Category: faith

child loss, faith, Jill Buteyn, Just Show Up, Kara Tippetts, Mundane Faithfulness

Showing Up

Hannah

In the haze of my aging and windblown mind, there has always been a particular message I heard in a church years ago that has come crisply back to the forefront of my thoughts.  It was a guest preacher, and he spoke about endurance.  He told of his wife in the ending years of her father’s life, how each time she got “the call” she would pack up and drive through the day or night to be there, to sit at the bedside and bring presence and comfort to her sick father in what were surely his final hours.  The thing was, this happened again… and again, and each time, instead of hesitating, or complaining, or doubting that he was really so ill, she would pack up and drive.  She was in for the long haul, unselfishly dedicated to endure for the love of her father, to be there when he needed her most.

For years this has challenged me, boldly questioned me— Am I selfless enough, brave enough to be the one to Just Show Up?

As I read through Jill’s challenge to write my own “Just Show Up” story, there was no delay in the sweet faces that came to my mind as I pondered who it is that has run with endurance to come along side me in the painful, most desperate moments of my story.

I first met Lily and Colleen when Isabella was about 3 years old.  Although she was growing strong and healthy after a precarious start to her life, we had noticed she seemed to fall often, and wanted to make sure we weren’t missing something. Her pediatrician agreed she needed to be evaluated, and as happens often in the military healthcare system, we were given a referral to be seen off base by a pediatric physical therapist.  We were immediately impressed with Lily’s skill and wisdom.  She watched Bella moving around for 5 minutes and knew right away what was going on and what needed to be done.  She also recognized a sensory processing disorder and was able to get Bella into occupational therapy with one of her therapy partners, Colleen.  The small, house-like building where the smiles of these two women greeted us weekly began to feel like home, and at the same time Bella grew stronger and we saw her start overcoming some of the challenges brought about by her 30 week delivery.

Isabella

Water therapy with Lily

During this same time, we learned we were expecting our fourth child, and our Tuesday therapy visits came accompanied with a growing belly to count the weeks. One of the first questions in the door was always how me and the baby were doing, and then a pleased smile as my pregnancy progressed smoothly week by week.  Then, one cold day in March, I missed our appointment.  That morning Mark showed up with Bella instead, and as Lily came to the waiting room to get her, she teased with Mark, “Where is Hannah, that baby didn’t try to come early did she?”  I’m told Lily was taken aback, feeling badly when he admitted that yes, in spite of everything having gone well so far, I had emergently delivered our youngest daughter at only 29 weeks gestation.  At the time though, we were feeling confident; she was well taken care of in the familiar ambiance of the NICU, and we expected a similar, long, but positive outcome through another journey with a premature baby.

As hours faded to days, and Ellianna’s stay in the NICU became punctuated with hard news and complications, Lily and Colleen became more than our therapists, and their familiar faces and kind spirits grew friendship beyond the purpose for which they had first come into our lives.  We looked forward to seeing each other, kept in touch by text throughout the weeks, and sneaked in coffee dates when we could.  When we learned that Ellianna would have cerebral palsy, Lily knew what we didn’t, and pushed to have her enrolled to start physical therapy as soon as she was discharged from the hospital.  This teeny, tiny, 4 pound little girl, showing up to flex her muscles on the big red inflatable ball.  Who knew? Lily and Colleen also jumped in to help with her feeding difficulties, and Colleen was even willing to drive out to our home to get her started in occupational therapy so she didn’t have to be submitted to the noise and chaos outside the house so many times a week.

These two women were so steadfastly in our corner, fighting for the best for our little girl, and encouraging us through the frightening unknowns ahead.  I remember Lily saying perhaps Bella wasn’t even the reason for our meeting, but  that we would already have this in place when our littlest miracle came along needing it so badly.

Ellianna

As Ellianna’s brain bleed turned to hydrocephalus and surgery and shunts, I wanted to keep her home in the protection of my arms, comforting her pain and keeping her from more.  Lily knew better though, and she urged us forward, pushing Ellie to her limits to help her grow strength and gain weight, and even though my heart broke watching the tears of the struggle, I knew Lily pushed because she loved, and she wanted so much more for my little girl.

Our last hospital admission, when things were the darkest, bleakest bad… it seems silly, but I suppose I needed things to distract my mind, and I remember calling Lily’s office to tell her Ellianna was in the hospital and we wouldn’t be able to make it to therapy.  In hindsight, I’m sure we could have no-showed and no one would have blamed us, but there I was, trying to keep a calm voice as the receptionist told me Lily was with a client and couldn’t come to the phone.  When she asked to take a message, I must have been out of my mind, because I think I said something like, “Just tell her we won’t be at therapy because Ellie is in the hospital and the doctors don’t know if she is going to make it.”  I guess that seemed normal in the numbed hysteria of my mind, but I was told to please hold, and 10 seconds later Lily’s voice was on the other end of the line.  My explanation was jumbled, and probably less than a sentence long, but that’s all it took and Lily was saying “I’m coming up there,” and the line went dead.

This woman, assigned to us for her livelihood, to straighten crooked ankles and weak hips, dropped everything, walked out on whoever she was with and showed up in a way that may have saved my life.  I’m not sure how she got there so quickly (knowing what I know of Lily now, I probably don’t want to know), and I don’t know who she walked out on, though I hope they understood.  She burst into our tiny room in the Pediatric ICU and she stood there in the middle of a situation most people would not want to imagine, let alone wade right into.  She was there when someone came in and told us the CT scan showed 50-60% of our daughter’s brain was already destroyed.  Instead of fear or “I’m sorry’s,” she turned to us and said, “Don’t let that discourage you, there are plenty of people who live with half a brain and live well.  Don’t let them make you afraid.”  So I tried not to.  I knew if anyone knew this, it would be Lily, and she was the one from the beginning who knew what our little girl would need to fight and overcome, and had given her the means to do that.  Lily left that day with a hug that spoke more than words could, and the promise of continued prayers.  I don’t know that either of us believed yet that we would be saying goodbye.

As reality gave voice to my internal fears, and we watched Ellianna slip from this life to claim her true royalty, I sent a simple text to Lily, telling her Ellie was gone.  I don’t remember if I got a response, but what I do remember is that just as quickly as she had come before, she was there again. Walking into the palpable pain of a room split by this life and the next, Lily and Colleen were standing on that sacred ground with us, tear-stained cheeks and weary eyes.  I didn’t know what to do or say, maybe nobody did, but presence was enough.  I stood up, my lifeless daughter wrapped in a blanket in my arms, and I held her out to Colleen.  I cringed at remembering this, because really, she hardly knew me at the time, and here I just thrust a most uncomfortable situation right at her… but she leaned right in.  She took my daughter in her arms, this stinging, beautiful, scarred, and perfect reminder of the common thread of our lives, and she looked on her with every love a mother wishes for her child.  She didn’t complain or turn away from the discomfort of it, but she opened her arms wide, and in that moment these two women made a choice to embrace my hard story, to become characters in a heart breaking plot from which many others ran. I do not remember any of the words spoken there that day, maybe there weren’t any, but it doesn’t matter because what I do remember is that they were there, and that was all my soul could and needed to hear that day.

In the days to follow, as I avoided people and places and questions and awkwardness, our hour-long, twice a week therapy appointments dropped to half an hour once a week, and it was still a safe place to land. There were days, and still are, that I have to push myself because walking in to see the tiny room we used to nurse in, and the big red ball Ellie used to perch on is just so fresh and raw and I feel as if my million pieces will fall apart again, never to be gathered.  But these women, they see that in me; they read the gray or the green of my eyes and they know my heart without pressing me for words.

Lily

Colby, on the same big ball Ellie used at therapy

I wish I could say that was the only big trial, and the last few years have been a smooth sail of strengthening friendship, but what I can tell you is that again and again…and again, Lily and Colleen have shown up, both in the happiest celebrations and the devastating losses of life.  They have always given me the freedom to grieve, question, cuss, or withdraw without so much as a judgmental word.  They have never pressed me with advice or timelines or ultimatums, but have supported me wherever I’m at.  They cheer me on even when my dreams seem crazy, and pray me through the days I don’t believe I will make it through one more blow.  Lily and Colleen have chosen to see deeper into my story, to see that it is not just a story of loss, but one of healing, of beauty, and sustaining grace that can only come from the One who wrote my story.  They choose to remain in the cast of people throughout the chapters of my life, without expectation, without apprehension, but simply to Just Show Up.

Colleen and Colby


Lily working with Colby

OT with Colleen

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faith, grief

I Can Do Hard Things?

Hannah

I am a binge blogger, and when much is on my mind, much spills out.  Writing spells the words I can’t find to speak, and sometimes they’re words of encouragement and hope, and sometimes there is nothing to overflow but yuck.  If you’re not up for yuck, or will fear for my faith, or need to correct my doubting, just skip this post…

I tell myself I can do hard things.  I tell others I can do hard things.  And maybe in the night of the doubting I am really saying that phrase to try to convince myself of something I fear I am not capable of.  Truth is, I am tired of doing hard things.  I am tired of facing valleys and begging for rest.  I am weary of feeling like I have spent it all just to face a new day of having to rally for “more” that I don’t have.  What is it God is asking of me?  Does He know what I’m up against?

I want to be whole.  I want to wake not sinking, drowning in pain.  My voice is worn out from screaming for help.  I don’t want another battle; to be surrounded from all sides.  I want the peace, the restoration of ashes that is promised… even for just a short time.

It is hard to trace the hand of God in it all.  Restore me. Pull me from this shadow.

The uplifting Ann Voskamp speaks reassurance through my inbox today… “It isn’t about maintaining control of everything.  It’s about maintaining your gaze on Him in the midst of everything.  It’s not about getting through everything.  It’s about letting Him carry you through everything.”

Ok, ok.  I believe no trial comes except with His permission and for some wise and loving purpose which perhaps only eternity will disclose.  Armor up.  I can do hard things.

Friends, please tell me there are days your valley is so deep that you are screaming too… that my tears aren’t the only ones falling… that we can get through this together?

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faith

Runaway Bunny

Hannah

My dear son,

In this chunky, well-worn boardbook there’s an echo from this story that used to be our snuggling, whispering bedtime.  The tale of little bunny who’s gone running from his mother, and she chasing his silliness to keep him near… only now these sticky-fingered pages have some tiny salty stains, because that childhood tale has deepened in its meaning.

I remember the first moments of looking at your squishy, heaven-kissed face, and wondering what the future would hold.  I knew what I had planned, but didn’t allow my mind to wander to the places that weren’t included in my dream.

From the second you made me a mom, I knew motherhood was my favorite.  I knew I would serve to you every wisdom I could impart, and stretch myself to be the springboard for your greatest opportunities. That was it, right? You raise them right, and they grow up to be everything you dreamed for them.

I never realized how many times my heart would break for you, how many tears I would swallow in the late hours of your innocent sleep.

Your years have taught me many things, like how invincible I’m not, how much patience I still have to be grown, and how desperately little control I have over this life.  I have felt how love can be so big it doesn’t even fit into the boundaries of a soul, and how a proud mama’s heart can seem to swell so big it’s spilling out the exhales.

I have always convinced myself that if your dad and I were doing the best that we knew how, God would work out the rest; that you would be kept in His grasp and the chasms of my shortfalls would be filled.  I will never stop believing that.

I won’t ever love you any less than that first time my lips met your cotton candy cheeks.  I hope that deep down there is a part of you that knows that is truth.

I was vastly unprepared for this season in our lives.  Unprepared and quite possible very naïve.  My supermom strategies seem worthless puffs of air in the gravity of these days we have staggered into.

In every uncertainty, I maintain a hope that these shatters are pieces of a bigger and more beautiful picture; a healing of your wounded heart, and a redemption of your deepest dreams.  I know that I know that I know you will always be held, no matter where your heart is leading you.

Don’t ever think my prayers for you have ceased… on my knees, in my shower, in the dusting, and the laundry; there are prayers whispered earnest, tucked in towel folds, stirred in soup.

I will continue to be your harbor, ready to anchor whenever you need a safe place.  I will still be your favorite cook and your biggest fan.  I will listen to our song again and again, and remember you dancing me around the living room to its words.  Jacob and Mommy’s song

I will love you.  Forever.  Always.  From the bottom of the ocean to the top of the sky.

~Mommy

“If you become a bird and fly away from me,” said his mother, “I will be a tree that you come home to.”

– Margaret Wise Brown, The Runaway Bunny

faith, family, love, marriage, sisters

Once in a Lifetime

Hannah

When I was young, I prayed for a little sister.  Brother, after brother, after brother I prayed.  I would open my window to breathe the thick freshness, and spill the desire of my heart.  I scrawled prayers out on paper and buried them deep in the earth.

June 27, 1992, I got that sister I had prayed for.  We were instant friends, she my sidekick, and I her protector.   We shared faith and opinions, secrets and dreams.  The years separated us through our parents’ divorce, but as we faded into adulthood our friendship rekindled.

 Through many joys we have traveled, as well as great trial.  She has been my trusted friend, my faithful confidant, my unending anchor.

 Tomorrow I get to walk one of the greatest joys with my sister.  I get to stand beside her as she becomes one with the man of her heart.  I will be there as the rest of her life begins.  In some ways I know this is a landmark; a day which will change the shape of our friendship, as she clings to her one,  and will share secrets that even her sisters won’t know.

The “smolder”

I’m proud of the woman my littlest playmate has become, honored to be part of her life.  Her faith runs deep, her kindness eternal. With tears in my eyes and thankfulness in my heart, I will stand  by as she moves from girl to wife.


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child loss, faith, hope, VP shunt

July 14

Hannah
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” ~Winnie the Pooh

My precious, beautiful Ellianna Grace,

This day has been written in the scars on our hearts.  The fourteenth of July will always remind me that it was the last day I got to smooch your scrumptious cheeks.  I can’t help but remember the deafening fear that rose when I saw you slipping away.  That last kiss, last breath, last holding you in my arms.  I still remember the feelings of helplessness, and whispering screaming prayers that you would get to stay.  This day, this beautiful summer day will forever inflame the lasting scars that were torn in my tender heart.  But tucked within what’s left, the fourteenth of July is also an Ebeneezer, reminding me of the graciousness of our God in welcoming you into His arms; His healing of your every pain and struggle.  I can celebrate in knowing that you are whole, and well, and safe, and that after all my waiting is done I will get to see you again.  My story is not a story of loss, of heartache, or pain.  It is one of absolute Grace.  Pure blessings.  Answered prayers.
I love you indefinitely, my little girl.  Sometimes I touch the things you used to touch, looking for echoes of your fingers (Iain Thomas).  I long to breathe the essence of you, trace your delicate features, and tie ribbons in your hair.  Someday, my sweet Ells.
I will revel in every joyful memory I have of your precious life, and will live with the purpose you inspired me towards.  Someday I will hold my treasure again, and I am so excited to hear your giggle as I pepper your face with kisses.  The veil is thin, my sweet.
You are adored, cherished, held dear.  Your little, magnificent life has left a beautiful impression on so many hearts.
Until Forever, 
Mommy xoxo

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endurance, faith

Broken Hallelujah

Hannah

The Lord has promised good to me.  He has promised, and yet sometimes I feel so… so disappointed.

My story, the story of grace and forgiveness and hope? It’s not the story I imagined.  I struggle to accept the wearisome battles I am facing.  I wrestle with the painful realities that have replaced some of my dreams.  Is that the point; reach the point of giving up? Perhaps only in my giving up, He will make something beautiful of my story.  I am weary. So weary.  Searing tears have brought me begging, “please take this, carry it for me because it’s too heavy right now.”

Will He gather the sharp fringes of my story, until I can bear this chapter?  My desperation to see the beauty woven with these threads runs deep. I want to believe there is loveliness beneath the turmoil.  I want to see that the salty burn of tears has watered to life something magnificent, and that the conclusion of my story will be something to cheer about.

I know He knows the story of every tear, and even in the deep raggedness of these chapters, I have not walked alone. I’ve seen joy and I’ve seen pain, and oh my weakened soul may you not forget the mountains you have stood on!  It is so easy for me to see the darkness swallow the light in the epicenter of my brokenness, but hasn’t He promised:

3 

“A bruised reed<span class="crossreference" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(A)”> he will not break,

   and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.

In faithfulness he will bring forth justice.”

Isaiah 42:3


That’s me; I am bruised, I am smoldering, and He is faithful.  He will vindicate my inmost hurts and soften the sharp points of my disappointments.  Hold on soul! Don’t let go of His promises; they are true even in the murk of these hard, hard days.  Sit back, and let God be the one who writes your story. When life is filled with things you don’t expect, respond with trust, worship, hope.  He wants your praise, even your broken hallelujahs.

Have you ever seen the back of a piece of cross-stitching?  It is messy! Messy and confusing and not pretty to look at.  But the front of the piece? It’s beautiful, every stitch placed perfectly.  Without that messy back story, that work of art wouldn’t exist.  I hope that will be true of my story; disheveled magnificence.


     

How do you find peace in the difficult pages of your life?

 
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faith, grief, Mothers Day

A Day for Mothers

Hannah

As Mothers’ Day dawns, bright flowers and sticky painted hand prints will shower the women who get to be called “Mom.”  In this 24-7-365 kind of job, this day is set aside to say thanks for the late night feedings, the story-time snugglings, and the driving from here to there.  These hearts may feel tired or weary or discouraged, but the love lavished upon them from those sweet, chubby faces will give them new strength to do all that comes with the privilege of muddy footprints, Legos in foot, and piles and piles of laundry.

With all the joys that come with this Sunday, I know there are just as many hearts with wounds salted deep by the imposition of this day.  There are souls aching for mothers passed on, tears spilled over empty wombs, and pangs of grief from arms where a child last slept.

On this day of thankfulness for what God gave us in motherhood, may joy flow in each embrace of your little ones; may hope soar to each waiting cradle, and peace blanket each knee bent graveside.

Me and my Mom

You made me a mommy

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faith, grief, losing a child

Half a Year in Heaven

Hannah

A few people still ask how we’re doing.  We tell them we’re doing ok, we’re making it, we’re getting through.  These statements are true in a microscopic way, and most importantly give people the assurance that we are not plummeting into a sea of grief that is going to claim our sanity or our ability to function.  These statements are the easiest way to share just enough honesty without exposing the snarled webbing of volatile thoughts and emotions that hold captive our reality. 

The truth is, we get up and face each morning because it’s one of the few things we have been able to choose.  We didn’t get to decide when our daughter would enter the world.  We didn’t get to pick when she would be strong enough to come home.  We didn’t vote on which battles she would have to fight, and we certainly didn’t elect to have to send her soaring back to Heaven after only 4 and a half months in our arms.  All of that was decided for us.  What we do have a say in is how we will respond.  So we resolve to embrace each moment, whether it brings tears or laughter, and continue to point back to a plan that we know is bigger than all of us.  Is it easy to do?  Does it feel good?  No.  But we know it is healing us and shaping us, and hopefully leaving a legacy that will mutiply with each new “yes” we choose.

January usually means a clean slate.  A fresh new start and a chance to overcome the shortcomings of the previous year.  For Mark and I, it’s a reminder of a world that is going on even after ours stopped.  I hate the constant calculating in my head; the math that tells me how old she would be on the 2nd of each month, and the equation every 14th that measures how many months my arms have felt empty.  We don’t talk about March.  We don’t want to imagine the birthday she never got to celebrate.

This month I thought I was ready.  I grabbed a few boxes and headed for Ellianna’s bedroom, having convinced myself it was time to make a more functional space out of the room she vacated 6 months ago.  Looking around, I saw the warm green paint that the girls had helped me sweep across the bare walls.  The lacy white curtains that give the perfect balance of femininity without being pink.  The whimsical canopy that I stood on tiptoes to hang just centered over the rich wood of her crib.  The simple white ‘E’ that boasts the elegant beauty of a name so carefully chosen.  All of these symbols whose meanings translate to things that will be missed instead of things yet to come.  All these meanings, and I couldn’t change a thing.  I couldn’t tuck the soft and delicate of all that was hers into boxes to be put away, slipping from daily sight and becoming memory. I thought it might ease Little One’s tears to not daily soak in the empty fabric and the hollow quiet of her baby sister’s room.  But I didn’t have the strength.  Often I find her sitting, shoulders hunched, tears streaming, surrounded by memoirs of her sister she has carefully laid out in array around her.  I took a picture when she didn’t know I was watching, but I think she heard the sound of my heart break.

Last night she told me “I just want to go to Heaven now.”  Even more painful than my own grief is the inability to soothe the pain of the Little 3.  To watch such tender hearts have to bear such a great burden is a dagger that sears hot and deep.  I pray daily for grace with which to press forward and for faith that is bigger.  Big enough to overcome the fears I feel and big enough to mend the wounds that are all around and through me.

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faith, hope, trials

Rolling With the Punches

Hannah
“Be still, there is a healer
His love is deeper than the sea
His mercy, it is unfailing
His arms are a fortress for the weak.”
~Chris Tomlin
I love this song.  Words that remind us of One who is greater than our troubles, a refuge we can run to.  I have to admit though, some doubt has made me challenge these words the last few weeks.
In the midst of keeping up with busy schedules, work, school, and travels and holidays on the horizon, we were thrown for a loop.  I started having some health problems.  Exams and test results came back concerning, and after seeing a specialist I was told I could be having a blood clotting problem, or it could be cancer. 
What?!?  Even as much as I have been learning about having faith, I was shouting at Heaven.  Surely, I thought, God would not do this to us right now.  We are still picking up the pieces from losing our daughter.  My husband and kids need me to be there for them right now.  He wouldn’t let us get kicked when we’re down, right?!  He promises not to give us more than we can handle.  I’m not sure I believed that right then. 
As the day neared for a procedure to take biopsies, I was wrestling.  I could see the fear in Mark’s eyes, and all I could do was avoid talking about it, trying to ignore what we might need to face.  I was washed with guilt… surely my friend who lost her daughter didn’t think she would also have to say goodbye to her husband and raise her remaining children in the thick of so much grief… and here I am complaining.  God never said we would go through something hard and then get a free pass from any more heartache.  In fact, He said in this world we WILL have trouble… but the promise in that is He has overcome the world.  That is a powerful promise, but still difficult for me to cling to when I felt so much fear.
As I felt myself begin to doze under the anesthesia, my only prayer was “God, please.”
The news is outstanding…. NO cancer, NO clotting.  It is so much easier for me to praise right now than it was for me to trust.  But God promises to use even a LITTLE faith, so I guess He’s not done with me yet:) 
We are breathing a huge sigh of relief and trying to teach ourselves that no matter what comes our way, we are more than conquerors.  We will continue to forge a path through the wreckage, one step at a time.
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faith, grief, losing a child

Empty Space

Hannah


Two months have gone by since we gave our little girl back to Heaven… a blink in the face of eternity, but it feels like so much longer in the lonely expanse of the days spent without her. Some days I am able to smile as her sisters talk about her coloring up in Heaven, or when I feel relief that I don’t have to protect her from anything. Most days though, I’m just sad. I feel jealous when I’m around other families who are smooching on tiny cheeks or rubbing rounded bellies that are about to burst with fresh new life. Then I feel guilty for feeling that way and wish that I had more grace to bestow.

I feel alone and left behind. The rest of the world has moved on, and I am still swallowed by a sea of grief. No one can possibly feel what I still feel when I walk down the hallway and see her bedroom untouched, her tiny diapers still in a neat stack.

No one knows how I swallow tears when I buckle the other kids in our van, which seems too big now with that empty seat. No one thinks how every time I see the precious pictures of her on our wall that there won’t be any new ones to add. She was here, and there are pieces of her everywhere. Pieces that stir such emotion, it’s enough to break a soul. The first days after she died, I felt numb. Numb allowed me to keep going, to get through what needed to be done. Now I find myself wishing for that numbness instead of this shattering pain.
When my 3 children walk side by side I see a space… a hole where my littlest girl will never skip along beside them. When other people see us, they must not understand why we have anything to be sad about. They tell us how lucky we are to have the children we do…. They say how nice it must be to just have one child at home during the day… they say she was lucky to have lived as long as she did. I am not at a place where I can see the glass half full yet. Although I am happy to know Ellianna is whole and well and living in glory, I still miss her and yearn for her here… and I will, until I go Home.

It must be terribly awkward for people. People do not like to see pain. They want to know we are ok, that we are moving forward, and that we won’t break into tears in the middle of a conversation. That’s the thing about grief… it’s not something that goes away in a month, 6 months, a year… we are in it for the long haul. At Christmas when there is an empty stocking, we will be sad. 5 years from now when she is not starting Kindergarten, we will be sad. When there is no prom, no high school graduation, no wedding…we will still feel the pain and sadness of losing Ellianna. Many people are afraid of that; afraid to see us hurting… so they distance themselves, afraid to say or do the wrong thing. Well the wrong thing is to ignore it. We still need to know you’re here for us just as much as the day that she died. We need to know that you’re not too nervous to be around us, that you understand when we cancel because we have been hit by a new wave of grief, that you’re willing to talk about her, to say her name, to let us know that you have not forgotten.

Please leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!