!
Friends and Family- thank you so much for your love and prayers. We are carrying them with us each step of this.

My favorite birthday present yesterday was that we were able to be discharged and go home! We had a really nice breakfast with the kids at home this morning, it was very much needed. At the moment all treatment can be done as an outpatient as long as Greg is stable enough to be at home, which he currently is.

I'm just going to explain the diagnosis and we're at from the beginning again for everyone who has just joined the group.

Last Friday we took Greg to the ER for stomach/back pain the was accompanied by nausea and vomiting. They did an ultrasound to check the gallbladder for gallstones and in doing so saw that there were no gallstones, but multiple lesions or metastesis on his liver. Because of his melanoma diagnosis this past summer, they were fairly confident it was the cancer and admitted him to the hospital immediately. Further MRIs and CT scans confirmed that there are multiple spots on his liver, spleen, ribs, skull and along his spine which puts it in the advanced Stage IV category. It is not curable, but there are still treatment options to manage, stall or possible shrink the growth, which we are grateful for. On Monday they did another MRI on his spine to get a better look at the two largest spots on his spine to determine if they were too close to or pressing on his spinal cord. Thankfully, they aren't and that has saved us from surgery to decompress the spine, which would have delayed any other treatment for 4-6wks. Instead, we have begun a series of ten, almost daily, radiation treatments to hopefully reduce the size of those metastesis. (I'm sitting in the waiting room now while he completes round two of radiation). That buys us some time while we start a immunotherapy drug (Ipilimumab) next week that we are praying will work some magic on all of the cancer throughout his body to either reduce it or stall it's growth.

This is a lot of information to handle and we realize that our dear friends and family are struggling to process this, as we are.

We have had many rich, weepy, weary, panicked and practical conversations but underneath us like a steady stream that we are immersed in, flows truth that renders us intensely aware that Jesus loves us, is with us and we are lacking no good thing even when this world is screaming at you that it's not true and that He's not true. It's both bizarre and beautiful. He is our Rock while this storm is shredding us. We would beg you all to stand on that same Rock with us (even if you never have before).

Please pray specifically that: Greg can eat more food and gain some weight and strength, that we would have many more quiet, engaged family times with the kids, for us as we soon talk carefully with Blinn about the gravity of his sickness (Holy Spirit, help us...), and specifically that none of us would catch any cold or flu bug that would threaten Greg or potentially reduce our time together. Pray that the radiation shrinks the metastesis that it is aiming at, that there is no spinal cord involvement in the future, and that the drug will attack all of the cancer entirely. And please continue to pray for the complete healing that we are unwaveringly confident that our God is able to provide.

---

JAN 4, 2015 / $30,000 OF WET STUFF
Hello everyone, we're starting the chemo treatment (a new and outrageously priced immunotherapy drug called Ipilimumab) in a few hours. Please pray that the side effects would be mild or non-existent and that Greg's current nausea would be controlled and he would be able to start keeping food down again. Love you all!

---

JAN 9, 2015 / GREG IS READMITTED TO THE HOSPITAL
Prayers, friends. We came for radiation treatment this morning and his labs were abnormal. We are being admitted now because his sodium levels were extremely low and his liver function is very poor. Please pray that the chemo drug begin quickly working on the tumors in his liver. Pray for peace for us when panic and fear want to get a foothold. The next 24 hrs will be trying as Greg's super thirsty already, but can't have any liquid for 24 hrs while they try to stabilize his sodium levels. Pray we get some rest with no complications.

---

JAN 11, 2015 / BALANCING ACT
Saturday update: We are still at the hospital, not too much to update. They are still just working up increasing his sodium levels, which is a slow process because you can't safely increase it very quickly. Just drip by drip. When we were admitted on Thursday his sodium was at 115 (which is pretty dangerous- we are thankful for a nurse at the radiation center who caught on to it and alerted a physician!), and a healthy level is 140. His sodium is currently at 121 and we're expecting it to take a few more days to get to safe level.

Greg has been feeling better at times and worse at times while dealing with ongoing nausea and fatigue, which could be caused by the cancer, the chemo drug, or any of the other medications he's on. We've had a few visitors- mostly family- which has been great, but are limiting the amount of interactions just because he is tired and a lot of times just feeling too lousy to converse. Greg's parents, Larry and Patti and his brother, Mark, came up for the afternoon yesterday, which was wonderful, especially since they just had made the trek last week and watched the kids and took care of everything while we were in the hospital the first time. My parents, Stanton and Diane, are here right now watching the kids and transforming our apartment!  Such great parents!

Some of you may not know, but 2 months ago we moved into an apartment right next door to our good friends, the Bergins (Mark Bergin is a pastor at The Painted Door and who we helped plant the church with 5 years ago) and Greg started feeling unwell right when we moved, so our house has still been partially unpacked up to this point. And if you know Greg or I at all, having boxes and clutter and things generally not settled was causing all kinds of aesthetic stress!  Greg would say characteristically pessimistic things like, "What have we done?" "We've made a terrible decision" and I would say unrealistically optimistic things like, "No. This place will be great, I just need to do 438 things to get it in shape...." (We're a great team when we can meet in the middle...)    But with kids and illness and Christmas, maybe 3 of those projects had actually been completed! However, this week, with the help of my parents moving things, building custom furniture (thanks Dad!!!), our small group moving some things to a storage area, our friend Kyle volunteering to do some painting while we're at the hospital and Tom and Jenni Keating making the incredible sacrifice of going on an Ikea run for us (Sooooooo sorry, Tom. You are a true friend.)... our home should feel more like a home and less like a college kid's apartment when we hopefully return soon!! (No offense, college kids.) You all don't know how grateful we are!

And in general, we have been overwhelmed with everyone's kindness and prayers and acts of service, you have literally been the hands and feet of Jesus to us. I know many of you that I love so much have reached out or sent messages and I just haven't had the time or opportunity to respond, but please know that I love you all and wish I could sit down with each of you and talk and catch up. But until then, we'll try to keep things updated here. Some of our incredible friends are also working on a website that will be more public and have links with practical ways to help. I'll let you all know when that is up and running.

Thank you again for your prayers and love. For those of you who enjoy poetry and imagery, I'll leave you with this poem that I read the other day. It's beautiful and I can't stop thinking about it and how I feel it conveys our gratitude right now during this heavy time and the bizarreness of how the Holy Spirit can swell in us such gratitude and thankfulness despite the weight pressing in on us. (Thought I doubt this was the author's original intent. But, nevertheless...)

Thanks.

Listen 
with the night falling we are saying thank you 
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings 
we are running out of the glass rooms 
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky 
and say thank you 
we are standing by the water thanking it 
smiling by the windows looking out 
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging 
after funerals we are saying thank you 
after the news of the dead 
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you 
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators 
remembering wars and the police at the door 
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you 
in the banks we are saying thank you 
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us 
our lost feelings we are saying thank you 
with the forests falling faster than the minutes 
of our lives we are saying thank you 
with the words going out like cells of a brain 
with the cities growing over us 
we are saying thank you faster and faster 
with nobody listening we are saying thank you 
we are saying thank you and waving 
dark though it is

- W. S. Merwin, 1927

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JAN 11, 2015 / UPDATE
We just got an update that his sodium levels have crashed again and are back down to 116, which is where they were when we were admitted. And his resting heart rate is racing. Pray for guidance for the doctors and for Greg to be able to purposefully relax while they're figuring this out.

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Trying to find a vein for over an hour.

JAN 11, 2015 / MISERABLE
If anyone is up in the middle of the night, say a prayer for some new complications within the last few hours. Greg's developed a fever, a painful bruise on his right hip that feels hot to the touch and swelling in his legs. Also, he's a bit uncomfortable at the moment because they need to draw blood for a blood culture tonight and are having a really terrible time finding a vein because he's been poked and prodded so many times over the last week or so. In short, pretty miserable. Pray for some relief and resolution of some of these symptoms! 

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This was our room after the crash team of about 15 doctors swarmed in with all their equipment to stabilize Greg and take him to the ICU.

JAN 11, 2015 / ICU
Greg's condition deteriorated overnight and he is now in the ICU. They are working on stabilizing his blood pressure and heart rate and will be inserting a central line soon. The sodium level is still a major issue, but will have to be addressed after everything else is ok. He also developed what looks like a pretty bad infection on his right hip yesterday, which may be causing some of the issues, or compounding them. They will be doing more tests today to hopefully find out what is going on. 

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JAN 12, 2015 / BACTERIAL INFECTION
Yesterday was one of the scariest days of our lives. We're not out of the woods yet, but we made it through the night with some decent rest in the ICU and no additional complications. 

Right now, the most threatening issue Greg is facing is a very fast and aggressive bacterial infection in his right leg/hip area. They have gone back and forth on a diagnosis between cellulitis and flesh-eating bacteria, but the last report we got after a CT scan was that they think it's cellulitis. (Which we were obviously relieved to hear and hope that diagnosis sticks.) But, either way, it is putting Greg in a precarious position and the massive infection is affecting his electrolyte levels, blood pressure, heart rate, etc. Thankfully, here in the ICU, they seem to have those stabilized and we feel much more comfortable on this floor with more ears and eyes on him. He is incredibly drowsy from the heavy painkillers, but still able to sporadically converse. We brought the kids here yesterday — pray for them as this is confusing and probably a little scary. Other than that, I think at this point you all may know how to pray for this better than I! Life has slowed down to a moment by moment thing and I'm not really thinking much further than the next few minutes and I guess that's ok. We are just waiting for the antibiotics to work and hoping to avoid major surgery right now. We should know within 24 hours if the antibiotics are having some effect. 

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JAN 12, 2015 / CALM
Greg is sleeping for a few minutes. Today had slowly moved along with some good news and bad news. The antibiotics seem to be working some on his infection, the skin looks less red than it did last night. However, the infection and the medications keeping him stabilized have taken a toll on his organs, particularly his kidneys and liver. So he is dealing with the effects of those organs not being able to do what God created them to optimally do. Also, he has developed a blood clotting condition called DIC that can lead to severe bleeding issues because of a low amount of clotting agents in his blood. And he has sepsis (bacteria in the blood) from the infection. They have seen people pull out of situations like this, but the prognosis is pretty grim and we are aware of that. So, we are feeling tired yet peaceful somehow, albeit with a constant frog in our throat. Greg and I talked after the last update from the doctor and he was expressing how he knows right now that God is protecting him right now from fear and worry and giving him a strong sense of peace and calmness. His only complaint is that he wishes he could talk with everyone more. (He is suffering from extreme dry mouth which makes talking difficult, and extreme drowsiness that causes him to nod off a few times every minute... which can be a little comical at times...) If you know Greg, he is so highly relational despite being highly introverted. He hates going to parties and events (even church most of the time) because the thought of that many people stresses him out, yet he'll always be the last person there because he'll have an hour long conversation with each person he talks to until I finally drag him home. And those conversations are always genuine, he really loves all of you. And wishes now that he could have another conversation like that with you. Please keep us in your prayers as I know so many of you are. 

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JAN 13, 2015 / ISAIAH 42:16
Greg has asked me to read this scripture to him multiple times since yesterday: 

And I will lead the blind in a way that they do not know, in paths that they have not known. I will guide them.

I will turn the darkness before them into light, the rough places into level ground.
    These are the things I do,
    and I do not forsake them.

And we have been particularly comforted by this version from The Message:

But I’ll take the hand of those who don’t know the way, who can’t see where they’re going.

I’ll be a personal guide to them, directing them through unknown country.

I’ll be right there to show them what roads to take, make sure they don’t fall into the ditch. These are the things I’ll be doing for them—sticking with them, not leaving them for a minute. 

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JAN 13, 2015 / HOSPICE
We are heading to hospice, thank you for your love. We feel it. 

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JAN 14, 2015 / IT IS FINISHED
Posted by Pastor Mark Bergin

It is finished. Greg died a little after 10pm Tuesday in the company of many close friends and family.

The moment of his passing could not have been more holy. As his breathing grew increasingly labored, Sam asked everyone to gather around and sing. After several familiar hymns, Sam asked her mom, Diane, to sing a song that has been of particular comfort to the family for some years. During the final verse, Greg peacefully breathed his last breath.

It was a fitting end to a beautiful life. Earlier in the day, when Greg was still able to converse, he spoke words of thanks for all the time and love God had given throughout his 37 years. His heart was full. And he was not afraid.

Later, after Greg was moved to hospice care, he could not speak easily. But the words he managed were full of faith and rest. At one point, it became clear he wanted to say something. He struggled to lift his chin and proclaimed to the room: “We need Jesus.”

Yes. And Greg, our friend, taught us that with his whole life.