Silent Sermons: Lessons on Life, Death, Grief, and Finding Joy in the Struggle

By Shannon Turner Monroe

My mind was racing with the what ifs and the how comes, and I was paralyzed with worry. I pleaded for answers. I longed for an empathetic mom friend who was living, breathing proof that I could and would get through this.
Silent Sermons is a unique emotional combination of heart-wrenching and heartwarming experiences of an ordinary mom and her young family who have continued to be game for the learning in life, as well as through the death of their precious daughter/sister. Mallory, the gorgeous little girl with the big blue eyes and piggy tails came to earth with many unexpected physical handicaps. Struggling to breathe, swallow, and move, she faced challenges with genuine grit and grace, reminding us there is always joy to be found in the triumphsas well as the heartaches. Unable to talk, she communicated, speaking volumes about patience, gratitude, hope, and love. She showed, by example, that even a life of struggle can be a happy life. Mallory taught that amazing things can happen when we are willing to go through the process. For that truly is when lives are touched and hearts are softened. We are meant to gain strength through the struggle and, ultimately, come out better having gone through it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781973600794

Shannon Turner Monroe

Shannon Monroe candidly shares the lessons taught, as well as the lessons learned from the personal experiences she had while raising her beautiful special needs daughter. Mallory, the tiny person who was so limited physically; who wasn’t able to speak a single word, taught profound sermons on dealing with life as well as death. A grieving mother shares how she has gradually found joy in the everyday challenges of life after burying her precious child, and the struggle to heal her broken heart.

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Silent Sermons

Lessons on Life, Death, Grief,

and Finding Joy in the Struggle

Shannon Turner Monroe

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Copyright © 2017 Shannon Turner Monroe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0080-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0081-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-0079-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913534

WestBow Press rev. date: 8/25/2017

Contents

Preface

Introduction

1   Ready or Not …

2   Angels to Buoy Us Up

3   Our Tiny Warrior

4   Broken Hearts

5   Queen of Our Universe

6   Guts, Grit, and Plenty of Kleenex

7   Through Sickness and in Health

8   Husband of the Year

9   The Value of the Human Spirit

10   Service and Boundaries

11   Comparison Is the Thief of Joy

12   Mission: Impossible

13   Angels and Fixers

14   Brace Yourselves for Perspective

15   Faith in God’s Timing

16   Joy in the Simple Things

17   Repercussions

18   Who’s in Charge Here?

19   God Is the Boss

20   Tests Come to Soften Our Spirits, Not to Harden Our Hearts

21   Woe Is Me

22   A Turn for the Worse

23   Her Time to Go

24   Heavy Hearts

25   There’s Nothing Fun about a Funeral

26   Even the Strong People Were Crying

27   Buzzkills

28   Lessons on Grief

29   Life Is Hard … Death Is Harder

30   The Aftermath

31   When the Casseroles Quit Coming

32   The Grief Diet

33   Earth Angels

34   Road Trippin’ Through Grief

35   Timely Visits, Changing Seasons

36   New Beginnings

37   Life’s Not Fair, and Neither Is Grief

38   We Buried Our Baby, For Crying Out Loud!

39   Anniversaries and a Tender Mercy at Breakfast

40   Are There Parties and Princess Backpacks in Heaven?

41   Ducks and Gratitude

42   Our Centerpiece

43   Reflections at the Cemetery

44   Siblings and Death

45   Seven Steps to Survival

46   Whole Again

47   Look for the Joy in the Struggle

Preface

While my husband and I were going through this experience we’ve had with our daughter Mallory, I set a goal to become a better journal writer. A dear friend of mine gave me some great advice upon learning about our new life. She inspired me to record my feelings on a regular basis. I’m eternally grateful that I acted on her advice to write down my feelings during our struggle. It has proven to be very therapeutic for me. It’s become a sweet reminder to me that a little courage and faith can have enormous amounts of sustaining power. I now have priceless documentation of not only my own thoughts, but also some of my husband’s and kids’ thoughts during this sweet but trying experience in our family’s lives. I’ve been able to see how far we’ve come, as well as recognize the long journey I traveled to arrive where I am today. I still have quite a difficult road ahead, but I feel blessed to share at least a piece of my experience in hopes of helping another’s journey to be a bit less daunting.

Introduction

We all have a story. There’s that one event, or series of events, that redirects us—changes our course. That story may give us a newfound purpose or, at the very least, provide us with valuable experience. Sometimes it can even jade us temporarily. It can be heartbreaking and messy. It can be a pleasant surprise or can leave us bitter or angry. Nonetheless, our stories change us. We hope that they ultimately change us for the better.

Many of us enjoy reading others’ stories. We seek enlightenment or entertainment. We sometimes might read a book to temporarily escape from our own current circumstances. When I read another’s story, I’m often drawn right into the plot. I attempt to see the story through the main character’s eyes, and I’m most likely to read stories about real people. They become relatable. Their stories are inspiring. These personal accounts leave a permanent impression on my soul. And quite often, many of the most inspiring stories are of people who have lost something they once had, or they’re faced with conquering something much bigger than themselves. And without fail, these stories of loss end up with something gained. And I’ve found that one thing most often gained from such situations is perspective.

Each of us may have had an experience with a handful of stories in which our lives were literally changed by reading them. But fortunately, for us as the reader, we only have to imagine ourselves wearing the shoes of those of whom we read. For a page or chapter, we sense the excitement, agony, adventure, or conflict as if we’re actually the ones within the experience. However, when the responsibilities of our own everyday life pull us in many directions, we’re forced to shut the book. The tragedy or trial we’re reading about is put on pause until we are able to open it once again to finish the page or chapter.

Personally, I often come away from a particularly sad biography desiring to be better, to try harder, and to be more grateful. And quite honestly, I come away from an inspiring tragic book feeling genuinely glad it’s not me starring in the story. I count my blessings and thank God my trials are not worse.

This brings me to another thought. What about our own life story? What if the tragic plot is our unique circumstance—our personal story? What if we find ourselves smack dab in the center of a tragedy? What if we’re actually the ones trying to make sense of, or muddle our way through, a conflict? And what if we aren’t meant to close the book and escape the reality of our story until it’s fully experienced or written? When we have an experience so rare, sacred, and life-altering, it changes the way we view all aspects of our life. We start to see our own life as unique, and maybe we realize it’s a story worth sharing with others.

I’ve reflected a lot on my own life experiences—my story. I can’t help but recognize the repercussions, both good and bad, and the lessons learned—those lessons taught during my own life. I’ve felt an urgency to share my story with others. My goal is not only to inform and inspire but also to provide hope for someone who might be in similar shoes at this very moment, to shed some light for an individual who desires to understand and uplift someone they love so dearly, or to aide a soul who is hurting on an incomprehensible level. But even more importantly, I desire to share a legacy of one special little person who taught me many silent sermons during her life on this earth. This tiny heavenly being, who was so limited physically and who wasn’t able to speak, communicated with us. She showed us that with a little courage and unconditional love from a family, amazing things can take place!

My daughter Mallory taught me, and continues to remind me, that I do indeed have a story to share. Mallory is beyond amazing! Being her mom on this earth, I felt an obligation not only to care for her but also to speak for her and about her. She truly was an angel on this earth. Her silent sermons on dealing with life and death have changed my heart forever. She changed my focus. She changed my life!

I am positive there were similar stories being written, or at least being experienced, when I began living my story just over seven years ago. Unfortunately, they hadn’t yet been recorded. I needed somebody’s story as I sat sobbing in the newborn intensive care unit sleep room. I was exhausted but unable to sleep. My mind was racing with what-ifs and how-comes, and I was paralyzed with worry. I longed for answers. I prayed for somebody to tell me what to do as I sat at the starting line of the hardest experience of my life. I wondered where the woman was who had walked this road before me! Where was the mommy who could reassure me page by page that things would work out and I’d live to tell about it? Who could show me living proof that she was still alive and breathing? At that moment of despair, I felt very much alone. I longed for an empathetic mom friend. I needed to know I could and would survive this!

Approaching the situation over seven years later, I still vividly remember the extreme heartache and panic of not feeling adequate to take on this particular challenge. I was scared. I was in shock. It was an incredibly hard thing to accept as our reality. However, I wouldn’t change many of the lessons I learned for anything! Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. When we are experiencing those trials, we can feel very alone—much like we’re drowning. Trials would be a snap if we knew the outcome from the very beginning. But that’s not faith. And without a little fear, fretting, and frustration, we don’t have a need to rely on our loving Heavenly Father, who wants so badly to see us through our struggles.

I now recognize I was longing to get my hands on this story—my own story. I was longing for real written, living, breathing proof that I could and surely would be up to the task at hand. And as difficult as living my personal story has been, it has strengthened me to see the experience for what it was and continues to be in my life. My ultimate hope in sharing my story is to assist others as well. I want to inspire hope and courage in those around me, and remind those who may have forgotten that they are not alone. So, for any of you brokenhearted mommies out there who might be dealing with something a little bigger than you, this is my story.

1

Ready or Not …

L ife as we knew it changed dramatically at fifty-two minutes after midnight on January 11, 2010. A beautiful baby girl with bright blue eyes entered the world with a bang! Within minutes of seeing her, we knew her mission here on earth was going to be quite different than most. Mallory Beth was absolutely gorgeous, with her thick, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and gorgeous, full cherry lips, but she had bilateral clubfoot and struggled to breathe. A few hours after a fairly routine Cesarean section, this darling, alert baby girl with big, bright eyes and crazy legs, along with her daddy, took their first emergency airplane ride to Saint Luke’s Children’s Hospital in Boise, Idaho. There she would undergo additional testing to solve the mystery as to why the breathing problems weren’t resolving.

I’d never seen such a brave little body in my entire life as Mallory was placed in my husband’s arms, ready to take off on her first of what would be many trips to Boise. At this point I was frightened, shocked, and worried—but focused. I just wanted to be with my baby! I wanted to fast-forward through all of the unknowns and take her home with us to a place that was safe and predictable.

I was anxious to see Mallory and my husband, Matt, the next morning. My obstetrician had assured me that if I behaved myself for twenty-four hours and my body continued to heal properly, I could be released from the hospital to reunite with my sweet baby daughter. I still remember that morning very clearly. I had awakened before the sun, showered, and was hoping that if I was dressed and ready to go when the doctor made his morning rounds, I could be with my husband and baby girl before breakfast. Never mind the fact that I still had a three-hour car ride ahead of me!

I nervously paced around my hospital room, trying my best to appear calm. I was a terrible patient. I was emotional and vulnerable. I’d felt as if I were in a bad dream as I received texts from Matt throughout the day and night, as well as updates by telephone from the neonatologist overseeing Mallory’s care in the newborn intensive care unit. Many of my close friends stopped by the hospital to keep me company and help pass the time, but I felt anxious and unsettled. We had no answers. All I could think about was meeting up again with my husband and doing what we had to do to get our baby home and be a family.

So finally, after a long night of waiting, wondering, and pacing the halls, I was discharged from the hospital around ten o’clock in the morning. My dad came to pick me up from the hospital that frigid January day. He helped me put on my coat, loaded all of my gear into bags, and carefully placed all of the flowers and extra loot I’d collected over the last two days into the trunk of his car. Bless his heart. I remember him picking up my amniotic-scented, fluid-stained fluffy slippers between his thumbs and forefingers while teasingly wrinkling up his nose and making a sour face. My water had broken unexpectedly just before I climbed into bed two nights before, causing my contractions to come hard and fast. This left Matt with no choice but to grab as many towels as he could find in our house and race out the door. I threw on my fluffy robe and favorite slippers, and off we went to the hospital to deliver our fourth child. Things progressed so quickly once we arrived to my labor room that somehow my slippers got shoved into a closet in the corner of my room, not to be thought about again until that very moment. Now here we stood, staring at a stinky physical remnant of that terrifying night that changed my life forever, wondering whether to try to salvage my once fluffy slippers or place them in the garbage. My sweet dad quietly tossed the stinky slippers into the trashcan before exiting out of the emergency room doors of the hospital. I left the hospital that morning with empty arms and a broken, heavy heart. I had no baby, no husband, and no slippers.

My patient dad carefully assisted my sore post-surgery body into the car. I was a sorry sight—I’m certain of it—but I will be forever grateful for the kindness and fatherly love that my dad showed me at that very uncertain time in my life. I’m sure his grandpa heart was ready to burst into pieces. I sat quietly in the passenger seat. The car felt warm and cozy. I looked around at the snow-covered earth as we made our way to the nearby pharmacy to pick up my prescription pain medication. I remember thinking I was glad I didn’t live in Haiti that day. I felt a bit guilty that I was feeling sorry for myself when an entire nation had crumbled to pieces from a devastating earthquake earlier that morning. We sat in silence as we drove toward home. I didn’t know what we were in for, but I knew I needed to get to my baby fast!

Dad rushed me to our house to grab a few things to throw in an overnight bag for Matt and me. We stopped to see my other three children. Abby, our oldest, was nine years old at the time. Our second daughter, Kate, was six. And our only boy, Luke was almost four years old. They’d been staying at my parents’ house, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled to see them! They had each grown a foot overnight! What had Grandma Glena been feeding them while we were gone? I’d been away from them just a couple of days, but it seemed like a lifetime.

I kissed them and took a quick snapshot to tuck inside my heart. I sensed it might be a while before I could snuggle them again. Call it hormones or call it fear, but tears streamed down my cheeks incessantly as I kissed each one of their sweet faces. My heart had felt so conflicted since our new baby daughter came into the world just over twenty-four hours before. But my heart was immediately calmed as I gave them all a tight hug for good luck. After leaving a few more final instructions about the kids’ schedules for the next few days, I hugged my mom. She seemed to almost squeeze the stitches right out of my incision, but I couldn’t have felt more love that morning. I literally felt as if a warm blanket of reassurance and confidence had been placed upon me as I felt the encouragement and prayers from my faithful mother. What a blessing it is to have supportive parents.

I literally and figuratively had to put on my big girl panties at that moment. I’d always had a difficult time leaving my children, but I knew they were in good hands. I had to trust my gut that things would work out while I was gone from them. We had no choice. Mom reassured me she’d take good care of my children for as long as we were away. It motivated me to put my focus on this new addition in our family. Mallory needed me at this time, and I knew that in order to keep from having a breakdown, we would need to approach this one day at a time.

My mother-in-law, Julie, kindly volunteered to drive me the three hours to see Mallory and Matt in the NICU. The drive seemed to last an eternity. My mind was racing a mile a minute. Wonder and worry took turns occupying my brain. Julie was so good to visit with me in efforts to pass the time. We both felt incredibly antsy, and anxious to get there. She couldn’t drive fast enough, but eventually we pulled into the snowy parking lot of the children’s hospital around two o’clock that afternoon. Matt met us at the car. He had a wheelchair waiting for me. We were so relieved to finally see each other. We just stood and held each other tightly. Tears rolled down my cheeks as various events of twelve years of marriage flashed through my racing mind. We’d been through some challenging things in our married life, but nothing of this magnitude—but we had gotten through them together. I felt so much peace and trust at that reunion. I’d like to think I got braver that very second I felt those strong, reassuring arms around me. Come to think of it, I’ve always felt strength and complete safety in that hug.

We rushed up to the sixth-floor NICU. I kept impatiently yelling at Matt to push me faster. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on my precious little baby! Finally, after what seemed to be a five-hundred-mile wheelchair ride, we made it! I saw Mallory’s little name tag, adorned with sparkles and snowflakes, outside the doorway to her small hospital room. I loved the way her name sounded as I uttered it under my breath several times as we rolled closer to her small crib. Our baby girl was alive, and it seemed she’d been part of our family for a very long time.

I was in such a focused hurry to get to Mallory’s bedside that I about plowed over her nurse. I sprinted (well, I’d like to think I sprinted; I actually fresh C-section waddled) over toward Mallory’s crib. Her bed was in the back of the room, facing the wall. She seemed to have tubes and monitors going into and coming out of every inch of her tiny seven-pound eighteen-inch body. I said her name, and immediately, this strong one-day-old little person turned her head right around toward me. Monitor alarms went off, with all kinds of ruckus being made. I was so relieved! She knew me! She recognized my voice! She was aware and alert! She was more beautiful than any living thing I’d ever seen! I immediately felt her strength. I could feel her desire to fight. I felt a bond with my little Mallory that seemed to go beyond this earth. She spoke to me as if to say, Dad and I have just been hanging out, and it’s going to be okay. I was her mama. She was my baby. We had Daddy with us. We were a team. It was time to get to work and get Mallory home to her siblings!

2

Angels to Buoy Us Up

M allory spent close to two weeks in the NICU undergoing test upon grueling test to rule out any of the typical things that might cause a newborn to struggle during the first few weeks of life. I was tested for every infection and disease known to woman. We were hoping for some clue as to why Mallory’s muscle tone, breathing, and ability to swallow were abnormal.

Our days were spent talking to specialist after specialist. The first few days started and ended the exact same way—with no answers. Finally, close to three days after Mallory was admitted to the NICU, I was encouraged to try to feed her. I was ecstatic! We struggled to nurse. I’d spend hours trying to breastfeed. I pumped until I was literally black and blue. Mallory wanted to eat so badly. She’d cry. She’d root around, but once she’d get milk, she would choke, sputter, and spit. I felt as though I were starving her. Worse, I thought I was drowning her. We tried bottle feeding, but she seemed to struggle even more in her efforts to organize a swallow. The only effective way she was able to get her belly full of breast milk, or receive any nourishment at all, was via a nasogastric tube that went in through her nose and down into her stomach.

By day two, she had plaster casts on both of her feet that went all the way up her legs to the middle of her little thighs. They were heavy, stiff, and hard, but Mallory remained bright-eyed and willing to endure the tests and treatments. Mallory was a great sport. She was so engaged. All of our babies had been smart and wide-eyed, but this little person was observant and clued in from the moment she was born. She made eye contact from the beginning. Mallory was keenly in tune with her surroundings from the start. She was different. We were puzzled by this beautiful baby’s alertness and awareness. Even the pediatric neurologist kept saying things like She is just too pretty, She’s certainly alert for her age, This isn’t adding up, and This is just too rare.

We found a fairly good routine in the hospital. Matt and I were determined to