Six Years

I lit a candle for her in my kitchen tonight while I finished my Thanksgiving preparations. The flame flickered while cranberries bubbled on the stove and I mixed together a pumpkin pie.

She should have been six today. It has been six and a half years since we said goodbye.

I had no idea then how loss would change me, how her death - and later the death of her sister - would undo me.

The pain of losing them still hurts more than I generally care to admit to myself, even with three healthy children, even with a fresh baby to hold in my arms.

Tonight though, I am allowing myself to feel her absence, to think about how she should have been going with her Grammy this week to pick out her first American Girl doll, to imagine that unlike my living children, she might have looked like me.

Tonight my tears mingle with my preparations for tomorrow’s day of gratitude, and I remember Avaleen Hope. I am thankful that she was. I miss the little girl she would have been.

For My Fellow Loss Mamas on Mother's Day

They aren't here to give you a card today. They can't scrawl a family portrait with markers or press their paint-dipped palms into handprint flowers on construction paper.  

They won't be in your Mother's Day photo this year. They can't wrap their arms around you or snuggle their heads against your shoulder. They can't tickle your ear with a whispered "I love you."

But the memory of them will be with you today, as it is every day. And you will miss them, as you do every day.

Motherhood is always a thankless job. You know this well. And yet, there is particular sense of emptiness that comes when you carry a baby who never breathes, when you endure the pains of labor for a baby who never cries. 

Mamas who grieve, you have given much of yourselves to love your little ones. You gave much while they lived inside of you, your bodies ravaged by nausea and fatigue, your bellies stretched and marked. You gave much when they died, your hearts bruised and broken, your faith tested, your hope lost. You give much still as you remember, wrestle, mourn, and daily fight for joy without them.

Some days, I know, it all feels like a waste. So much time and energy spent on lives that are no longer, that the world will never see. What fruit can come from this? you may wonder. So much pain, and so little to show for it.

But my friends, I want you to know today that God does not see it that way at all. He has seen every sacrifice you've made, every tear-streaked journal page you've written, every private moment of anguish and despair. He has seen it all, and what He sees is beauty. 

Beauty in tender hearts that have allowed themselves to be broken open by love.

Beauty in the honest tears and raw prayers that have been offered out of your grief.

Beauty in a love for your children that persists, knowing it will never receive anything in return.

Beauty in your gaze turned heavenward, in a loosening grip on this world's fleeting pleasures.

None of us would have chosen this kind of beauty. We would have chosen, would still choose, to have all of our children in our arms. And yet I don't want us to miss the beauty that is here in our broken stories, a beauty heavy with whispers of Him.

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Easter Matters More to Me Now

Once upon a time, I didn't think much about death.

I was young, and while there were of course disappointments, I had good grades, excellent health, and a bright future. I loved Jesus, and of course I knew that His death and resurrection were central to my faith, but I knew this in my head. My heart was focused on life - on the joy of being in God's presence, on what God was calling me to do for Him.

But then I lost a baby girl. And three and a half years later, I buried her sister.

Death is now part of my story. I cannot explain who I am without talking about those I have lost. I cannot explain who I am without talking about the parts of me that died along with my girls.

Easter matters more to me now. In my grief, it is often hard for me to stand in church and sing songs of worship. I don't always feel like rejoicing, and I struggle to join wholeheartedly in the songs we sing about God's goodness and faithfulness. But when we sing about the resurrection, something stirs deep inside me, and my voice becomes loud and strong. 

Christ has risen from the dead, trampling over death by death . . . Oh death! Where is your sting? Oh hell! Where is your victory? Oh Church! Come stand in the light! The glory of God has defeated the night! (Matt Maher, "Christ Is Risen").

I sing these words, and I picture Lily's grave. I think about the terrible emptiness of life without her and without Avaleen. And I think about Jesus on the cross and about the empty tomb.

And in these moments, when we are singing these words, I realize that in spite of all my doubts, I do believe in the risen Jesus.

I still feel the sting of death, but also I rejoice, more deeply than before, in the powerful beauty of the resurrection. 

One Year

One year ago we said goodbye, but you were already gone. 

We have missed you every day since, all three hundred sixty-five of them.

You died, and with you, a very real part of me died too. I am still trying to find words for this, for that which is lost. And also for that which I've gained because there is good and beauty here too, mixed in with the tears and the pain.

I am still searching for my words, but last week, I read these. They give language for what I could not express, for what the past year has felt like without you.

“All these things I recognize. I remember delighting in them—trees, art, house, music, pink morning sky, work well done, flowers, books. I still delight in them. I’m still grateful. But the zest is gone. The passion is cooled, the striving quieted, the longing stilled. My attachment is loosened. No longer do I set my heart on them. I can do without them. They don’t matter. Instead of rowing, I float. The joy that comes my way I savor. But the seeking, the clutching, the aiming, is gone. I don’t suppose anyone on the outside notices. I go through my paces. What the world gives, I still accept. But what it promises, I no longer reach for. I’ve become an alien in the world, shyly touching it as if it’s not mine. I don’t belong any more. When someone loved leaves home, home becomes mere house.”

— Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son

I don't have many words today Lily, not because my love for you is small, but because it is so large that I don't know how to contain it in language.

But I will say this: I miss you Lily Mae. I love you. We all do.

Not Your Typical Christmas Newsletter

You’re not supposed to start holiday newsletters by saying that you’ve had a hard year. But really, there’s no other way to begin, so I am just going to say it. It’s been a really hard year.

In January, our daughter Lily Mae was delivered still at 20 weeks gestation. We wrapped her in a handmade blanket, held her in our arms, and felt our hearts break open with love and with longing. A few days later, we buried her on a frigid, blustery morning.

Just weeks before, I’d sent my first book off to the publisher, a book about how God shows up in infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth. I’d already experienced infertility and miscarriage, and I’d seen God meet our family in those places. And He’s met us this year too: in the overwhelming support of so many of you, in words of comfort and hope, in grace upon grace.

And yet, there’s no way around the fact that it’s been really, really hard. We all miss Lily so very much. We talk about her and about her big sister Avaleen every day. We often imagine what it would be like if they were here – how old they would be, what they might be doing on various family trips or occasions. We ache for them.

Sometimes people ask me how I’m doing, how we’re doing as a family. And usually I say okay. Because we’re functioning. We’re eating three meals a day. We’re (usually!) doing our laundry. We’re going to church and Girl Scouts and birthday parties. We’re having fun together and enjoying the antics of E (5) and C(3). We’re celebrating E's progress as a reader and C's farewell to diapers.

And yet, I still don’t really feel okay. My sadness persists, and I see increasingly how loss is deeply intertwined in our family’s story. I’m always aware of the daughters I miss, even in the happiest of moments. Even, perhaps especially, at Christmas.  

A few days ago, I was thinking about this, wondering if I’d ever truly feel okay again, and I felt like God told me: Abby, it’s okay that you’re not okay. In fact, one of the gifts of Avaleen and Lily’s lives and deaths is that your grief will always remind you that you’re not okay.

It’s strange to consider grief a gift, and yet I’m trying to see it as such. After all, Jesus Himself said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous, but sinners” (Mark 2:17). We celebrate Christmas because Jesus came, and He came because we needed Him. We are, all of us, not okay. We are, all of us, in need of a Savior. From sin and sadness, from darkness and death.

Some years, Christmas feels joyous and bright, and some years, it appears to have lost some or all of its shimmer. Our prayer is that each of you, in whatever place you find yourselves this Christmas, will discover a little bit more of the One who is present in both our brightest joys and our deepest sorrows. 

With love,

The Waldrons

Gifts for the Grieving Family

Grief at the holidays is hard. It's difficult to feel like celebrating anything when you're missing someone you love. This morning, I cried in church, longing for the baby I should be holding this Christmas and for her big sister too. 

I think one of the most difficult parts of grieving at Christmas is the feeling that sadness doesn't belong, that others only want to think jolly, happy thoughts, that no one want to be bothered with the gaping hole in your heart.

This will be my fourth Christmas as a grieving mother, and over the years, I've been blessed by friends and family who've entered into my grief with special gifts that both acknowledged my pain and celebrated the lives of the daughters we miss.

I share some of those gifts with you below (as well as a few favorites I've discovered on my own) - in case you are looking for ways to bless a family grieving this Christmas. Some of the gifts below are specific to my own experience of grief - miscarriage and stillbirth - but many of them would be appropriate for other types of loss as well.

Gifts for Grieving Families:

• Charitable donation - I will never forget how on my first Christmas as a grieving mother, some dear friends made a donation to World Vision in honor of our Avaleen. Any charitable donation in honor of a loved one would be meaningful, but I like the idea of choosing an item from a charity gift catalog that is related in some way to the family's loss. For example, World Vision's gift catalog includes a New Mother and Baby Kit and Maternal and Child Health Care gift.
• Ornament - Last year I ordered an ornament for myself and a friend from this Etsy shop. I also like this lovely ornament from Laurel Box (which offers many beautiful gifts for the grieving) and this one from Luminous Light Studio.

Gifts for Grieving Kids:

Reading Voyage to the Star Kingdom to some children who've lost baby brothers and sisters.

• Voyage to the Star Kingdom - we recently added this book to our family library, and it's absolutely beautiful. Inspired by the real-life story of a family facing the early death of two daughters, the book does an excellent job of portraying God's nearness to us in hard times and the beauty of heaven. 
• Emily Lost Someone She Loved - we don't actually own this book, but a good friend lent it to us when Lily died. It's about a little girl who loses her mother and the way her grief often comes out in anger. I appreciated its honest portrayal of grief as well as the way it points to Jesus as a source of hope.

Gifts for Grieving Parents:

• Bereavement jewelry - I've been given several beautiful necklaces in memory of my girls (this nest necklace and this necklace with one ring for each of my daughters). I've also received these lovely teardrop earrings and ordered a "keeper" bracelet for myself and my living daughters with the initials of all four girls. I love wearing these pieces and remembering my girls as I do.
• Framed print - I own this print of one of my favorite grief verses, but there are many lovely ones both at Bottle of Tears and at Luminous Light Studio as well as on this Etsy shop.
• Far as the Curse Is Found - And finally, I'll mention my own book, which I continue to hope will be a gift to many women and men like me - who've struggled with infertility, miscarriage, and/or stillbirth. The book tells my own story as well as the stories of 11 other families who've struggled with reproductive loss. It explores how God shows up in these places, how in the words of the familiar Christmas carol, "He comes to make His blessings flow far as the curse is found."

A final gift you can give your grieving friends and family this Christmas is your words. Don't be afraid to tell them you are thinking of them and praying for them. Don't be afraid to speak the name of the person they are missing. Don't be afraid to write them a note and let them know they are on your heart. Your willingness to enter into their pain and to pray with them through it is perhaps the most important gift you can offer.

Resting

This year needs to be a year of rest, I've heard God whisper time and time again since Lily's death. 

And I've nodded, understanding. The past few years have been full, too full. Pregnancy. Newborn. Pregnancy. Miscarriage. Book drafting. Pregnancy. Newborn. Book editing. Pregnancy. Stillbirth. Burial. Book release.

We're tired, all of us. We've been living in crisis mode for a year at least, possibly years, and it shows. In the cluttered corners of our home. In our battle-weary bodies. In hundreds of tiny eruptions of anger and impatience and frustration. In parenting issues too long overlooked.

So we've chosen quiet this fall. We've stepped down from our leadership responsibilities at church. We're homeschooling. The kids aren't taking any classes or participating in any sports. I'm not writing much. 

Most days, the girls and I are home all day doing chores and school and play together. 

As we've settled into these decisions the past few weeks, part of me has exhaled, relieved to not be rushing anyone off to preschool in the morning, to have hours to spend snuggling on the couch with a pile of library books, to be able to show up at church meetings that I don't have to lead or plan.  

But it's been hard too. Hard because too often, busyness is my antidote to suffering. Productivity allows me to hide from my pain. 

The choice to slow down means it's harder to hide from my sadness. I have to face it and feel it and figure out what to do with it, even as I spend my days wiping noses and bottoms, teaching vowel sounds, and mediating between screaming siblings. None of it feels easy or glamorous. At the end of the day, I have very little to show for my labors, except crumb-covered floors, counters scattered with science experiments and art projects, and often, tears of grief that just won't stop.

And yet, I sense this is where I am to be this year, where we all are to be. Together. Grieving. Resting. Building. Trusting that God will work here, that He is already working to heal and to restore.

* * * * *

Yesterday afternoon, the girls and I went to the cemetery at the request of my oldest. She and her sister ran to Lily's grave, small, white pumpkins in hand. They'd decorated them earlier that day with purple and green markers and puffy gem stickers. "Hi Lily, I'm your big sister," they said in turn, while they placed their pumpkins next to her memorial plaque. 

Then, we walked to a nearby pavilion. The girls munched on pretzels, while I sat, surveying row after row of graves, pensive. "When I die, " my two year-old belted out suddenly, a wide smile on her face, blonde curls whipping in the wind. "Hallelujah by and by," she continued singing. "I'll fly away."

I smiled at her and her joy and the irony of her words in this place. In that moment, I felt God speak: This is not the end of your story.

And a few tears slid down my cheeks because I really do believe this to be true, even as I lose sight of it daily - the best is yet to come.

I long for it here, for glimpses of redemption in this broken, dying world, for another baby perhaps, or for small tastes of how all our family's pain has done some good somewhere. 

But more and more, as I keep on facing the deaths of my girls, keep on feeling the weight of their absence, I long too for a world made new, for the end to both striving and sorrows, for a true and lasting rest. To a land where joy will never end, I'll fly away.

Missed

I haven't written much this summer. I've tried, drafting countless posts in my head, searching for the words to capture this season. But the ones that come don't feel right. I am not myself, or at least the self that I used to be, but I don't yet know what I am becoming. 

I am shaken, and I feel myself pulling back, turning inward, waiting for my feet to find solid ground again before I emerge. I find it difficult to be part of joyful celebrations, even normal, everyday conversations, not primarily because I am envious of others and their happiness, but because it feels to me like they inhabit a world I am no longer part of, a world I may never enter again.

Who am I now? What does it mean to be a mother of two daughters here, two gone? How do I integrate my grief with a life that is in so many ways blessed? I do not know.

I read beautiful posts on grief here and here, and I catch glimpses of the answer. But my own thoughts are less clear. I have written a book about miscarriage and stillbirth, but I find myself without much to say. And so I wait. For Jesus. For healing. For words. 

* * * * *

I've thought about her every day this summer. I've felt her absence on the days I'd imagined her with us: our annual beach trip in honor of Avaleen, our family vacation to North Carolina, so many lazy summer afternoons.

And I've longed for her too on the days that wouldn't have been possible if she were here: the beach and pool trips I couldn't have managed with three littles, the weekday trip to the DC Zoo, the anniversary getaway CJ and I enjoyed in Chicago. 

* * * * *

We all miss her.

When we walk past the shopping carts at the grocery store, my two year-old points to the one with an infant seat attached. "If Lily was alive," she asks, "she would ride there?"

"Yes," I say.

"How old would Lily be now?" her sister wants to know.

It takes me a moment to calculate the answer: "Three months."

It feels like so much longer because it has been. Seven months without her.

Later, at bedtime, my older daughter returns to our conversation. "So Lily would be half of a half of a year old?" she asks.

"Yes," I smile, impressed at her mathematical reasoning. "That's called a quarter."

She's part of our days, our Lily. We carry her with us in the form of a Bitty Baby and a stuffed raccoon, both named in her honor, and we carry her with us in our thoughts, our conversations, our hearts.

* * * * *

This afternoon, I spend a few hours teaching my five year-old to swim, the toddler floating happily beside us in her puddle jumper. At the beginning of the summer, they'd both insisted on floaties, but the oldest refuses them now, jumping from the pool's edge, stretching her arms toward me, chin up, kicking, reaching. For the first time, she swims a few independent strokes, a smile filling her face when I pull her out of the water, sputtering. I kiss the top of her head, so proud, so happy. But I think too of Lily, of this moment that should not have been, of my arms both full and empty, 

Due Date

She should be here now, snuggled against my chest, heavy and warm in my arms.

My girls should be soaking in lots of grandma time, smothering their little sister with kisses and clamoring for their next turn to hold her.

Instead, on the day Lily was to be born, we visit her grave and release balloons, one for each week she lived inside of me. It is a beautiful, sunny afternoon, the kind of afternoon one might describe as perfect. But nothing is quite right.

I'd pictured the balloons being released together and then spreading across the sky, fading to individual dots as they rose. But by the time we arrive at the cemetery, balloons filling every empty space in our car, the strings are hopelessly tangled, and we are forced to release them as a unit. "It's not what I wanted," I tell CJ as the blob of balloons drifts away, and his shoulders slump.

Later, we visit some water gardens as a family. The toddler is happy to wonder the grounds and take in the water lilies and the fish, but the five year-old sulks. She is bored. Why can't she buy a fish? she wants to know. What is there to do here?

There are a few bright moments by the pond. The girls laugh as the greedy swarm of fish gobble the little pellets we toss to them from the dock. But mostly, the air is humid, and I keep brushing gnats away from my face, and I just want this day to be over.

Later, when the girls are asleep and CJ is cleaning up the kitchen, I cry in the shower, loud enough that CJ comes up to ask me if I am okay. I am so tired of feeling sad, I tell him. 

We've gotten texts throughout the day from family and friends who remember - and flowers and beautiful earrings shaped like tears, earrings that remind me that God values our tears (Psalm 56:8), that He is here too, somewhere.

But none of this makes me feel better, not today. I fall asleep holding the tiny blanket my Lily was wrapped in at the hospital, and I wake up to my five year-old planning a baby shower for her baby doll Lily who she tells me has just been born.

"Hold the baby," she commands. "And open these presents."

And so I do. I sit with her while she too imagines what should have been.

This Spring

This morning, while we fill out race day paperwork, I ask the woman at the registration table for the date. "April 30," she says.

"So tomorrow is May 1?" my five year-old asks, looking up at me. "The month Lily would have been born if she'd stayed alive?"

"Yes," I say, wondering if the woman hears her, wondering if she will comment, thinking too about this so-small-and-yet-so-big girl beside me, her fine hair twisted in twin braids, her eyes wide and brown and knowing.

She is not sad at the moment, just marking the passage of time and remembering her sister in it. But often, she is sad. Earlier this week, we talked for an hour at bedtime about the fact that her preschool classmates didn't vote to name their stuffed raccoon Lily. "They don't understand how important to me Lily still is," she wailed.

"I know," I said, and I cried with her.

* * * * *

It's a strange time for our family. We're enjoying the spring weather and eagerly anticipating summer and celebrating the release of a book that's been in process longer than  my younger daughter has been alive. 

I feel alternately encouraged that in some small way, the stories in the book might help others walking similar roads, and angry that this is the book I had to write.

I look at families with four children, and I grieve the daughters I can't hold, and I know that no matter how many books I sell and no matter how many encouraging emails I receive, it will never be enough to take the grief away.

* * * * *

The book was supposed to be released just weeks before Lily was born. In September, when I learned I was pregnant, I imagined myself at a book release party, large and glowing, and I wondered if I'd lose credibility with my readers, if my experiences of infertility and miscarriage would be discounted by the visible gift of another child, one nearly ready to be born.

I don't wonder that anymore. I find myself once again part of the audience I wrote this book for, women and men who long for babies they can't hold, who find themselves stumbling thorugh the darkness, desperate for the tiniest glimmers of God's presence.

They say releasing a book is like birthing a baby, but all I can think about is the painful reminder embedded in the comparison. This spring, I'd hoped to release my book and birth my baby. Instead, I hold my book in my hands and wish I held my baby instead.

Last Day for Special Offer

Hey everyone, just wanted to remind you all that today is the last day for Wipf and Stock's special friends and family offer for Far as the Curse Is Found. Enter WALDRON at checkout to receive 40 percent off the list price of $24. 

Some Big Announcements

Three big announcements today:

1. You've been asking, and I'm happy to announce. The books are here! Yesterday I received the first two copies off the press, and now you can order your own, both on my publisher's website and on Amazon.

2. Wipf and Stock is offering a special, limited-time discount for my friends and family. Between now and Monday, April 18, if you enter the code WALDRON at checkout, you will receive 40 percent off the list price of $24, which brings the cost to only $14.40 plus shipping. Take advantage of this great offer and order now!

3. Thanks to the efforts of my wonderful husband, I have an updated, much prettier website: abigailwaldron.com. Please visit, subscribe, share, and please, let me know if you find any typos!

Thanks so much to my faithful readers for all of your support during the three long years of writing this book! I can't believe it's finally here, and I can't wait to hear what you think about it.

You Should Also Know

It's been two months now, two months filled with the difficulties of early grief.

But you should also know that there is a beauty about these days I still don’t have words for, a beauty that is palpable even here, even in these days heavy with her absence.

* * * * *

It’s the week after Lily’s delivery. CJ and I are out for breakfast, eating pancakes at a diner and trying to plan our baby girl’s funeral, when a friend texts us a link to a song.

I listen to it later in the car by myself, in between stops at Old Navy for funeral clothes and Costco to pick up premade soups for the burial luncheon.

And I know as soon as I hear the first line that it is the right song for our Lily: So beautiful how could we not believe.

I listen and I can’t stop crying.

The words speak to the beauty I’d sensed in that hospital room just a few days previous, even as I held my too-small, too-cold, too-still daughter.

I can’t explain it really. It was perhaps the worst day of my life. I watched my husband and my daughters hold Lily in their arms, and I held her too, and my heart split open with the joy and sorrow of it.

So beautiful how could we not believe.

* * * * *

On Valentine’s Day, we make doughnuts at my brother’s house, snow on the ground outside, dough swelling in the warmth of the kitchen. The girls run around with their cousins, a trail of dolls and dress-up clothes in their wake, and I work in the kitchen with my grandmother and the recipe she’d scrawled on an index card decades before I was born.

At one point, I hear the girls in the adjacent room, planning a funeral for one of their baby dolls. Their mood is cheerful, their play creative and cooperative. But they’re planning a funeral for a baby.

I hate that they are playing this, that they are reliving the cold, hard day of Lily’s burial in the midst of a happier one. I wish they didn’t have a category for babies dying. I don’t want this to be my legacy to them, I think.

They’re not acting sad, but I know that on some level, their little hearts are being broken, and I hurt for them, these children I love the best.

Later that afternoon, I stand at the kitchen counter and help as each of the girls takes a turn cutting out a few doughnuts. I guide pudgy toddler fingers and delicate little girl hands, and we fill the dining room table with row after row of our hollow circles.

And then we fry them and eat them, still warm in our hands, and we smile with delight, powdered sugar dusting our lips.

We love. We grieve. Then all seek our reprieve.

* * * * *

At our church women’s retreat a few weeks later, I sit around a table in a sterile basement classroom with a group of women who’ve been assigned to be a small group for the weekend, a group of women I know very little.

I stare at the wildflower arrangement in the center of table and listen to the others introduce themselves, knowing that when it’s my turn, I’ll talk about Lily and about Avaleen too. I’ve reached the point where it’s almost impossible to explain who I am, to tell any real version of my story, without talking about them.

I’m the last to speak. “I have two daughters,” I say, “and I’ve lost two daughters. One of them just last month.”

My voice breaks, and I look up to see that I’m not the only one crying. One woman shares about her own pair of pregnancy losses. Another tells me she how she pictures one of my girls sitting in a room like this someday, sharing about the sisters she’d lost and how God had met her even there.

I remember then something my Mom had said when she was here taking care of us after Lily died, about how she had a sense God would use this loss to help make my girls who He wants them to be, that somehow deep pain would help unleash great good in their lives.

I tell the ladies with me around that table that I believe this, and they pray with me that it will be so.

So beautiful how could we not believe.

* * * * *

Beside me while I write is the Easter lily my oldest child picked out in memory of her sister. Several of its buds are still pressed tightly together, sealed, enclosed. But two have begun to open, white petals unfurling, beauty erupting.

It’s fitting, I think, that a lily’s glory comes from its unfolding, for Lily’s life and death are teaching me about the beauty of coming undone, of the holiness found in being broken.

This Easter, I keep coming back to Jesus’ words to us on the night of His betrayal:This is my body broken for you.

So beautiful how could we not believe.

Early Grief

I wake up tired, the kind of tired that coffee doesn't touch.

My days are full of normal activities: breakfast preparations, breaking up sibling squabbles, picking up toys, loading kids in the car for errands and activities, breaking up more squabbles, picking up more toys.

But my brain isn't normal at all. My thoughts are hazy, disjointed. When I talk to friends, I ramble, or I don't say much of anything at all.

I crave time alone and also I feel isolated.

"The baby died," my two year-old says, in the middle of her afternoon play. "The baby died."

"Yes," I say. "She did."

I don't cry then, nor do I cry when my four year-old prays at bedtime. "Dear God," she says. "Please put another baby in Mommy's belly."

She pauses then continues, "The kind that doesn't die."

"Amen," I say simply and kiss her forehead.

Later though, when all is finally quiet and still, I ignore the crumb-littered floors and the toys strewn on the carpet. I crawl into my own bed, and the tears come with such force that I struggle to catch my breath.

It's been one month since we said goodbye.

Letters for Lily

 

At Lily's burial service, CJ and I both read letters we'd written her. I am posting them here in the order we read them that day.

Lily,

I have no idea where to start this letter. I’m not sure I’ve ever written a letter to someone who will never hold it and read it. My hope and prayer is that God will allow you to know my heart and love for you, even though we have yet to meet.

I want to first think about joy. Though you were born still, your gift to us was learning that you existed and getting to tell your sisters that you were “in Mommy’s belly.” Ellie was exuberant. Celia tried to see you by lifting up Mommy’s shirt. Though sadness was to follow several weeks later, you brought us joy and memories we will never forget; just by being. Thank you.

When we were at the doc’s for your 20-week ultrasound, you were still. You were measuring about a month behind. You didn’t have a heartbeat. You were being, yet you were gone. I’ll never forget driving home, sitting in a parking lot down the street with Mommy. Crying. Praying. Calling your grandparents. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was tell Ellie, as she sat in my lap. Her attention immediately snapped from a distracted, “what now, Daddy?” to utter sadness.

We could have kept your existence as quiet as possible, managed risk, theoretically minimized the damage if the worst were to happen. We didn’t do that because we wanted to celebrate your life. All of it. Jesus said in John that He “…came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” With all friendships there are risks. With all marriages there are risks. With all children there are risks. Risks of giving and not receiving. Risks of being hurt and risks of losing someone. Having life abundantly means taking those risks.

You gave your sisters the opportunity to live life abundantly. To experience immeasurable joy and to grieve. We would rather have had the experience of them smothering you with love and telling you what to do, but make no mistake that you have been a blessing to us.

Our family is now and will forever be incomplete. Nobody could ever replace you. When we see newborns this spring and summer, toddlers next year and 10-year-olds in a decade we will wonder what you would have been like. It will make us sad, sometimes cry, but we will know that you are with Jesus, having life eternal. We will long for the day when we meet you, and Him and also your sister Avaleen.

I want to honor your memory by living life abundantly. By loving those around me, appreciating the gifts God has given me in your mom, your sisters and you; not fearing the pain of loss. While the pain of losing you is indeed severe, living a life with fear of loss is a burden too difficult for me to bear. I love you, Lily.

Love,

Daddy

* * * * * * *

Dearest Lily,

There are so many words I wish I could say to you on this day, this day that we gather to celebrate your life and also to grieve its end.

I want to tell you about the day when your Daddy and I first learned that you existed. I knew then that your presence inside me would lead to long months of fatigue and sickness, but still, I felt joy and excitement at the gift of your life.

I want to tell you about the moment when we first told your sisters about you, about how Ellie squealed with delight and how Celia lifted up my shirt, wanting to look and see if she could find this “baby in Mommy’s belly” that Daddy kept talking about. They were both so excited to meet you. We all were.

I want to tell you about the people standing in front of me today, your grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, the friends and neighbors who celebrated with us when we first told them about you. They loved you too, and they’ve shown their love for you and for us these past two weeks, in flowers and meals and prayers and tears, in their willingness to simply be with us in the darkness.

I want to tell you about the day you were born, about the difficult beauty of those precious hours we had to hold you in our arms. I want to tell you about the wonder of your tiny body, the marvelous intricacy of your mouth and nose and toes. I want to tell you about the doctor and the friends who cried with us that day, about the sisters who loved you just as you were, about the way we felt God’s presence with us even as we said goodbye.

I wish I had a lifetime to tell you these stories, to wrap you in my arms and hold you close, and recount for you the memories stored up in my heart. You were loved my sweet girl, and you are loved still.

This morning, your sister Ellie placed a card inside your coffin. It read, “I am sorry that you died.” And in the end, I don’t have much to add to her words. I am sorry that you died, my Lily girl. So very, very sorry.

Love,

Mommy

Lily Mae

Her name sounds like springtime, echoes the month in which she should have been born. Instead, I delivered her small, still body in winter, just days before the largest snow storm my living daughters have ever seen.

It's been nine days since we said goodbye, and this morning, we awoke to streets blanketed in white. This feels right, like for a few, fleeting moments, the world really is standing still while we grieve.

But the sun is out now, and the snow is already beginning to melt. Stores are reopening, and all too soon, CJ will return to work and there will be preschool and ballet class and church. Our lives will continue even though her's did not.

I'd been watching Call the Midwife throughout my pregnancy, and since those terrible moments in the ultrasound room, I've thought often of the episode where Jenny's fiancé died after a sudden, tragic fall. I've kept returning to the words of one of her patients, a Holocaust survivor, the words that pierced me even as I felt the child inside me flutter and kick. Keep living, she said,  until you feel alive again.

When Avaleen died three and a half years ago, I spent months convinced I could never be truly happy without her, that the deep sadness I felt would always be with me. This time, I know better.

But still, the days are long and the nights are sad, and the road ahead, while not unfamiliar, often feels unbearable.

People ask me how I am doing, and I don't know what to say. But perhaps I should say this: We are living, allowing God to carry us in this darkness, trusting that one day we will feel alive again.

52: Quiet

It's been quiet here lately. August's been a delightfully slow month for us--long, lazy days full of playgrounds and Popsicles and lots and lots of coloring.

This blog's been quiet too. This is in part because I've been devoting most of my writing time to book revisions, but it's also because I've found myself in an uncertain place, asking God lots of questions and not hearing many answers. I'm an introvert, and when things feel shaky, I pull inward, waiting until I find solid internal ground before I fully reemerge.

In the shower the other day, I found myself thinking about how great it will be when I'm done wrestling, when I've learned whatever it is I'm supposed to learn from this time. "I'll be a more effective wife and parent," I thought. "I'll be better able to minister to others."

And then, He interrupted: "Abby, I'm not changing you so you can better care for others. I'm changing you because I love you."

The words encouraged me, and they stung. I believe them to be true and also I do not. I'm good at efficiency, productivity, and achievement. I love thinking of creative ways to do and to do well. I'm not so comfortable with just being loved. It is hard for me to believe that God would care enough about my heart to work in it, not for some greater purpose, but simply for me.

And so I wait here in the quiet, trusting God will find a way to help me understand this sort of love.

52: Full

They are competitive for my attention these days. If one of them is sitting in my lap, the other one wants to be there too. When I pick up one of them at church on Sundays, the other stretches out her arms. Last Sunday, I stood during worship, one girl in each arm, thinking more about the challenge of holding them both securely than whatever song we were singing at the time. It's tempting in moments like these to miss the days when I could worship free of responsibility and distraction. But my recent book revisions have taken me back to the days we struggled with infertility, when I often looked with longing at the families in adjacent rows at church, busy, squirming little bodies everywhere. Then, I felt barren, empty. Now I am grateful to have my arms so very full.

Eighteen Months

You are eighteen months today, baby girl, and I can scarcely believe it.

It seems like just yesterday you were a snuggly little bundle nestled against my shoulder or settled in your bouncy seat, contentedly watching the world go by.

Now, those still, snuggly moments come rarely. You are always on the run these days, your perfect little curls bouncing as you go.

You love to be outside, to watch your sister and her neighborhood buddy whizz by on their bicycles, to climb in and out of your play house, to point out the trucks at the school construction site nearby.

You love words and are picking up new ones every day now. You are constantly asking for a "nack" or for your little blue sun "at" to wear outside.

You love Elmo and bears and babies and fruit of all kinds.

You love playing with people's hair and often fall asleep with your little fingers holding on to your own curls.

You love to laugh, to make us laugh. When you taste a particularly delicious food, your whole face lights up in a smile, and you giggle. When we ask you what your name is, you usually say, "Nor-Nor," your word for your little friend Nora. You love how we react to your intentional mistake, the way we say shake our heads and laugh at your antics.

Your love is fierce, baby girl. When you want a hug or a kiss, you come at me full force, throwing yourself at me with abandon. If your dad or your sister is laying on the ground, you love to run and dive on top of them. You don't worry that you won't be caught; you just leap.

As you have from the beginning, you continue to bring all of us so much joy.

Four

Somewhere between three and four you stopped being a toddler and became a little girl.

I'm not sure when the shift happened exactly, if your toddlerhood faded with the need for diapers and naps and sippy cups, or if you achieved little girl status with your first day of preschool or your first independent scooter ride.

But what is most certainly true is that, somehow, it has happened. You, my Ellie girl, are indeed a little girl, a precious, delightful, insightful little girl.

There is much about you that hasn't changed. You remain curious, imaginative, and thoughtful. You are still tentative in new situations and fiercely and creatively argumentative when trying to get your way. You continue to enjoy building things and making crafts and playing dress-up.

But there are changes too. You don't play with your baby dolls as much, though you can't stop admiring any newborn you see. You're into princesses now, so much so that "Rella" and "El-sa" and "Anna" are among your sister's first words. You are getting more confident every day on your scooter and your bike, speeding around our little court with a broad smile on your face.

I'm beginning to see that you're a homebody like your mommy. As much as you love preschool, you are often reluctant to go, telling me how much you want to stay home with your mommy and your sister. You rarely request to leave the house and go somewhere, but you regularly ask if anyone is coming over or if we can go outside and play with your neighborhood buddy.

You think deeply about things. The other morning, minutes after waking up, you asked me who took care of the first people on Earth. I stopped blow drying my hair and tried to explain that Adam and Eve weren't created as babies, so they were able to take care of their children. After processing that, you asked how there could be more babies since Adam and Eve only had boys.

There is so much I think about these days as I see the world through your eyes. It is daunting to try to answer your questions about God and friendship, to teach you about manners and integrity. Often at night, when I go in your room to check on you before heading to bed myself, I find myself praying for help.

You've told me, Ellie girl, that you can't hear God speak to you, that you don't yet know how to listen for Him in your heart. But I pray that in the year to come, He will become increasingly real to you in a very personal way, just as He did for your four year-old Mommy so many years ago.