Friday, October 22, 2010

New Home

I've been working on migrating this blog to a new spot, . I am sentimental about leaving this url. It's just that there's so much more for me to do at the new url...please follow me if you can.

Thursday, October 21, 2010


We just have to do it. 

That thing you know you have to do, the one you promised or the one that is right. The one that takes extra time, but helps others. 

You have to do it, and you have to stop waiting for the correct motivation to do it. That's the trap. The devil's in the motivations. He doesn't want you to do it.

Satan can't assail the good thing. It's good and he can't change its goodness nor its impact on who receives it. 

So he sets out trying to keep you from doing it at all. Listen to the whispers today - "He only apologized because he HAD to," they whisper. "He's helping those people so he can get people to look at him."

Here's a good one: "I will do it, but I'm just not in a good place right now. I'm too (fat, tired, upset, insert MadLibs adjective here)."

When you listen to the whispers...who suffers? When you abstain from the good deed, the thing you promised, the obligation, the kindness, you suffer, and the recipient suffers. And people around them. 

Worse yet, you're nowhere you're supposed to be. You were supposed to the thing, and let God do what he wanted with you and that deed. Screw the motivations. Do it.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Ethan's Birthday

My Ethan turned 7 yesterday.

I'll let alot of you who know me...who know what has happened for 7/8 stop and take that one in.

So I remember Ethan being born. I remember going through the tension of the birth and the tension of everything and remember holding him and thinking: I don't even know where I'm going to live in a month.

It feels like not much has changed in 7 years. Still trying to figure out where my address will be in September and living on the razor's edge.

Then again, so much has much it hurts. A lot of joy and pain. A lot of living.

Ethan is the gentlest of spirits with profound gifts. He's got big eyes that get bigger as he tells a story. He sings - oh my, he can sing - and every day, he goes and noodles on the piano, finding thirds and playing with a strange moving left hand against notes with his right.

But Ethan's greatest gift was given to him. He has a heart for Christ that is really different from any of his brothers or sisters, different from any kid I've met. He talks about Jesus all the time.

We're throwing the baseball and I keep telling him to stop flinching at the ball. And stop waiting for it. Step towards it and catch it. "Like Jesus, right dad?," Ethan offers from his "Little Visits With God" head, "we have to reach out to him and not be afraid?"

Yes Ethan. We have to.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Everything Would Not Be Better

There's nothing rational about writing a note to your dad in Heaven on Facebook. I think it just shows what you're doing, which is trying to show everyone the hole in your insides so that they can...something.

Because what everyone's going to do is the only thing everyone can, and that is to tell me that hey, 77 years is a good long time. And Zoe wasn't supposed to be around too long.

These are both true statements. I'll even help with the true statements: Dad was so frail that I was afraid I'd break him when I hugged him, which was just strange. My favorite explanation of Dad's athleticism was when he assessed Andreas and me: we were better athletes. We played more sports well, had a wider muscle knowledge of lots of different things.

But, he said, he knew he could beat us in a race. Him in his prime, it wouldn't be close.

All bravado? I don't think so. I saw him run. And I also think he was being generous with his sports assessment. The point is, this was a guy who wasn't just good, he knew he was good and he was plainly unafraid-from a physical perspective-of anything.

So hugging him and feeling like I could snap his ribs wasn't right. I'll throw that in on our list of reasons it's grand Dad and Zoe are gone.. I'm of course not even mentioning how good he's got it now, and Zoe. How his heart only had to be broken for four days - four days from Zoe going home to his death.

I have no idea why I keep crying. Just all these jagged edges sticking out. Pride and pain. Missing. Dad and Zoe both had sweaty heads. So if my head sweats, I break down because I'm them and they are me and yet they are gone and I'm here and nothing is right.

Nothing would be better if they were here. I'd be sleeping less, owe a lot more. I'd be crying about their physical state.

But nothing is better now that they're gone. Not sure where to put it. Turns out the fist-sized hole in my wall was as cathartic as a Facebook post.

Help Is Hard

I didn't make this up.

I got a call sometime in the last three years from a guild or something at church. The holidays coming up and all, so maybe you all would like a Thanksgiving dinner? 

I'm kind of a food snob, but honestly, with Jen in the hospital and just so much going on...we were swimming in so much...I was actually interested. Sure. A holiday dinner would work. And it would be kind of comfort food. 

They said to swing by on such and such a day to pick it up.

So I did and I got a frozen turkey and some boxes of stuff. Ta-da! Help!

Quickly...I don't fault the church or anyone. We were given something, and it was very nice. It was. It's just a great thought for all of you who are caught staring at a person in pain, and you're asking them if you can "do anything." "Is there anything I can do?" "If there's anything I can do."

For those paralyzed in pain, lost in shame, being specific won't come easy. You are the helper. Do your best to give something beyond a frozen bird. Love specifically. Love recklessly. 

Friday, July 09, 2010


Caleb has Trisomy 18. Jen spends a lot of each day checking her Facebook and hoping he's ok. In this video, you'll see he's pretty ok.

Oh, by the way, the Social Security Administration denied Caleb's parents for Social Security. Because the SSN doesn't understand what is needed to care for a Trisomy 18 baby - he's practically dead, don't you know - they denied the application.

Thursday, July 08, 2010


Jen and I have been spending a good amount of time on our laptops. We sit in bed next to each other on our laptops. We'll comment on things to each other and then on our laptops. For me, it's work. I'm handling some grassroots stuff on a volunteer basis for a friend.

Jen's staying connected to the other moms of Trisomy babies around the world.

I have to admit that I just want her to stop. It breaks her heart. It frustrates her, it drives her crazy. She reads about children being denied medical care because they have Trisomy. About an 18 year old mom who doesn't know what to do.

More than once, Jen has asked, "C'mon. Can't one live? Can't we have one?"

Mostly, the answer is no. Today, sitting at my computer and complaining silently about all of the work I'm doing while being unemployed, I witnessed the birth and death of a Trisomy 18 baby named Cathal.

I don't know Cathal from anyone. Just I know it's not fair. This isn't fair.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

What's Happening

Jen says I should come on here and write some kind of farewell.

I don't know if I'm done. I just don't know. I don't want to come on here and whine about how terrible, how awful, how unrelentingly painful it is to be unemployed when what you did was live out the gifts God gave you, to be filled with unrelenting passion every morning.

A few of my friends approached me, and one had no idea where I was emotionally or psychologically, and both impressed on me how I had to forgive the people for what they've done to me.

That's a tall order, and not just because the people who fired me left me with four days of health insurance and no severance at all.

It's because I will probably forever be the kid picked last. The short little runt, shortest or second shortest in his class, and when they picked me last, I said to myself, "I'm gonna make them all pay." And I did.

It's hard not to just be motivated by pure vengeance.

But it's such a terrible motivator, especially minute to minute. Especially when you're feeling so much longing and loss at other parts of your life.

So this swirled muddle is a worthless place for a blog. What do you want to know? I'm still unemployed, nearly two months later. We've reached the end of all cash flow and we're hoping something happens.

We both miss our Zoe so much that it just makes me cry. Right now, it makes me cry. And what I'd do when anything like Zoe or lose my job happens is call my Dad and he'd give me the right thing. But He's done here on Earth, and... and I don't know.

Plus...Facebook. Twitter. Facebook and Twitter for people I'm helping.

I just don't think the story is over. Even if no one reads this or anything in the future, I think I"m not done. There's still a story to tell.

Talk to you soon.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Friday, May 14, 2010


I have a huge justice problem. I want justice and I want it now. I want to see people experience the pain I am. Wrestle with supporting their family like I do. I want revenge.

Maybe I just have a waiting problem. I don't want to wait to find out what's on the next page, or what's in store. Not when so much seems to be riding on now. I don't feel like my family or my creditors or my dreams can wait.

Maybe I just have an arrogance problem. I've put myself in the middle of the universe and now that I'm searching, filled with questions and pain, the whole universe is. If I'm impatient, then the universe is impatient.

In this moment I am alive and Zoe's in God's arms. And the wind outside is wafting through the lilacs. A lawnmower grinds and hums. There's not a lot of problems in this moment when I live it with Him, in Him.  The moment isn't the least bit clausterphobic.

Monday, May 10, 2010


My dad used to play medium pitch over hand softball. I don't think I've ever seen anything like it since, but it was a good idea: you pitch overhand but you can't pitch too fast. So instead of altering your swing radically for those moonball slo-pitches, you are kind of taking batting practice.

If this means nothing to you, it's ok. It meant not much to me when I was in second grade.

But my dad was good at the sport. He could pitch overhand - his high school career included several no-no's and even a perfect game. He could throw four pitches. And, he could hit. Now that I'm bigger and older, I realize that his ability to hit was pretty profound, all desire and physics. But he could rip the ball.

By second grade, Dad had already spent a good amount of time talking to me about the correct transfer of weight synched with the swing of the bat. Eyes on ball, wrists back. Efficient and powerful. Follow through.

So, I'd go to Dad's games and I was tasked with watching his swing. After the game, Dad would get in the VW Bug and ask me about each at bat, about what I saw. It was the gateway into so many aspects of what I was taught, who Dad is, and who he wanted me to be. At second grade, he wanted me to have excellent powers of observation and critical thinking, to offer my opinion to a superior unafraid. To assess an action independent of my overwhelming emotion.

I remember telling him that I thought he was moving in the box. Rocking back, then forward. That his eyes had left the ball and looked to where he wanted to hit. Looking back, it's occurring to me as I write this that one of Dad's biggest obstacles was when what he wanted to do got in the way of what he was doing.

So it's 35 years later and I'm breaking down what was and is. Critical thinking has allowed me to get a degree and success in a variety of fields. I've gotten pretty good at it. I realize I could have worked a lot less hard at work and still have my job. That I wish I would have made my older kids work harder at what they loved. That I should never have bought that conversion van. It's a long list.

I just got back from visiting my little brother. When I asked him about his life, he gave me a shockingly uncritical response. If you had xxxx and then xxxx happened, what would you have done? I asked. His response: that didn't happen. But, I offered, if you had xxxx in the past, then of course you'd be in a different spot. True, he responded, but xxxx didn't happen.

Everything is as it should be. God has guided events so that where things are today is where He wants them to be. No amount of critical thinking of the past or future is going to improve, add, or subtract from where we are now.

Our God Is In Control

by Steven Curtis Chapman

This is not how it should be
This is not how it could be
This is how it is
Our God is in control

This is not how it will be
When we finally will see
We’ll see with our own eyes
He was always in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is in our God
And we will finally really understand what it means
So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is in our God
While we’re waiting for that day

This is not where we planned to be
When we started this journey
This is where we are
And Our God is in control

Though this first taste is bitter
There will be sweetness forever
When we finally taste and see
That Our God is in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is in our God
And we will finally really understand what it means
So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is in our God
While we’re waiting for that day
We’re waiting for that day
We’ll keep on waiting for that day

And we will know
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Pin Prick

Izzi told me that they were testing their own blood in class. They had to stick themselves, get some blood, and then perform a series of tests on it.

She couldn't prick herself. It was too hard. So hard that she actually had to ask someone else to do it for her.

I remember experiencing the same problem when I found out my Selah had type 1 diabetes. In 48 hours, you're in a class, and the teacher is telling you you have to stick your daughter. I wasn't the only parent in tears. Why was this happening?

I'm guessing there are more than a few of you out there who aren't quite sure what I mean. It's a pin, it sticks you. It won't kill you. It won't even hurt that bad. There's only a little blood, and then it stops.

That's all I have when I think of how we'll recall our lives here on this Earth. The odds of us remembering pain will be akin in amplitude and duration to remembering a pin prick. Remember that time you pricked your finger in high school? Kind of. I remember doing it. It didn't last long. I remember being afraid.

Tuesday, May 04, 2010

I Know My Redeemer Lives

Job 19:25 (New International Version)

 25 I know that my Redeemer [a] lives,
       and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. [b]

Job lost it all. His wife and his kids and his riches and his health. Job lost way more than me. And when it came down to the end of himself, Job just said: I know my Redeemer lives. 

And if I could help, I'd say: that's it. I know the ending. I know that I'll see my daughter in her glory and my father in his, and all of Heaven rejoicing. 

And there will be no tears. And this moment will be just a sliver of time.

I know that my Redeemer lives. And that's it. I don't know if I'll ever do the job I loved, or work with the people I love, or the clients I truly enjoyed. I don't know if we get to stay in this house.

I know my redeemer lives.

About Those Writing Samples

Self-sabotage? I don't know what I have for writing samples. I always thought I'd be doing video, so I started to just get rid of them.

..he wrote.

The best, maybe the only, non-script I've written in the past three years I've written for you. Just not sure that's what a potential employer had in mind as he/she/they are looking for that sa-weeet web copy. Or billboard.

Right now, the goal is to scoop up whatever I can and hopefully not let my former employers do too much to Isabel's graduation, Selah's insulin, or Kellen's basketball camps.

Monday, May 03, 2010


A cloudless blue sky and the sun - gone for weeks at a time through the winter - explodes through brand-new leaves and bursts through my window. Energy's 93 million mile journey ends on my skin.

Even in the spring warmth, the air of this place is harsher without my Dad. Without my daughter's smile and gurgle. Without a job.

We're pretty simple people, far less complex than we'd like to think. I heard an ad on the radio yesterday where a guy said his fiancee' had parted ways with him, and he was broken and despondent, but then she changed her mind, and he was so blessed. So thankful.

And I mocked him a little. To think our faith would be bolstered by the whim of a woman is as silly, I guess, as thinking that God is raining judgement on me through the shallow, selfish mind of my former boss. Why am I associating blessing and joy - or pain - with people's affirmation, or a few rays of  sun? Am I that easily distracted?

Saturday, May 01, 2010

What I've Got

Woke up this morning and feel so confident that God will make this all right. I just experience spiritual and emotional decay throughout the day, as the worries and troubles mount. But for right now, I am the richest man alive. Family, brother, sisters, friends. And the cross. 

And this song by my friend Robbie Seay. So lay aside the heavy doubts you bring:

Got brothers by my side | Sisters at my right | And hands that hold my own and won’t let go | Got a love that won’t subside | Leaving all my fears behind | And grace at every turn, and so I know || I am not alone | I am not alone | I will ever find that You’re my home | I am not alone || 

There’s a narrow road to walk | That’s wide enough for all | So lay aside the heavy doubts you bring | The strongest and the weak | Oldest and the meek | All meet at the cross, and we will sing || 

We are not alone | We are not alone | We will ever find that You’re our home | Oh, we are not alone | We are not alone | We will ever find that You’re our home | We are not alone ||

‘Cause You said You’d never leave us | When You came and when You freed us | You never left us for a moment, God | And You never will disown us | When we know that You are for us | You never leave us for a moment, God || The greatest and the least | Broken and redeemed | All meet at the cross, and we will sing | We will sing | We will sing | We will sing | We will sing || 

You came, and You freed us | And You will never leave us | Now we are singing, oh 

What?? You haven't bought Robbie's album? What's wrong with you? If you follow this blog, then you love his ministry. And you know what he's done for this family.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Meet Me Here

I'm writing this post from home, at my kitchen table.

I'm home, at my kitchen table because I was fired on Monday. And the reasons I was given were specious, and my replacement was already in the building, ready to be announced.

So, one day shy of the three month anniversary of my life's biggest tragedy, I've got a whole new one to ponder and explore.

God's promise is that he'll meet me here. So, come, Lord Jesus.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Dance In Peace, Michael Zechariah Clements

On my way home January 28, Jenny told me that I really didn't want to see Zoe's frail lifeless body. She wasn't there, she told me.

So I didn't. I hang on to the last picture I took and even now, I close my eyes and try to remember what her smooth face felt against my cheek. Hear her laugh - best she could - when we played.

I think what destroys us parents is that Zoe is all better and we have to wait to see her. She can sing now, sing better than her mama, but we have to wait to hear it. That she laughs and can't stop talking like her brothers, but barring Jesus' return, we're stuck with piecing together our projection of what she looks like. And wonder if we'll know her, and she'll know us. On this earth, even after 96 weeks and 4 days, Zoe could barely lift her leg with a shoe on it.

Now her form is glorified and if you'd meet her, if you didn't know better, you'd want to bow down and worship her instead of the Glorifier inside her.

Bittersweet. Sometimes...heck, all the time, that's the best we get as parents. I raise my kids to grow up and be God followers, to love each other and work hard, and believe. Zoe did. And so do the others. But...I don't want them to go.

Bittersweet is what I'd call my relationship with my brother, Shane Clements. I found him on Twitter, a little over a year ago, asking us all for prayers for little Michael, even before Michael was born. He, unfortunately...yet fortunately...shares my torture. Minus 92 weeks and a day.

I never met Michael but I figure he's like his daddy, pressing and seeking God's heart, even right now. He's complete now, and his dad saw him broken and loved him all the same. Shane wanted Michael whole again, and Shane got his wish. After 17 days.

Michael is dancing with Zoe and he never had to know what it's like to lose, never had to learn what torture even means. Glorify. That's what he knows. Magnify.

And when God sees Shane someday, Shane's going to hear words I'll tell him now, but nowhere nearly as perfect or complete: You did it right, Shane. I'm so proud of you. Well done.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Fly Away

We went to Destin almost two weeks ago. It's the last spot our entire family vacationed together, and it is, to a person, our favorite place in the world. The stretch of beach called Miramar has clear blue Gulf and powder-fine sand. When we visit, it's always idyllically warm, no bugs, just lots of suntan lotion and a day split between the beach and the pool.

Jenny walked down the beach, back to where we were last year, and as she walked, she discovered a little shell that we have all called "butterfly shell" because it looks like two wings joined almost invisibly in the middle. She brought her butterfly shell home.

A few days later, I went out at low tide. I just like it when the water's receded and sand bars protrude, as if you're there at Earth's first day, the first person to stand on a never-discovered island. I had no intention of doing anything but walking and listening to the waves, but I'm my father's son, and I saw flecks of beauty revealed in the receding water. Beautiful shells. I picked some up, and after a few steps, became selective. 

That day I found some beautiful butterfly shells. Must have been the season for them. I didn't want to crush them, and being improperly prepared, I just held my shells in my right hand as I wandered down the shore.

As I returned, my hand was mostly full. Incredible colors, some intriguing fossilizations, some just perfect. I kept the butterfly shells on the top of my stack, so I wouldn't break them. 

A funny thing happened.

A gust of wind would blow, and a butterfly shell would catch the breeze, and fly out of my hand. I'd stop, hustle to the shell before it was recovered by water and sand, put it gently back into my hand, and keep walking. 

And it happened again. And again. And being my father's son, I laughed. Because Dad always found the appropriate amount of humor in things by imagining someone watching himself as he was doing something. Here I was, middle-aged man, walking down the beach, chasing shells flying out of my hand. 

I couldn't hold the butterfly shells too tightly - they might break. And I couldn't keep them from catching the breeze. If I was going to take them back to our room, I'd have to keep chasing them.

We can't hold on to them tightly enough. We still can't. Whatever my dad and Zoe began as, they were made to fly away. 

Monday, March 22, 2010

Zoe's Birthday

I've started this entry three times, starting last night. And I've stopped and stared at my entry. It just wasn't good enough and I don't know. I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or sad or if I'm supposed to miss her terribly or rejoice in her Heavenly home. I am all of those things.

But that's a lot of "I"s and that's what has made me stop writing.

This is Zoe's birthday, and from her first moment here, Zoe fought. Zoe fought and smiled while fighting. Zoe never said a word to me but I think if she could have she'd say that I'm supposed to be happy and rejoicing, and that I'm not supposed to quit. That she didn't quit. Her body was overcome by this sinful place but that, at best was a tie.

And now she wins.

I wish I could explain to you all of the things: the pressures and pain and temptations. The sadness that racks me almost instantaneously. The longing to look into her eyes. I wish I could explain how hard pressed I am at work, how Jen is staggering and stumbling - but bulling her way through her job.

But that's a lot of "I"s and it's Zoe's birthday.

Zoe lived simply and she loved completely and on her birthday, that's not a bad lesson for a mom and dad and family that are caught in a sea of stuff. Live simply and love completely. And smile.

On Zoe's birthday, she's given me a present.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

He Knows

God loved His Son as much as I loved Zoe. More. So the being that can create the Nile River and the Grand Canyon with a word watched as His Son died.

And He loved His son as much as I love Zoe. But for me, I yelled for someone - for God - to do something. But He didn't. Just like when His Son died.

God knows. This is something He knows. I've wrestled my whole life if God knows, really knows what it's like to be in a bad relationship like i've been or to be tempted like I am.

But this is something He unequivocally knows.

Sunday, March 07, 2010

Two Things

These two broadcast commercials are part of a huge on-air buy by Mr. Neumann everywhere but the Milwaukee market in Wisconsin. The commercial I shoot soon will include Milwaukee. I wrote and directed them with my team. As anyone in this industry knows....what you see isn't quite what I wrote...but close. :)

Featured: three of my friend...mother in law...nephew...


Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. - Matthew 5:4

The sermon text last week was this verse, and the pastor went out of his way to explain that mourning might not just mean mourning a death, and that blessed doesn't just mean "blessed" but another word. 

If you google the above verse, you'll get more sermons and thoughts from very intelligent men who say things like mourning might be if you lose a tough game. 

I'm going to stick with the verse for mourn. I'm not the only man who has lost his father, and honestly, if the actuarial tables work right, many of us will lose one or both of our parents while we walk this earth. And you'll mourn. 

And...losing a child - hopefully most of you will never even have to consider that loss. But you're going to find an almost larger-than-it-should-be part of our world has experienced. 

So while mourn might mean a 3-2 loss, i'm good with leaving it mourning amidst death because that's where we live, you and I. In this terrible place where people leave every day. Every minute. 

And I think the Bible guys got pretty close with "blessed." To me, "happy" is a frail thin shell of "blessed." To me, happiness is fleeting and non-essential. But blessed is necessary and worth seeking. "Blessed" meaning God is near. Not an emotion, just a statement of truth. "Heavy are rhinoceroses." Heavy is just what they are. We could try to figure different words to mean the same thing but we might do just as well to understand what "heavy" means.

The part where there's bigger holes in the translation is "comforted." Mostly because I'm not sure we spend any time knowing what that means. Meaning that most of us don't stop and think of how we comfort or if we know how to comfort or if the things we think are comforting are truly comforting. 

Check this out: the verb is the same verb used in this verse in Matthew 18:9: "29"His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.'"

The verb is the same as the part where the fellow servant begged him. 

Ok, instead of "comfort",  we have this verb that means to "call to one's side, beseech, to beg."

Who's doing the begging?

It says "they will be comforted." Me, the one who mourns. I am not the caller, not the one beseeching. Not the one exhorting. 

This God who catches each of our tears in His palm is coming to us and kneeling in front of us and calling us to Him. He's the one who's opening his arms and gently, emotionally, with great care, calling us to Him. Please, Greg. Please come here. Please, Greg. Come here and put your head on my chest and let me enfold you with the only thing that will make sense. Come.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010


I'm using a cool iPhone app to try and read my way through the Bible. A lot stands out to me- a lot I thought I knew was slightly different than I remembered.

One of the most interesting parts is how early - by chapter 4 of the first book of the Bible - people are sacrificing to the Lord. And God's desiring it, even drawing conclusions about His people by their sacrifices. When Noah finally gets out of the Ark onto dry land, God makes his promise to never flood the Earth again - after he smells Noah's sacrifice. The way it's written, it's like God's promise was a reaction not to the severity of the flood, but to the sweetness of Noah's sacrifice.

Through all the stuff we've been through, I realize that our first reaction to tragedy is so childishly selfish, it's almost infantile. Jen called me last night. The van had a flat tire. I answered, "Oh...great." I was mad. we've had enough, haven't we? I don't want flat tires. When I found out about my father's tremendous decline, I was so angry. ANGRY. Is this the way God treats his servants? Lets them fall into terrible weakness? I was afraid. Afraid that in 30 years or so, that'd be me, and my kids would be struggling to deal with my weakness, and I'd be someone they'd be caring for.

Look, I don't want to sacrifice anything. I've been holding everything as tightly as I can. But the undeniable lesson is that what we're clutching isn't ours.

So it goes. I want Zoe back so I can hold her in her damaged body and feel her smiling face against my cheek. I want that. I want it so bad it breaks my heart. So does Nancy.

I never would have guessed life is this hard. But it's infinitely harder if we don't understand sacrifice, and how it pleases God and makes us somehow closer to the things He wants us to be.

The sacrifice He's asking for us us. To climb on to the altar and offer up our lives that we're so desperately trying to own and control. To learn the lesson that the earliest humans knew - that God loves a good sacrifice. It pleases Him. It draws Him close.

Take my sacrifice. I'm afraid I don't have much left. Make me new.

The Altar
by Nichole Nordemann

I'm at the end of myself, I just dropped out of the running
I don't recall when I last pulled the shades and said "here comes the sun, here comes the new day"
Someone remind me again that joy might show up on occasion
I'm sitting here with my hands on my head, and my eyes on the ground, wondering if I'll be found by You

Will you make me new? Will you take what's left of me?
I guarantee that it won't be a fair trade.
Will you set me free from what's keeping me afraid?
I know I've prayed it all before, but I'm back on the altar

I don't believe what they say about one foot in front of the other
If my life was a map, you'd see every last step just circling around, still lost, never found by You

So will you make me new? Will you take what's left of me?
I guarantee that it won't be a fair trade.
Will you set me free from what's keeping me afraid?
I know I've prayed it all before, but I'm back on the altar

Maybe last year I'd have made empty promises
Maybe last month I'd have tried to pull strings
But I don't have one single chip left to bargain with
The only thing left is me needing You to make me new

Will you take what's left of me?
I guarantee that it won't be a fair trade
Will you set me free from what's keeping me afraid?
I know I've prayed it all before
But I'm back
On the altar 

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Better Days

I'm sure there are people out there who are pretty sure we're sleepwalking through these days. Tearful, sad. And that is true. 

But then, it's also true that life didn't stop and wait for us to work through something. It hasn't stopped once when I cry. It moves on and some of it is incredible, hilarious, marvelous. 

Aidan reported the other day that his butt felt better today. This was a relief, although we hadn't heard that his butt felt bad. 

Last night at the dinner table Ethan was trying to break out the "made you look" that he had just learned. So he kept trying to get Selah to look behind her. He had the fundamentals down, although there were two major problems with his delivery:

1. tell someone to look at something that quite possibly could be behind you. A spider is always a good one. Ethan told Selah there was a HEDGEHOG behind her. 
2. i capitalize HEDGEHOG to indicate that when Ethan said the word HEDGEHOG his eyes grew very large. He has big blue eyes, but now we would see the big blue eyes and lots of white. I was concerned I might have to pick an eyeball off of his plate.

We also have our first driver in the house. Isabel went to get her drivers license in a snowstorm. I told her as she went out that if she failed her test, and that was the worst thing that happened this week, then it'd be a good week. But she passed and we don't really see her very often, but I hear that she's doing well. 

Teia's been steadfastly cleaning stuff in our garage for a project she has in her sights. This is good because the project pays money and because our garage is getting cleaned. Teia is always steadfastly Teia, with both feet firmly on the ground. 

Kellen's feet left the ground a few times last night while I almost lost my voice at his basketball game. I'm excited at how hard he plays and how he's beginning to understand that this life will demand so much of him. Yes, I'm one of those dads who believes athletics is a gateway to life. Would it surprise you to know that I was violently sick before a college tournament game but showed up for pregame, and coach told me to go back to my room, but i looked him square in the eyes and told him, "Coach, I'm playing." So I started and played the entire game. I remember none of it. 

Selah earned a speaking part in her play, and did it incredibly well. Selah is an inspired liar. I guess it's best to describe it as "improv." She'll tell stories with so much energy and animation that you aren't sure what percentage is made up. Surely 50%. Surely she didn't stab Benny in the thigh with a pencil. But is Benny a real person? We keep listening, and she's smirking and giggling at herself mid-lie. 

But there's still chats like the one I had with Elises above. And Jen, still in bed right now, clutching a little teddy bear that Zoe knew was hers. It's like the water's beautiful, inviting, warm. But there's a part that is so deep and cold. 

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Purple Paraments

It's Lent, which is a better season than we give it credit for. There was a time, long ago, when i led a Bible study at my house, when we'd focus on the weeks and days that preceded Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem. It just put my heart right, and it was always wonderful to walk with Christ...kind of understand his state of mind. If any of you out there were with me back then (i doubt it) ...i miss you.

One thing I know is that the season of Lent has 40 days, but is actually 45 days long. That's because the Sundays aren't included in Lent. Lent is a time of sacrifice, of focusing on Jesus' suffering. But on Sundays, we have to take care of business. Sundays are when we celebrate Easter.

So I was wondering if the paraments on the altar changed on Sunday. A complete Lutheran nerd question. I asked a few people and I pulled out of church...I'd just call dad.

I know that death happens to everyone and everyone who faces it runs into that moment. It happens when i come home from work, put my keys down, and turn the corner. And there's no baby. But the fact that we all share that moment of absolute loss means nothing to me. It sucks.

Anyways...let me share a song that I accidentally fumbled across on the way up to Dad's funeral. It was still is. Bat and Zoe had the two most infectious smiles I might ever encounter. If you know what I know, you can't wipe their smile off your face.

There's A Reason
by mercyme

Now's the time
Let the redeemed celebrate
If you know what I know
You can't wipe the smile off your face
Oh people, stand up and praise

There's a reason to dance
There's a reason to sing
Of the sacred romance
With our Savior and King
We lift up our hands
We fall on our knees
To the Son of Man
The reason we are free

There's a reason

All glory to
The King of Kings, Lord of Lords
Oh the value of Your worth
No worldly treasures can afford

And we praise You forevermore

There's a reason to stand
There's a reason to shout, to shout Your name on high
So we take up our cross, there's a reason to die
Because Jesus is alive

There's a reason
You are the reason
The reason we are free

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Old Pictures

Teia's boss made an offer she can't refuse - sell his old stuff on eBay and Craig's List and she can keep 60%. Pretty good gig. Trouble is, our house is filled to the gills so Teia went out to our garage to make space for the boss's junk.

So, getting rid of some our junk so that she can bring some other junk in.

Teia came across a box of pictures - pictures from the old days. Pictures of other lives, houses. The kind of pictures where you have to guess what baby Dad is holding.

Kellen and Aidan could be twins. The big kids when they were the only kids. Little tiny Elise - with the big big wail. All this time passing...we're growing. We're growing old.

And I'm sure there's no time in Heaven. I'm sure that we're connected to those memories without the pictures. Connected to our praise and scars and those moments when we ministered and were left behind and found.

I'm sure that when I get there it will feel like I just entered along with the woman at the well and Dad and Zoe. And everyone will experience the joy, the flood of memory, the feel of wizened life and joyous rebirth you feel when you look at old pictures. It will make us young and old and perfect.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Something Terrible and Glorious

I boarded the plane - a little one hour hop from Milwaukee to Indianapolis. 

But it was the first time I've been on a plane since I was headed home and my Snoopy was gone, leaving behind a little 12 pound shell of cold beauty and sickness.


As the plane rose above Lake Michigan, the plane banked, and through my tears I couldn't tell whether I was looking at the deep blue sky or the depths of the water. Shafts of sun made me avert my eyes. For the first time since I had left those weeks ago, I whispered something to Zoe. Maybe being a little closer to heaven and the imperceptible sky and depths I couldn't imagine made me feel closer.

When we landed I talked to Jen, who is fighting valiantly to hold on to what is true and right and peaceful in the face of all that is terrible and wrong and discordant. Writing thank you cards...that's necessary to show gratitude. But thanking people for...sharing in our grief, something we never wanted. It's all too hard. People aren't supposed to have to deal with this. Jen trying to process the outpouring of love and thank people for it while she wished it had never happened. Jen recounting her last minutes, her last months. The long lonely nights of loving our daughter. The long and lonely 25 days in the hospital in 2008. 

Time will heal, we're told. But do I want to heal? How will time heal? Make us forget? Make us not remember the sound she made when she wanted to laugh? The moment she came out of surgery and I whispered to her to come back to me? Maybe I don't want to heal. Neither Jen nor I want to forget.

My friend told me today that I had gone back to work too soon, and he might have been right. But as I stretch myself out and work towards something, it helps me deal with those terrible and glorious moments, helps me find a breath to breathe. 

 I walk with utter peace. I laugh and joke and smile. And I breathe through tears and weep until I cannot stand. And that is what I did yesterday, and probably will today. Maybe for a long time. 

My baby is gone, and she will never return. And that is terrible. God has taken her home and she knows love beyond that which everyone showed us, love beyond what I can understand, and that is glorious.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

A Song For The Previous Post

sift through the ashes left behind.

Beauty Will Rise
by Steven Curtis Chapman

It was the day the world went wrong
I screamed til my voice was gone
And watched through the tears as everything
Came crashing down

Slowly panic turns to pain
As we awake to what remains
And sift through the ashes
That are left behind

But buried deep beneath
All our broken dreams we have this hope

Out of these ashes beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of these ashes beauty will rise
For we know joy is coming in the morning
In the morning, beauty will rise

So take another breath for now
And let the tears come washing down
And if you can't believe, I will believe for you

Cause I have seen the signs of spring
Just watch and see

Out of these ashes beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of these ashes beauty will rise
For we know joy is coming in the morning
In the morning

I can hear it in the distance
And it's not too far away
It's the music and the laughter
Of a wedding and a feast
I can almost feel the hand of God
Reaching for my face to wipe the tears away
You say it's time to make everything new
Make it all new

This is our hope
This is a promise
This is our hope
This is a promise

It will take our breath away
To see the beauty that's been made
Out of the ashes, out of the ashes

It will take our breath away
To see the beauty that He's made
Out of the ashes, out of the ashes

Out of these ashes
Beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of this darkness
New light will shine
And we'll know the joy that's coming in the morning
In the morning
Beauty will rise

Oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise

Blogger Silence

I didn't write this week not only because I am pretty sure I'd never read a blog about grieving, but because the process is stupid. If someone told you the only way to attain a goal was to undergo an intense process filled fatigue, anger, bitterness, incessant tears, doubts and loneliness....would you take on the process?

Jen and I spent a instant messenger conversation debating over who was more responsible for Zoe's death. Each of us was/is sure we are more responsible. It's a debate that will not be resolved, and frankly, since medicine will happily slap a "T18" label on her death, the very label we battled from minute one of Zoe's one else will offer an opinion.

We fill our days with busywork, but there's still time to be haunted, time to long. Time to wish for less and more of the day.  Time to wish I could talk to my Dad, the wise counselor who always brought me back to the cross.

Walking around the store for Valentine's day trying to figure out what to get Jen. And knowing that Jen wants nothing but Zoe. So, it's likely this stupid plant with tiny heart-shaped leaves will not suffice. No matter, my card was declined. Leave the store filled with tears and guilt and anger.

One man, trying to be kind on the way out of church, told me he, too had lost his daughter. He said after four years of anger, he was able to find peace.

Four years? This is what we get?

When you're going through this, there's a common have a good moment, a good day or night, and then you feel sickened by the thought that you actually might be "over" it. And Zoe was not something you want to be "over." So you go back to jail, do not pass go, do not collect anything. You start to associate the only way you can truly miss her to hurt.

Not to mention that the entire grieving thing seems 100% counter to Christianity, the cross, and Heaven. Zoe being able to live and not fight for life every day in Heaven is our solace. Dad free from all that encumbered him is peace to me. This grieving seems like chains of every evil - so I catch myself living in them and begin a new spiral - feeling guilty for feeling guilty. Feeling guilty for feeling angry for feeling alone.

See? You didn't want to read this, and writing it seemed like whining. But you want in this terrible head? You got it.

Sunday, February 07, 2010

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning and that meant dad would be be gone already or in a room finishing up his sermon. It was the only day of the week he didn't make breakfast, and we'd hear the urgency in his footsteps, the joy-filled way he'd greet everyone as they doddered out of bed.

I was born on a Sunday, and dad wasn't there. He was in the pulpit, preaching. He had a job to do. One of the ushers told him as the offering plates were handed over.

I learned that from my dad. On the Saturday before Zoe's service, I told everyone there that this was business. Cry later. This was business and we were going to touch hearts with something worthy of my daughter. Work to do.

Zoe always had good days on Sundays. Putting clothes on meant a shirt, or a pillow...something would be close to her face, which was hilarious. Zoe's biggest grins involved face smushing.

Even though church was time from her favorite place - Mom and Dad's (her) bed under the ceiling fan, it wasn't long. And there was singing at church. Zoe always loved music.

I wish their jobs weren't done. Mine isn't. Sunday is God's day and His two servants loved it.My old pastor said "We are Easter people." Every Sunday is a celebration because Jesus is alive. Let the redeemed celebrate.

by mercyme

Now's the time
Let the redeemed celebrate
If you know what I know
You can't wipe the smile off your face
Oh people, stand up and praise

There's a reason to dance
There's a reason to sing
Of the sacred romance
With our Savior and King
We lift up our hands
We fall on our knees
To the Son of Man
The reason we are free

There's a reason

All glory to
The King of Kings, Lord of Lords
Oh the value of Your worth
No worldly treasures can afford

And we praise You forevermore

There's a reason to stand
There's a reason to shout, to shout Your name on high
So we take up our cross, there's a reason to die
Because Jesus is alive

There's a reason
You are the reason
The reason we are free

Friday, February 05, 2010

Song and Dance

Amid my anger this morning, Jen's weak stomach, the Pediasure coupon that came up with my receipt at the store, the huge snowflakes silently falling and melting on my face that mixed with my tears, this song is the only thing louder. I am trying to hear the holy rhythm. He's still giving.

Song and Dance
 by andrew peterson

David's on his throne at sundown
His paper and his pen are in his hand
He's waiting on a song at sundown
As he gazes out across his holy land

And he thinks of old Goliath and he smiles
He can barely keep from laughing
He says, "great is the Lord and greatly to be praised"
He can hear the rivers clapping
Well, they're still clapping
To the same old song and dance

Well the cadence of the sea is just as steady
And the chorus of the hills is just as strong
And the faithfulness of God is just as mighty as it was
When the shepherd slew the giant with a stone

You can close your eyes and listen to the sea
You can feel the holy rhythm
Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised
For the mercy he has given
Well, he's still giving
It's the same old song and dance

I can hear creation singing his praise
That his love is everlasting
It's the same as it was a million years ago
I can still hear David laughing
And the rivers are still clapping
It's the same old song and dance

A Little Bat Ink

The Green Bay Press Gazette did a little feature on dad. Very nice.

Next Gen

(left to right) Piera Christiansen, Minte Christiansen, Izzi, Alexis Schaefer, Allana Randall, Teia
 Zoe's sisters and cousins - the next generation of Batiansila girls. All met, hugged and laughed with both Zoe and Bat.

She's Still Touching Lives

Zoe made the front page of the local paper, featuring the picture you see to the right. A woman caught me after Kellen's game and told me she had read the article and was so moved.

Meanwhile, featured this article.

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

A Week Later

The cycle is complete. Dad's death interrupted the peace from Zoe's memorial. Remembering Zoe's loss just a week ago interrupts the peace from Dad's magnificent funeral.

Hopefully some days with fewer losses and funerals.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Remember Bat

The previous link only worked some of the time.....if you miss Bat as much as me, click play. And bang! He's right there.

Monday, February 01, 2010

Fly To Jesus

The service sending Zoe home was everything I'd hoped. So many people showing love and care and wonderful music.

During "Shout To The Lord," Jen stood up and asked those around her to, and then everyone did. She told me later she did it because she was so proud of Zoe. So proud of her.

It was a joyful, tearful triumph in the resurrection. We have this hope because we believe everything God's promised us is true.

After the service, I had to kinda walk it off like I had just run a marathon. I was walking around and spending time with each table, and my family learned that my father - too frail to make the memorial - had taken a bad turn. The family headed up. At 8:45 CST, we learned that my Dad had gone home.

There's not much in my life that wasn't influenced by my Dad. I'd be a better person if I could be more like him. He taught me how to tie a tie, to stir batter, to open a book, to pick out fruit, to sign my name.

In each one of these lessons, it wasn't simply a "how-to": it was a thorough step-by-step and reasoning. For my signature, Dad called me into his office and said he'd been looking at my signature on my confirmation papers. It was sloppy. And he was thinking of some options that might be neater and more unique. He showed me some different ways he had thought of signing my name. He was right. I've signed my way that way ever since.

To pick out fruit: You look under fruit, inspecting each one. Often the ones on the top are concealing a flaw. Find the biggest, most beautiful one. "That's for mom," he'd say. Putting her first was the point.

An elite athlete, a world-class artist (his art as a TEEN won national competition), a thoughtful teacher. All were amazing facets of his character. But all paled to his love and devotion to serving the Lord. It was the way he befriended, then witnessed to the breadstore lady. The manager at Cub Foods. The mechanic who the congregation had left behind because of his sin, that's the one Dad went to. It was the way he patiently guided sheep.

It was the way he drew his cartoon-simple images for confirmation. The means of Grace were a funnel. Jesus, in one parable, was an island. God was always depicted by a huge heart.

And now he's home, returned the the heart, the source of all love, reunited with his facilities and all beyond that Heaven crowns, and a laughing, hyper, always-praising girl named Zoe who can't stop talking for all the time the world held her silent.

I'm jealous. I can't wait to see you both.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

One Bright Morning

Today let's sing. Let's lift the roof of this place and let my beautiful Zoe Bean fly away.

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away (oh glory)
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Some bright morning when this life is o'er, I'll fly away
To a land on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away

When the shadows of this life have gone, I'll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls, I’ll fly, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Oh how glad and happy when we meet, I'll fly away
No more cold, iron shackles on my feet, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

Just a few more weary days and then, I'll fly away
To a land where joy will never end, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away (oh glory)
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away (oh glory)
When I die, hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away

I'll fly away.... I'll fly away..... I'll fly away

Saturday, January 30, 2010

The Zoe Effect

From Iceland to Saudi Arabia to Chile and 37 other countries, people are visiting this blog. I'm honored.

Lift up your head. That's what your prayers, properly funneled through the Maker of the Universe and into my often-dull head, have said. So, I'm stumbling along and trying.

Do not be fooled - your prayers do more than bless me. They bless you, too, as you become part of this story. They lift our heads. They give US strength.

Tomorrow I hope to see as many of you as I can, and to feel the light and heat and warmth of your presence as we honor my beautiful Zoe.

Thank you everyone. See you tomorrow.

Friday, January 29, 2010

one more time

I know that I personally do not want to read a blog about mourning. I never could identify with it, there's no way I could. And so I never tried, and I didn't.

But we're mourning.

Kirin, Caleb, and Allana are here, and boys playing Wii. Jen asked, "How can the house be so busy and noisy and be so quiet?"

Gosh, just one more time to feel her cheek against mine. To hold her in the air and watch her smile as I threw (yes, I threw her and mommy worried) her in the air and caught her. Big smile. Flying. Awesome. One more time and then you can have her. Maybe i can tickle her and listen to her gurgle and coo.

Where's my little girl? I will meet you 50 years? sigh.

I was going through music for the service tonight with Josh - I can't call it a funeral - and I just lost it. At a weird time, not where you think. Lost it. Josh hugged me and then Teia hugged me. "I just want this to be good enough for her," I whispered.

Father, let me find a place for Zoe where she is still my prize but where I can breathe. Let Jen find a place for her where she is still her pickles but where Jen can still lift her head.

after the last tear falls

by andrew peterson

After the last tear falls
After the last secret's told
After the last bullet tears through flesh and bone
After the last child starves
And the last girl walks the boulevard
After the last year that's just too hard

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

After the last disgrace
After the last lie to save some face
After the last brutal jab from a poison tongue
After the last dirty politician
After the last meal down at the mission
After the last lonely night in prison

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last plan fails
After the last siren wails
After the last young husband sails off to join the war
After the last 'this marriage is over'
After the last young girl's innocence is stolen
After the last years of silence that won't let a heart open

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last tear falls
There is love

Zoe's Memorial Service

We're going to celebrate Zoe's life at a service on Sunday, January 31.
There will be visitation at 4:00, the service at 5:00, and a luncheon to follow.

St. Pauls Lutheran Church
701 Washington Street
Grafton, WI 53024


Our home address is W64N447 westlawn ave, Cedarburg, WI 53012.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Zoe Goes Home

I was sitting in a restaurant in Pascagoula, Mississippi and Jen called. Zoe had taken a turn for the worse, she said. Heart rate was till 200 and they couldn't calm her down. I went out into the night and talked and started to pray and cry.

We went back to the hotel and I sat there kind of dumbfounded. My dear friends at the shoot and their spouses came up with a plan - drive to Mobile, bus to Atlanta, plane to Milwaukee, car to Children's, to Zoe.

We drove to the Mobile bus station for the 1135 bus. I hugged my friends - generous and kind beyond measure - and waited the hour for the bus. I talked to my sister and Pastor Rafferty and Pastor Navurskis. Then I boarded the bus.

As the driver was just closing the door, Jen called and told me that Zoe had gone home. She said her little body couldn't handle this world anymore and she didn't suffer. I yelped and yelled. I asked to get off the bus. I fell to my knees on the lot outside and begged them for my luggage. I needed to go to Milwaukee now, not after five hours of driving. The driver told me it was 1130...this was the only way. Get back on the bus.

My little snoopy. No. No. No.

No. Jenny - who God gave in that moment so much rich wisdom and peace and a friend in Pastor Navurskis - kept telling me that Zoe wasn't hurting and she was home.

I called Pastor Rafferty, broke the news to him and then asked him to share the news with my oldest three kids. He called from outside the door. I talked to them on the phone.

One hour or so into the trip my phone went dead. The battery keeps dying. I was able to call most of my family and friends and talk to Jen a few times.

I wish I could tell you that I came to some deep spiritual or wise truth on the bus, in the silence, at the squalid Montgomery bus station at 330 am. That the fierce red lights in the predawn traffic at Atlanta that matched the glorious sunrise taught me a truth.

Nothing new. Nothing new that you haven't heard me say on this blog over and over. There is a God who loves us and He has a plan. And the plan is that we end up in His arms. We don't end up in a walker or hospital bed. We don't end up 12 pounds and 12 ounces. We end up in His arms.

And to begrudge Zoe that ending or God for calling her to His arms is selfish. Zoe's Home.

It turns out this blog was not about my dear sweet girl. It's been about an often frustrated, ever-confused, always-confident-and-mostly-wrong man. With deep flaws and great riches.

In the economy of friendship, I am the richest man you know. There is no one with friends touched by the Spirit (whether they know truly His voice or not) who are, have, and will minister to me. In the economy of family, I am wildly rich. A saint of a wife who has loved me when it didn't make sense to love me. Children, sisters, my brother. A stately father who is a man of God. A sweet, dear, talented mom who loves Jesus.

In the economy of grace, I am rich to have known my daughter, my Snoopy, my daddy's girl who would move her huge blue eyes to find my voice.

You did not leave without teaching us all a thing or two. You did not leave without changing our lives. And, even as you left this wretched place, you touched me. All of us. Goodbye my sweet baby girl. I will see you soon. At the end.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

please pray

for my little snoopy, zoe.


Zoe has been admitted to Children's because her pneumonia is worse. Please pray. This has to turn around, and doctors are hoping intravenous meds will turn the tide.


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