Brave New Things

One of the things I’ve heard most often from people is this: you’re so brave to share your story.

by LINDSAY (MORK ’08) OSTROM

I mean, now when I scroll back through those first few Instagram posts after Bjork and I lost Afton, I guess it makes sense. If I look at it from the perspective of a normal person, my status updates right after his birth were raw, intense, and unpolished—maybe that seems brave.

But here’s a little secret: I am, in fact, not exceptionally brave.

From the outside, I might just seem brave because from the moment Afton was born, I desperately wanted people to love him. That’s all. I continue to share his story not out of bravery but out of desperation for my son to be known and loved. It’s what any mom wants for her baby.

It does not feel brave to share our messy, painful story of life and loss—it just feels like a different type of mothering. It’s a way to keep his life going, to keep him here with me, and maybe with other people too.

· · ·

The mark of tragedy is that there is absolutely no way to know it’s coming.

Tragedy finds you in the most normal times. It does not yield to your dinner plans or the fact that you won’t get to pack a bag and say goodbye. You will leave the house one day in 2016 with a spring in your step, not knowing that the next time you walk through your own front door it will actually be 2017, and you’ll be carrying a hospital memory box instead of a baby. It is tragedy, and it is shocking, and it is cruel.

I had sensed that things weren’t right for a few days. After repeatedly convincing myself it was fine—as all pregnant moms do—I decided to go in to the clinic “just in case.” When the Urgent Care doctor had completed her exam, she paused for a long moment and asked me if I had come to this appointment by myself. My heart started racing. I knew this line. This was the opening line to the wrong story—not the one where you get to go home filled with relief, as I had hoped. This was the start of the story that you don’t want to happen to you. And, of course, this was the one single appointment I had insisted to my husband, Bjork, I would be fine going to on my own.

Bjork picked me up and brought me to the hospital. We waited for the doctor in the triage room, eating graham crackers, drinking apple juice, and watching the Hallmark Christmas movie that the nurse had put on the TV. Everyone was casual—"they probably just got it wrong at Urgent Care," they all said. You are young and healthy. Everything seems normal. And suddenly—wait, wait—she’s four centimeters dilated and her water is about to break and it’s three months too early. Lay the bed flat, lay the bed flat!

The nurse rushed to lay the bed flat—inverse, actually, with my head reclined lower than my feet, where I stayed, with Bjork right by my side, for the next four days.

And I can think of no more painfully perfect metaphor for our lives in that moment—the tipping of the bed signaling the tipping of our world. Completely and utterly flipped, crashing, inverse, upside down, all wrong.

During our time in the hospital, we learned bits and pieces about what was happening: for reasons no one knew, I was in early labor. If our son was born now, even if he survived, his early birth could cause him to be blind, to have significant brain and

lung damage, to be in a wheelchair. He was completely healthy, but this was happening too soon. We needed every possible second of his development. We needed him to stay put.

So why, then, do some babies stay put while others come early? Why do some people get healed from cancer while others don’t live to see their next birthday? Why does one person’s car narrowly miss the oncoming truck while another is just an inch too far to the left? I firmly believe that one of the most significant challenges and spiritual callings in my life after losing Afton is to sit with this struggle. To feel it and to wrestle with it. To be at peace with never fully having peace, on behalf of myself and others like me who landed on the wrong side of statistics. And to find God in the love and redemption that can exist in even the worst of circumstances.

Within four days of arriving at the hospital, it was determined that we would not be the “lucky” ones. We would not get that extra time. Some babies do—ours did not. Afton needed to be born, right now, via emergency C-section.

Our first baby, our sweet son, Afton Bjork Ostrom, was born on December 31, 2016. His delivery was beautiful and terrifying. His entire perfect little self—brain, heart, soul—was packed into a fragile, wriggling 1 lb. 3 oz. body. He was given a 9/10 on the Apgar score and, like any new parents, we were thrilled. Within seconds of being born, he squirmed, he let out a little cry, and he took a few breaths on his own. But because of his extreme prematurity, he was immediately rushed to the NICU where an army of doctors and nurses began major medical interventions to save his life.

We knew that the odds were tough. We knew that babies born at 23 weeks have, at best, about a 50/50 chance of survival. Survival is possible, but it’s tough.

We knew this in our heads, but you cannot know those percentages in their actual, ugly truth until you get the call at two in the morning that your son—not someone else’s son, but yours—is not okay. You cannot know until you turn the corner of the NICU in the middle of the night and see that army of medical professionals spilling out of the room that belongs to your son. You cannot know until someone in medical scrubs is crouching down in front of your wheelchair explaining that your son, your precious and irreplaceable baby, is not going to live.

We went into his room, knowing we would be holding him for the first time and the last time. They laid him on me—my warm, tiny baby—and in that moment I became a new person. I became his mom. I could feel his heart beating so fast against my chest where he was curled up, and I loved him so instantly, so deeply. During those hello and goodbye moments, the veil between the physical and spiritual realm was paper-thin.

The trauma and terror cannot be unwoven from the threads that make up Afton’s story. They just can’t. But those threads exist only because he was loved and wanted beyond measure.

· · ·

Taking that first shower after Afton was born is one of my most vividly painful and brave memories of January 1, 2017: me, sitting on a chair in the shower, weak from surgery, and Bjork sitting just outside the shower because I was so terrified to do this alone. We breathed in the steam and wept as we took that first step towards our new normal—towards life after Afton.

I started easy: my feet. Then my legs. My arms, my belly, my face. As I got closer to my chest, that sacred place right over my heart where Afton had taken his last breath, the knot in my stomach tightened. “He’s deeper than my skin,” I cried over and over and over, willing myself to believe it. We both nodded, pretending to be brave as I sprayed hot water over the spot where Afton had been snuggled in so close, washing away my first and last physical touch point with my living baby boy.

After I showered, a grief counselor knocked on the door. She sat on the edge of my bed and cried with us. Then she suggested something awesome: picking a smell for Afton. She told us to choose a scent that we could put on his tiny body and clothes that we would remember as “his smell,” even after ten thousand more showers.

The day before he was buried, our sweet Afton was surrounded in lavender—candles, soap, lotion, oil, the works. He was tucked into his casket smelling like peaceful lavender, mom and dad’s kisses, and grandma’s blanket, complete with a few stray hairs woven between the threads from our dog, Sage.

And now, every day, we face brave, new things.

Going to the grocery store for milk. Walking Sage around the block. Seeing babies. All of this feels brave.

One month after Afton was born, my brave thing was getting on a plane and going to Hawaii. Dreamy, right? And under different circumstances, it would have been. But I was living a new life by then—one where following through on an empty should-havebeen babymoon to Hawaii fell under the category of “very brave things.”

As we checked in for the flight, we realized that Bjork and I hadn’t been organized enough to get seats together. Row 5 and Row 15—not even close. We got on the plane hoping for a flexible seatmate, and even though it was not the most desirable seat (hello, bathroom), the man sitting next to me—Brian— agreed to switch with us so that Bjork and I could sit together.

Being the super nice person that he is, Bjork took a few minutes during the flight to write Brian a thank you note. He explained Afton’s story and why it was so meaningful for us to be able to sit together on this especially tender flight. Iwoke up just as he was walking up to Row 5 to deliver it.

After we landed, we stepped into the gate area and saw Brian there waiting for us. He introduced himself and thanked us for the note.

And then, quietly, Brian told us that he and his wife had lost their first son at a premature 26 weeks old—almost exactly the same as us. “It’ll be 6 years this month,” he said, and tears sprang to his eyes. “It’s still hard. It never completely goes away. But you’ll make it through. With time, you’ll make it through.”

Even (or maybe especially) as a Christian, I’ve always been really hesitant to use cliché faith words. For example, “God blessed me,” “That was a blessing,” “Hashtag blessed.” But Afton’s life has given me so many instances where using those cliché words is so very justified. For example, finding someone like Brian on a plane to Hawaii. That was a blessing.

I believe there is always redemption to be found. That’s where God is—He’s the love, the presence, and the hope of eternity we can find even in loss.

But even with that hope, there is so much pain. There is lament.

One night, deep in my grief, I laid on the couch, in the dark, by myself except for a box of Kleenex, and I thought back to seeing Afton for the last time on the ultrasound just before he was born. It was the exact definition of bittersweet: we were watching his lively feet kick, showing us that he was happy and healthy, but we could see based on his position that he needed to come out before it was time. It was the last time I saw or felt him move.

Over and over I thought about it—he was perfect, but my own body was flawed. How could I, as his mother, not be able to do this natural, life-giving thing for him? There is so much pride around the powerful nature of motherhood and the body’s ability for natural, fullterm childbirth—and rightfully so. But then what did that mean for me? That I was not powerful? That my body was broken? That I was not created for what is often held up as the ultimate virtue of womanhood?

I cried hard that night as I sat alone in the dark. Why? WHY? He was beautifully and intricately formed, more than any living thing I’d ever seen. He was loved so fiercely.

And then, without missing a beat, I heard—“You are, too.”

Or maybe I more like felt it, right there in the intense darkness. “Lindsay, you are, too. You are not broken. You are not weak. You are not lesser than. You are beautifully and intricately formed, and you are loved so fiercely.”

I am convinced that God looks at me the way I look at Afton, except better: as perfectly made, beautiful, and so loved. I don’t believe God caused this trauma in our lives. But I know God is with us always, even in the dark night of tragedy, and that He made us beautifully the same way He made Afton beautifully. I believe He is weeping with us—all of us—for our tragedies and the loss of even just one tiny, precious life.

· · ·

Being brave is forced on a lot of us. I think most of us have realized by now that graduating from a Christian college doesn’t exempt us from struggle. Our marriages fall apart, we get a diagnosis, our long-standing faith wavers, we are deeply lonely, someone we love dies, and in all of it we are forced to be brave.

In my life, and maybe in yours, too, bravery looks less like a flashy Captain America moment and more like finishing that work assignment, leaning into a meaningful conversation with a friend, laughing at YouTube cat videos again, and going to counseling for the first time.

Bravery is staying in the game. It’s engaging with your life and relentlessly seeking and accepting love even though life has just run you ragged. That pure love I will always have for Afton, and the deep love I feel from other people around me, and the perfect love I know that God has for each of us—that is what keeps me in the game. It’s what makes me brave.

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. Psalm 139:7–10

Lindsay (Mork ’08) Ostrom & her husband Bjork live in St. Paul, MN with their sweet pup Sage. Together, they turned their “side-hustle,” known as Pinch of Yum food blog, into a full-time career that now garners an audience of more than three million each month. Lindsay was an elementary education major at University of Northwestern and went on to teach 4th grade in the Roseville Area School District.

After the loss of their sweet Afton, Lindsay and Bjork found themselves with a broken heart and lack of appetite—a seemingly ironic situation for two food bloggers. Drawing inspiration from the friends and family who dropped off meals or invited them for dinner, they started a mini movement: Feeding a Broken Heart. The idea was simple: make a recipe for someone who has a broken heart, and share the story by using #feedingabrokenheart. Together, these acts of love put warm, comforting food in front of many.

Here’s a recipe from that series »

basic + awesome creamy potato soup

Prep Time: 15 mins | Cook Time: 1 hour | Yield: 4–6 servings

Creamy Potato Soup—so simple and all-homemade, with carrots, celery, potatoes, milk, butter, flour, and bacon. Perfect comfort food with no canned cream-of-anything soups.

INGREDIENTS

• 6 slices bacon

• 4 tablespoons butter

• 2 cups mirepoix (celery, carrots, and onions, all minced)

• 3 cloves garlic, minced

• ½ teaspoon salt and/or seasoning (to taste, see notes)

• ¼ cup all purpose flour

• 3 cups whole milk

• 1–2 cups chicken broth

• 2 russet potatoes, peeled and cubed

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Bacon Prep: Bake the bacon on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper at 400° for 20 minutes. Crumble or cut into pieces.

2. Soup Base: Melt the butter in a soup pot. Add the mirepoix, garlic, salt, and seasoning and sauté until nice and soft. Add flour and stir with the vegetables for a few minutes to cook off any floury taste. Add milk, just a little bit at a time, stirring after each addition until smooth and creamy. The soup should start out very thick and eventually thin out as you add milk. Add the potatoes, and add chicken broth as needed to achieve the right consistency. For a thicker soup, you may not need as much of the broth.

3. Simmer Time: Let the soup simmer for 30–40 minutes. The potato soup will thicken as it simmers, and even more as it cools down. I like to wait until the potatoes are almost melty, with their edges softened just a bit, before removing from heat. When ready to serve, crumble the bacon and stir it into the soup.

Read more recipes and stories from this series by searching #feedingabrokenheart on Instagram.