blogging in the dark.

It’s 2:00 AM and for the better part of an hour I’ve been lying here in the dark, desperately pleading for sleep to take over, but it just won’t. And so, why keep up the fight? 

As I type this, exhausted and bleary-eyed, I’m being serenaded by the subtle sounds of my husband’s even breaths on my left and the white noise machine wooshing through the baby monitor on my right, gently reminding me that while I may be lonely, I am not alone. 

Which, at this juncture in my life, is a powerful blessing. 

Several weeks ago, this was me. Dan and I had just discovered that I was pregnant with our second child. We were so excited to welcome a sweet little sibling for Dax.



A week ago, we were at a friend’s birthday party. Between laughs and hugs with these new friends, we’d sneak away for a little bit to gush about our little secret, hoping no one would notice that I was mysteriously avoiding the beer and wine. About halfway into the shindig, when I went to the rest room, my stomach twisted into stinging knots when I noticed that I had started to bleed. 

We left the party in a rush, citing a made-up excuse about how Dax was too fussy for our babysitter, and went straight to the emergency room. Four hours, blood work, and an ultrasound later, they couldn’t tell us why the bleeding was happening. They just ordered me to be on bed rest and to come back if it got worse. 

Monday it got worse. So we went back. Then, more blood work and another ultrasound confirmed what, at that point, we already knew.

We lost our baby. 

And so, you see, I am not only literally in the dark, but my spirit has also found itself swallowed up by a powerful darkness. One I’ve never experienced or thought I ever would experience. The agonizing pain of grief, coupled with the painful physicality of what it means for my body to go through miscarriage. Each cramp in my abdomen brings with it the most wretched feeling in my heart, as if part of it is also being broken down and expelled. 

Some of you may be upset that this is the way you’re finding out. Please don’t be offended. The thing is, it’s hard enough to have to tell this story right now, let alone having to tell it several times. Please understand.

My mom came down to be with us and care for Dax while we grieve, which looks much different for the two of us. Dan’s been pretty sad, but functional, only letting his emotions show when we’re alone. Me, on the other hand? I’ve gone from sad, to angry, to frustrated, to questioning, to really freaking pissed off, to sad, and back to angry again, all making me completely incapacitated. All I can do well at this point is day-sleep. 

But last night, Mom watched Dax while Dan and I went on a date. Just the two of us. We had dinner at a cute local place (complete with copious amounts of booze for yours truly) and then dessert at the Cheesecake Factory where, in my loopy, grief-stricken state, I forgot that I actually don’t like cheesecake. But we laughed. And we kissed. And we were grateful for each other and the chunky little boy at home who didn’t know that he’d lost a sibling and was happily waiting for us to come home and kiss him goodnight. 

Sunday night, as I was laying in bed praying to God that what was happening to my body would just stop and that my little baby would be okay, God quietly laid a name on my heart. A name I knew was the name of the child I would never hold. And so the next day, when we got the confirmation at the ER, I shared the name with Dan. And he accepted it, too. (I don’t really want to share it here, but if you want to know it, you can ask.)

It is common, the doctor told us. One in three pregnancies will end like this. “Better luck next time,” he shrugged, as he awkwardly backed out of my hospital room. 

And that was it.

how to be.

It’s been really hard to blog lately for two reasons.

1. My life as a mostly work-from-home mom, while splendid and blest, can be quite mundane. As much as I love it, I don’t know how many posts I can muster up (or you should have to suffer through) about me banging away at my lap top during nap times or the perils of walking lessons. (Oh yes. By the by, I don’t want to admit it, but by definition I am now the mother of a toddler who has the bruises to prove it.)

2. I follow a lot of blogs and — sigh — I know how many other great blogs there are out there. So whenever I sit down to finally spew out a post, I can only think to myself, “But why? When there are so many other great blogs for these people to read?”

In short, it’s like I don’t know “how to be” a blogger.

The church I work at/serve at/do life at is one that, um, isn’t exactly in my comfort zone. It is a gigantic (!!!) traditional mainline Christian church, whose congregation consists MOSTLY of older, very wealthy “church” people. A natural button-pushing, liberal, messy-past-holding, twenty something loudmouth, I’ve never been quite welcomed at mainline denomination churches before now (ask me about the one time I, the “lost girl”, was “ambush-saved” under a tree by a well-meaning counselor at a church camp) and so it’s a bit of a struggle sometimes to reconcile the idea that I’m now on the payroll at one of these places that has wounded me so deeply in the past. And not only that; I have made friends here. Real friends. People who are getting to know me and aren’t running away. I’m finding my footing in an unfamiliar place that, remarkably, has accepted me. I still cannot understand this.

But that, my friends, is the power of grace, no?

I said it already, but it bears repeating. This place is freaking huge. People get around via golf carts and I can’t wait to make a billion dollars so I can also buy a golf cart. (That’s how much golf carts go for these days, right?) There are hallways and offices and narthexes and sacristies and choir rooms and class rooms and chapels and sanctuaries and gyms and lions and tigers and bears oh my and

six pianos. 

While I can’t afford ONE acoustic piano, there are six pianos scattered about the campus. (One of which used to belong to Sir Elton John but that’s another blog post.)

Today I sat in on a meeting which left me feeling both unproductive and severely misunderstood — the latter of which is not uncommon right now because I’m still getting used to this place. After the meeting, I had precisely twenty minutes before my next meeting which, as you working folk know, is just enough time to not do anything productive or meaningful.

One of the better-than-me bloggers I follow (who, I guess at this point, isn’t really a blogger anymore) is Jon Acuff. The other day he posted a picture on Instagram of a diagram made by an illustrator of how to be an artist.


Looking at the clock and seeing the empty minutes before me, I recalled this picture and felt a sense of urgency to create. To make some sort of art, even if it was bad art, just to remind myself that, while I may be a misunderstood screw-up in a seemingly perfect congregation, I’m not totally worthless.

So I excitedly gathered my things and dashed to the chapel where I knew there sat an unoccupied, recently tuned grand piano.

As I was racing toward the steepled building, not wanting to waste a single minute, I got so giddy thinking about sitting in that empty space, at the bench, pressing down on the keys, softly squeezing the pedal, and birthing beautiful noise out of staunch silence. After feeling like I couldn’t control anything, I wanted to remember that, if nothing else, I can at least manipulate a piano.

I pulled the heavy double doors open with a superhuman exuberance expecting to find an empty chapel just for me. But when my eyes fell on the church organist at the organ, directly across from the piano practicing, my heart sank.

Our organist is a musical genius. He’s been playing organ/piano longer than I’ve been alive so he can obviously play circles around me. But he’s also probably the nicest person I’ve ever met in my lifetime. He’s someone that, when I’m around him, I suddenly don’t feel so misunderstood.

He always compliments my piano playing also, even when I know he both a) doesn’t have to and b) is probably just trying to make me feel good. (I told you he is really nice.)

He was sight-reading a couple hymns for our staff chapel. And for a few moments I sat and just listened. But then that stupid diagram got the best of me and I jumped off my butt and ran up to the piano.

“Which hymns are you playing?” I asked him, picking up a nearby hymnal.

He responded with a couple of numbers and then quickly added, “I’ve never seen these hymns before in my life!” (Mind you, this was not in a “look how great I sight-read!” way, but in an astonished “how have I played organ for all these years and never once laid eyes on these two hymns?!” way.)

I opened up the hymnal to the numbers he specified and sat down on the bench. I certainly hadn’t heard them, either, but my fingers were itching. I looked at the staffs and, while I can’t sight-read to save my life, I could at least tell which keys the songs were in based on the sharps and flats next to the clefs.

“Do you mind if I play along with you?” I nervously asked.

“Not at all! Please do!”

And so I did.

And it wasn’t horrible. (Though I think that has way more to do with the power and beauty of the instrument in question than it does my own skill level; a tuned piano is much more forgiving to any musician than, say, a violin.)

Over the past few weeks I’ve been caught up in my own head about “how to be” things — how to be a blogger; how to be a mother; how to be both an employee and a parishioner at a mainline denomination church; how to be a wife; how to be a cook; how to be a pianist; how to be Lindsay — so much so that I end up not BEING anything except lethargic, cynical, and unmotivated.

But that diagram ruins it all for me. It takes this paradigm that suggests I have to meet some unwritten standard before I’ve made it and crushes it into a thousand little pieces, never to be put back together again.

How do I be a blogger? I blog.

How do I be a wife? I cherish my husband.

How do I be a mother? I care for my child.

How do I be a pianist? I play the damn piano.

How do I be Lindsay?

I be Lindsay.