This "Better Than A Hallelujah" thing..

The first time this song resonated with me, I was sitting in bed, alone, at 3am taking shots of vodka out of my 1 year-old's bathtime tugboat. We didn't own a shot glass, and as a stay-at-home Mom, the boat naturally came to mind as the creative alternative. I wasn't a drinker, but whatever - I was tonight. As the lyrics of the song seeped into my bitter thoughts, I remember initially laughing at my pathetic self: was I actually considering that God was trying to talk to me through the lyrics? Ha, haaa.

Annie. He doesn't talk to drunk people who want to marinate in self-pity. Get over yourself.

First, don't get me wrong: singing a truly passionate Hallelujah in the company of thousands of God-loving people is a top favorite thing. And then those moments when something goes so right, all you can't think to say is, "well…Hallelujah!" while laughing; these are my moments. I love Hallelujah's.

But only when they're real.

It's my experience that Hallelujah Moments are not the norm in life. At least not in mine. I was drinking from a tugboat - for starters - because I couldn't find the Hallelujah in this one: two weeks earlier, on Christmas Eve, my third son died before he was born. I was six months pregnant - there was no cause, no warning, just THE END. I was induced, delivered his still body around dinner time, and sent home before midnight. My only souvenir was funeral home pamphlets and bleeding control instructions. Bye.

Christmas still came and went. And New Years. And whatever after that. I suddenly had no idea how to live. What was I supposed to do? There was nothing I could do except... move on.

But the worst was yet to come. My husband had a secret life that I knew nothing about. Work trips and time lost and lies that I never in a million years would imagine would enter our Christian marriage...

I was done.

I tried you guys, I really did. I followed all the grieving advice; I'm still following them. My friends would wake up at 2am when I called hysterical, and listen compassionately as I begged them to tell me what I did wrong. My older sister - pregnant alongside me - wore her husband's sweatshirts every time she saw me, to hide her thriving, beautiful belly. People sent gifts and flowers, and precious words I will never, ever, forget. I connected with other moms of sweet babies that had died, and we had ugly-cry fests together. I had parties and balloon releases and jewelry made and celebrations and.... all of it. There was no break in the system of humanity here - people helped super hard. And I didn't bury my pain - I tackled it. Nothing was unchecked in the "healthy grieving" list.

That list just didn't work for me.

I was suddenly so confused: if so many sweet little lives don't even get a chance at living, what's the big deal about my simple life? Why did I get to live? And, on that note - BEAM ME UP. I want to be done too." And my marriage? The Lies had been going on since before we even got married. What kind of God would let that happen??? And you guys, before you start rebuking me in your head, I already knew all the pretty answers and scriptural references to put out this type of fire. I know them. KNOW - okay? But still, my understanding of life went into a tailspin. I considered myself a strong Christian, and I'd been through trials before. My husband and I were leaders and mentors at church. And well, you know, God is GOOD. So there's that. He's good - all, the, time.

So Hallelujah. Onward march.

On this tugboat night, I'm sure most of my closest friends would have assumed that I was at home in my husband's arms. That we were doing the support thing around our kitchen table. They'd think that we were probably honoring Oliver with our kids by crafting meaningful name-plaques and memory books. Well, we did that for the first two weeks, but soon, it just wasn't enough to dissipate the pain and questions that were burning in me. The bleeding, literally and figuratively, carried on far longer than I knew how to handle. Then The Lies... and my only grieving partner had added a layer of pain that made it impossible to deal with either.

So? I started taking shots of vodka out of plastic tugboats instead. Boom. No one knew. Mitch was gone to Texas for the whole week for a work trip, again (corporations don't consider stillbirth a "real" death) and was celebrating some fancy award he'd won at his job. Texting me photos of famous singers and blackjack tables. Only, I had no ability to celebrate anything two weeks out from death. I didn't know how he could either. So I just sat in our house with tugboats as company. I faked happiness, but really had no idea how to be a wife anymore. I tried to convince myself to get over things faster by thinking about people who had far worse tragedies than my own, but I just felt shame and despair over that.

Hallelujah? I was just a failure at that whole thing now.

As the pain and contempt for myself poured in stronger I got crazy enough to just not care, and, LOST IT. Swearing, screaming, throwing, breaking-things- lost it. Crying out to God that I just, COULDN'T, DO IT, anymore. In the moment, all I could think of was how my entire relationship with God seemed to be riddled with confusion that I always just… ignored. What else could I do? There was so much good with him, but so much I didn't understand. So much that seemed impossible. Not because of God - but me: I just sucked at being good enough, strong enough, faithful enough, beautiful enough, gentle enough... all of it. Proverbs 31 and I were enemies. I sucked at life. But even in that I was still incredulous: could anyone authentically say, "well, praise God in the hard times! My son died, but there's a new angel in freaking heaven! Everything happens for a reason! Hallelujah!"?!?!

"NO. EVERYTHING DOES NOT HAPPEN FOR A REASON. THERE ARE ZERO REASONS FOR BABIES TO GO TO HEAVEN, THE END. ZERO, ZERO, ZERO. ZERO. ZERO."

I screamed this, over and over. I lost my voice. I look over those words and I still cry, I can still feel the hopeless of that moment. I still feel it now.

After unsatisfyingly messing up the room, I grabbed my iPad to drown out my sobs... and, Pandora. WHY NOT. First random song? Here it comes...

"God loves a lullaby,

in a mother's tears in the dead of night,

better than a hallelujah sometimes."

"God loves the drunkard's cry,

The soldier's plea not to let him die,

Better than a hallelujah sometimes..."

"We pour out our miseries,

God just hears a melody

Beautiful, the mess we are

honest cries from breaking hearts...

Are better than a hallelujah."

Now don't be stupid. God's not talking to you...

I only stared at the screen, confused. I had just acted in every way that's "wrong". I had no hallelujahs, no reverence, no faithful prayers or pleas for strength. I had no idea where my Bible was, and didn't care. I'd underlined it all already. And, did I mention I was drinking, humiliating-like?

In that moment, holding the iPad in my hands, staring at the lyrics, my heart faltered just long enough for God to put his fingerprints on the Ugly Me. The part of my heart I used as the storage closet to shove my cluttered messes into - I now knew he had been there. Even for just a moment, God had seen it, tugboat and all. It didn't make sense; there were no hallelujahs in sight, not even close. I wasn't following the Christian recipe for deliverance from despair… and yet, he met me there anyway. I felt God's love so strong that night.

And so it all began.

In the little more than two years that have passed since that moment, I've had to uproot so many beliefs I had about life. Tons of counseling, weekly. Tons of pain, daily. You can't get fixed without going ugly places. And don't expect pretty here: I have no miraculous, amazing, overnight testimony of a suddenly mended heart and deeper faith. My story isn't impressive. Things got far, far, worse before they got better. There was more trauma to come. This isn't one of those, "oh, but I'm fixed now, so I can tell you how to arrive at Awesome too", blogs. There is no arriving you guys. Ever. Life is hard. It always will be in some way this side of heaven. But even while I loved God as genuinely as I could, I couldn't always find him in my messes. I had empty, unfulfilled places that were supposed to be taken care of by his love that just, WEREN'T. Still aren't. And all the other Christians I knew were tagging #blessedlife, and, #luckywife, while my version was #hahaha, and #FAIL.

So? I'm terrified of doing this kind of blog, because vulnerability just isn't popular - perfection is. Trying to be the girl everyone else seems to be already, with the perfect looking marriage and family. I know that Facebook and Instagram are not real, and that everyone's failing at something. But I kept (and keep) striving for Perfect anyway, no matter that I was worn out and miserable and didn't even know it. Happy only lasts for a second when you're doing Perfect. The only way God can heal the unfulfilled parts, and make life truly meaningful, is when he gets all of you. And he can't get all of you unless the closest people around you know all of you too. (Ya, God's grace is still dragging me through that part, kicking and screaming.) While I'm terrified of the implications of vulnerability, and the comments that I'll have to try to stop ruminating over, that whisper, "just pick up Perfect again tomorrow…" I have to do it anyway. Maybe there's two people who know what I mean and want to be done too. But telling my ugly always seems to start the process of redemption, and redemption is the only reason I can do tomorrow. No faking perfect, ever again. As ugly as that's going to be, and as many friends as I may lose...

That's my version of a #blessedlife now.