Tag: child loss

Child Loss Grief

The Weight of the Wait

Hannah

It has been more than a decade since I watched a crowded room of doctors and nurses perform CPR on my baby girl.

180 months since I held her close as her soul danced across the veil of eternity.

5479 days since I set her down for the last time and my heart cracked wide open.

It’s somewhat curious to me then, that every year as this date ticks near, my heart seems to know it whether I’ve consciously realized it or not. Like an unseen blanket, laden with weight has been wrapped around my shoulders, pressing in a deep sadness that can take me some time to recognize.

Every year as this day returns, I feel that blanket settle again—heavy, quiet, and utterly familiar. In the moment grief arrives, I don’t always have the words to explain it. I just know the ache. I know how it moves through me like weather that won’t ask permission. Some mornings it wakes me before the sun. Some nights it lingers like a candle burning down to its last wick.

And yet, even here—especially here—I have found that God is not afraid of my tears.

I used to think faith meant I would somehow get stronger on schedule, like a muscle building itself because I “should.” But love doesn’t work like that, and neither does sorrow. Faith didn’t keep me from breaking; it brought me to my knees. And in that place, I learned something I can’t unlearn: the Lord does not only meet us in the moments we feel composed. He meets us in the moments we can’t breathe properly. He meets us when our chest is too full and our hands don’t know what to do with the tenderness that’s left behind.

There are days I want to question everything. Why did it happen? Why her? Why not later, or sooner, or not at all? But even my questions feel like prayers. They are honest. They are the kind of conversation you only have when you truly believe someone is listening.

So I bring my whole self to Him—the anger I try to hide, the longing that won’t be quiet, the memories that sometimes comfort me and sometimes wound me again. I bring the moments I replay and the things I wish I could undo. I bring the silence too. And when I can’t find the right sentence, I bring my heart anyway.

Because the truth is, my faith doesn’t deny the weight. It carries it.

God has not promised that this side of heaven will always feel gentle. He doesn’t pretend that loss is small. Scripture never insults grief by calling it “not that bad.” It names sorrow, it teaches lament, it acknowledges that the heart mourns. And still, it speaks—steadfastly—of hope that doesn’t collapse when the world shakes.

I have learned that hope is not the absence of pain. Hope is what remains when pain has already done its work.

Somewhere in the deep places where my prayers echo back to me, I hear His invitation: “Come as you are.” Not as someone who has healed enough. Not as someone whose story ends neatly. Come as you are—with the ache, with the questions, with the pieces you can’t glue back together. Come, and let Me be God in your weakness.

I wish I could tell you that my heart fully understands eternity. I wish I could say I never wrestle. But I have come to believe that love is not wasted, even when it hurts. There is a kind of devotion that survives tragedy—not because it forgets, but because it refuses to stop trusting.

When I think of little Ellie, I don’t only remember the ending. I remember the beginning too: the way she made joy tangible. The way her life made room for wonder. I remember her presence like a sweet fragrance that still clings to memory. And I believe the God who called her name can also hold her now—safe, unseen, and adored beyond anything my earthly mind can reach.

So yes, this day still presses its blanket over my shoulders.

But it also reminds me that I am not walking through it alone.

Every year, as the sadness returns, so does His faithfulness. Sometimes I feel it in a quiet scripture that arrives at the exact right time. Sometimes I feel it in the strength of a friend who shows up without asking for explanations. Sometimes I feel it in the smallest mercies—breath in my lungs, warmth on my skin, a sunrise that doesn’t ask me to be ready.

And sometimes I feel it in the strange, holy truth that even when grief is heavy, God is heavier in the best way—stronger than the grave, steadier than my fear, nearer than my deepest questions.

So I lift my eyes, even when they’re wet. I whisper a prayer I have prayed before: Lord, hold her. Hold me. Keep my heart soft toward You. And then I wait—because waiting, I’ve learned, is also worship.

One day, I believe, this veil will be torn open not by my strength, but by His. One day, the tears will find their purpose. One day, the years between “then” and “now” will be healed with a joy that can’t be measured.

Until that day, I will come to the Father with my whole heart.

I will not pretend. I will not perform. I will simply love, grieve, and trust—again and again—under the weight of a love that refuses to let go.

Because the God who carried me through the darkest seconds is still carrying me through the long, tender years.

And my baby girl—my precious, forever-loved Ellianna Grace—is not lost.

She is held.

Uncategorized

15

Hannah

Today you would be fifteen.

Fifteen feels big. It feels loud and bright and full of opinions and music and friends and late nights in the kitchen. Fifteen feels like learning to drive soon. Like strong emotions and stronger convictions. Like figuring out who you are. And that precious part of mother/daughter relationships where you become friends who enjoy each other’s company.

And I don’t get to know who you would have been.

That’s the ache.

I don’t know if you would have loved sports or books. I don’t know if you would have been bold or quiet, stubborn or soft. I don’t know what your laugh would sound like as a teenager, or what kind of friends you would choose, or whether you would roll your eyes at me when I tried to hug you in front of them.

There is a particular grief in the unknown.

When you died at nearly 5 months old, I grieved the baby in my arms. But as the years pass, I grieve the girl you never got to become. The birthdays that don’t come with cakes. The school pictures that were never taken. The conversations we will never have on this side of heaven.

And yet — this is not a hopeless day.

Because while I don’t know who you would have been here, I know exactly where you are.

You are not frozen at four months old. You are not missing out. You are not wandering or waiting or wishing for what might have been.

You are fully alive in the presence of Jesus.

You are safe. Whole. Held.

There is a security in that. A steadying under the ache. My arms were only meant to hold you for a short time. His were always meant to hold you forever.

Sometimes people ask how I reconcile the grief with the faith. The truth is, I don’t reconcile it. I carry both. I carry the longing to see your face at fifteen, and I carry the unshakable hope that the first face you see every day is the face of our Lord.

Scripture tells us that to be absent from the body is to be present with Him. That promise has been an anchor for me. Not a cliché. Not a platitude. An anchor.

I still wonder about you. I still imagine you. I still feel that flicker of curiosity about the young woman you might have been.

But I don’t have to wonder about your eternity.

And that changes everything.

Today I will probably cry. I will probably smile at memories of your baby cheeks and the way your tiny hand wrapped around my finger. I will probably whisper “happy birthday” into the quiet.

Fifteen.

I love you just as fiercely as I did the day you were born. That love did not shrink with your lifespan. It has stretched across years and heaven itself.

One day, there will be no more wondering. No more imagining. No more “what if.”

Only reunion.

Until then, I trust the One who loves you even more than I do.

Happy birthday, my girl. You are deeply missed. And you are eternally secure.

Infant loss, Uncategorized

Cradled By Heaven

Hannah

October is awareness month for several things, some I can relate to, and some that are not part of my story. Every year I ponder whether there is anything new to say as the calendar declares it is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, and as I’ve pondered that over this past week, it was impressed on me that there are scores of men and women walking afresh in the pain of this sorrow— mourning empty arms and vacant cradles and the fresh waves of pain that are going to come as we move into the season of celebrating family and togetherness. And that makes me want to share my story again and again, because each hurting heart needs to know their pain is seen, their empty space is held, and their future can contain lasting hope.

There are parts of my story I never imagined I’d be the one to write. I never thought I’d be the mother of children I couldn’t raise— that my arms would know both the fullness of love and the emptiness of loss so profoundly.

I’ve walked through the pain of losing two pregnancies, and I’ve held my precious daughter in my arms only to let her go before I was ready— just four and a half months after she was born.

There are no words for what it feels like to love that deeply and to lose that completely. Even now, years later, I can still feel her weight against my chest, and the flutter of my babies being woven together in my womb. But the pages of my story that I expected would be about them remain achingly blank. My heart still catches at that reality from time to time, like a bruise that never fully fades.

Grief changes everything. It changed how I see the world, how I talk to God, how I measure time—not by days and months, but by memories and milestones that never came. There were nights when I couldn’t pray, when I could only weep into my pillow and hope God heard the sound of it. And faithfully, He did.

He met me right there, not with explanations, but with His presence. I used to think faith meant feeling strong, but now I know it’s just trusting God enough to crumble in His hands. It’s believing He is still good when nothing feels good. It’s holding on to the promise that this life isn’t the end of the story.

I believe that my children are whole and alive in the arms of Jesus— and that one day, I’ll see them again. That hope doesn’t erase the ache, but it redeems it. It gives meaning to my tears and purpose to my pain.

I mother them differently now. In whispered prayers. In the way I try to love people more gently. In the way I cling to eternity a little tighter. Heaven holds what my arms cannot, but even here, in the space between what was and what will be, I still find traces of God’s goodness.

If you know this kind of loss too, I want you to hear this:

You are not alone.

Your story matters.

Your child’s life matters.

Even in this heartbreak, God is holding you and your little ones in the same hands. One day, every tear will be redeemed. Every broken hallelujah will turn into praise. And our arms—these aching, waiting arms—will finally be full again.

child loss

The Scar That Stays

Hannah

Today is a scar.

No matter how many years stretch between then and now, July 14th will never pass unnoticed. It pulses quietly beneath the surface all year long, and when it comes, it breaks open again—not as a wound, but as a scar that still aches.

The day my daughter died marked my life in a way that changed everything. There was a before, and there is an after. And though time has moved forward, this day remains. It always will.

Scars are proof of both injury and healing. They say, “Something happened here. Something was torn open, but it didn’t destroy you.” That’s what this day feels like—evidence that something was lost that mattered so deeply, it will never be forgotten. This scar tells a story of love, of longing, of holding on and letting go. It reminds me that grief isn’t a lack of faith—it’s an expression of it. I grieve because I loved, and I still do.

There is comfort in knowing that even Jesus kept His scars. He could have been raised from the dead in flawless perfection, unmarred by crucifixion. But the Father chose to leave the marks. The holes in His hands and side weren’t oversights. They were signs—of suffering, yes, but also of victory. They tell the story of a love so vast it entered into death to bring us life.

Those scars helped Thomas believe. They helped the disciples recognize Him. And they help me, too.

Because if Jesus can carry His scars into glory, so can I.

So can this day.

The pain of this anniversary is real. It isn’t erased by time, or even by the hope I have in Christ. But it is held. Redeemed. It has a place in the larger story God is telling—one in which death is not the end, and scars can become signs of resurrection.

So today, I sit with the ache. I trace the edges of the memory. I let the tears come, because they matter. But I do not grieve as one without hope. I know the One who holds my daughter now. I know He is good. And I know that one day, every tear will be wiped away.

Until then, I carry this scar—not as a symbol of defeat, but as a quiet testimony:

Love lived here.

Hope lives still.

Mothers Day

This Mother’s Day

Hannah

I remember being in church the first Mother’s Day after burying my daughter and not being able to contain my sobs as the pastor shared a special tribute to mothers, and I didn’t feel like celebrating at all because I had stood at the edge of eternity and watched a piece of my motherhood be torn from my arms in an instant.

I remember the Mother’s Day after my first miscarriage and how I grieved over having been thrilled to add another arrow to our quiver, only to watch that dream bleed out through the cracks in my heart.

I remember the Mother’s Days during our seasons of infertility, and how I fought to not entertain bitterness toward the expecting mamas in my life because I was crippled by the thought of never being able to expand our family.

I remember the Mother’s Day following our season of foster care, and how I had seen our story being very different from the reality we were living.

I remember Mother’s Day as a child and how the only thing on my mind was the special craft I’d made for my mom, or the flowers I’d picked her, and how this day of celebration felt a whole lot less complicated and emotional back then.

This Mother’s Day I remember that there are those of you all around me that are living out various versions of broken stories that have wounded your dreams and experiences of motherhood, and I see you standing there. I see how this day of celebration comes with so many convoluted emotions; deep grief and heartfelt thankfulness and hopeful expectation. I know that some of you are holding your breath waiting to turn the calendar page to Monday, and that’s ok.

I know today may be especially hard, and I just want you to know that you’re not alone. I pray that God gives you comfort, peace, and strength as you carry both extravagant love and crushing sorrow in your heart. Your pain matters, and so does your story. Allow Him to use these painful and uncertain days to strengthen your trust in Him, to surrender your need for control, and to open your hands wide to the good-hard story that He is writing through you. I promise you it’s worth it.

child loss, Uncategorized

July Fourteenth

Hannah

13 years ago we had to say goodbye to a piece of our heart and soul. Even though I had a peace about her returning to her Father’s arms, there was still a part of me that felt like she had been ripped from our arms. I wondered how we would ever be ok. How we would face each day with the crushing weight of having watched our youngest, beautiful daughter be laid deep in the ground.

Tracing back over the time that has passed since her death it is clear that even when I have lost myself in indescribable grief, I have always been held by the One I can never lose.

When I have thought I cannot go on He gives me incredibly meaningful reasons to keep showing up.

When I have thought the pain is too intense, He has given me important distractions to take my eyes off of my own pain.

This day will always hold some painful memories remembering the events of losing our girl, but it will also hold the hope of our reunion with her someday, and the remembrance of how God has carried us each and every step of the way.

Uncategorized

Mother’s Day Rewritten

Hannah

There is not much I feel like saying about Mother’s Day this year, and that makes me feel like it’s more important than ever to say it.

Mothering, as well as having relationships with our mothers can be really hard. Yes, there are blissful moments, like when that baby is first placed in your arms, when they say their first “I wuv you,” and when they run inside from school desperate to find you for that unforgettable hug.

There are memories of mom being the smiling face in the crowd at all of your performances, the one you could come home and spill all of your emotions to while she quietly listened, the late night back rubs, early morning hair braids, and the countless times she came to your rescue when you forgot your homework, said something you regretted to your best friend, or really weren’t sick but she knew you just needed a day home from school.

There are also a whole lot of hurts wrapped up in being a mom, having a mom, or wanting a mom. There are empty wombs and empty cribs. There are sleepless nights and bone-tired days you don’t know how to push through. There are arguments because you just wish she could see things the way you do, and there are painful gaps where you needed a mom and didn’t have one there. There is pain and fear over children who have walked away and you don’t know if they are coming back.

This Mother’s Day, close to my heart are thoughts of my sister trying to balance the joy of the homemade cards from her littles with the deep grief of feeling the sharp edge of her first Mother’s Day without one of her cherished sons with her earth-side. How does one fully celebrate the gift of motherhood after watching one of her children draw their final breath? Just like a house of cards needs at least 8 cards to stand, does not one child missing make a mother struggle to build herself back to who she once was?

Heavy in my thoughts are the lives of my own littles. Two at the edge, ready to fly from the nest they’ve always shared with me. Each one of my birdies fighting hard battles that this broken world has thrown in their path, and myself, sitting practically on the sidelines, crippled and nearly motionless from the ravages of a rare disease that steals many of our moments together.

So yes, this Mother’s Day I am having trouble hyping myself up, but I think that’s ok. There are seasons for jumping up and down with excitement, and seasons for quiet reflection, and I’m sure each one of us is at a different place on that continuum. Wherever you are, I’d like to meet you there; in your joyous celebration, or in your silent weeping.

Tomorrow we will wake on a day meant for mothers. I will be thankful for my own mom, and for the women that have filled spaces I’ve needed filled along the way. I will celebrate and smooch on the children I have here with me, and I will take time to think upon each of my treasures in Heaven, and how they furthered me in who I am as a mom. I will rejoice with those who rejoice, and I will grieve with those who grieve, and somehow through it all I hope the littles who made me a mama will feel my love and appreciation for them, and see the reality and okay-ness of taking each day from right where you’re standing. Of being real and kind and tender and aware of those around you, and able to ride these ever-changing waves with grace and enthusiasm.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Uncategorized

The Shoes She Wears

Hannah

She walked to her closet, thoughtful with each step. She had an opportunity tonight to be herself; to kick back and laugh and feel light and free and enjoy herself. She wanted to make sure she wore just the right outfit for the occasion.

She chose a brightly colored dress that made her look mature, yet young. The hem swished and danced with her steps as she walked. A softly knitted bright shawl wrapped her arms in warmth, and she tamed her frazzled hair into waves that bounced around her shoulders and framed her face.

When she leaned to study her face in the mirror a brief frown twisted across as she noticed how dark and tired her eyes were, and the dark shapes even deeper in her eyes that whispered of something heavier. She blinked it away though, and set about finding eye shadow that lifted her eyes, and selected a lip gloss that shimmered with glee and sparkled even brighter against the white of her smile.

“Almost ready!” she called to the footsteps pacing in the front hall. “I just need to grab my shoes.

Throwing open the closet door again she surveyed the shoes she took joy in gathering. They sat in matched sets, each with memories of a lighthearted dance, a day exploring at the park, or the sidewalk chalk scuffs of skipping through the backyard. Tonight was special, she wanted to look her finest. She reached for a glistening pair of high heels. Their sequins shined bright, and shiny new straps crossed daintily across the ankles. She reached for them, and in doing so knocked another shoe from its place. It tumbled across the others and lay in front of her, ready to step into. “Oh yes,” she mumbled. “How could I forget.” She put the other pairs of shoes away; the shiny conversational heels, the flirty strappy slides, and the tippy toe shoes that clicked the hard floor for attention as she walked.

She slid her feet into the muted pair that had fallen out. She didn’t even have to look down to get them on; they slipped into place with such familiarity. The soles were flat and worn from pacing. They cupped all her bony angles gently, an impression made from being worn many times. There was a scuff or two along the edge, and for a brief moment she remembered her conversation shouting at the heavens for a bargain, pleading for the life of her child. The worn material at the toes bore a few slight stains; likely the strong salt water of tears that could not be diluted.

Both feet comfortably in these familiar shoes, she sighed. There was no changing the shoes she wore now. They were forever a reflection of her. A grieving mama; a soul tormented by the agony she had walked through. But she knew how to wear these. Walk, run, sleep, pace a divet into the floor, these were the shoes that represented her day in and day out as she clamored through her painful story and prayed that it would be reconciled.

She grabbed her purse and headed for the front hallway, ready to meet whatever the world had for her today. She slipped her tiny hand in her true love’s large one, and he gave a squeeze as he took her in from head to toe. He knew whatever dreams she wanted, these would always still be the shoes she knew so well, and for now they carried her. They gave her the grace to excuse herself, the joy of a blessed memory, and they gave her the kinship of understanding another mama in recognizable shoes. So she stood tall and proud after all she’d been through, and she wore the shoes that wore her heart.

**For my sisters, who bravely put on their shoes every day.**

Uncategorized

Worth It

Hannah

As my baby sis and I chatted back and forth today on what would have been my nephew Angel’s 11th earthly birthday, my sister said something so incredibly true and equivocally profound that I am left pondering over it hours later.

“You know what’s amazing?” she said. “Angel refused to believe he was a burden (and he wasn’t). But by society’s standards, he was. He couldn’t move a single muscle other than his eyes. He was 100% dependent on others for literally everything–life, health, engagement, communication…all of it. Yet he never apologized for taking up space. He had high expectations for how he was to be treated and honored and considered and included and he didn’t tolerate those who saw him as worth less than anyone else. He KNEW his worth. He knew it so deeply. And I can’t say that for myself. I at times feel overwhelmingly guilty just for existing and have since childhood. But not Angel. He. Knew. His. Worth. No matter what. And that is really, really powerful.”

This struck me to my core, because I at times get caught up in how much of a burden I must be, and how I wish I didn’t have to depend so much on other people. But Angel never felt sorry for himself like that. He knew he was a treasure; a child of royalty, and he did not accept being treated as anything less.

While a lot of that came from being just the incredible little boy that he was, there is also loads to be said about the fierce way my sister and brother-in-law fought for Angel’s worth. He knew he was valued because he was constantly treated as valuable, and he was shown that what he brought to the table mattered. He was fought for, given a voice, listened to, applauded, and all of those things only cemented his knowledge that he was worth it.

As Angel’s 11th birthday winds to a close my heart is so tender, but so grateful that for a boy who could have felt less-than, he always knew right where he belonged, and now in Heaven, he has claimed his true worth, his royalty; the crown he fought so hard for and was bestowed by his King. And I can’t imagine a bigger smile than on the boy who always knew- I am worthy.

Happy birthday, sweet Angel. You are loved.

Uncategorized

Grieving Well at Christmas

Hannah

The first December after having watched our youngest daughter be buried in a gaping rectangle of earth I did not feel like celebrating Christmas at all. I wanted to skip it altogether, and truth be told if I hadn’t had 3 other littles expectantly waiting on our yearly traditions I would not have done a thing. But there they were, those bright little eyes and tiny hands open wide to receive the giving and the caring and the celebrating of the most joyous gift, and while I couldn’t see it then I know now that my heart needed that just as much as theirs did.

I was stuck wondering how to move forward through the dark days of Advent in a way that would point my family to hope while still suffocating beneath the ache of the sudden loss of my little girl. What I learned that December and all the ones since is that the Christmas story holds space for our stories, even the dark parts— for the tears and the scars, the mourning and our deepest grief. I learned how to weave the remembrance of our littlest sister girl into the stories and traditions of each Advent season, and have done so ever since.

When a friend visited a few days ago and saw how we still include our Ellie in the patterns of our Christmas season, she suggested I share the ways that we do that, knowing there are others holding the shards of painful losses and unimaginable grief this season, and hoping I can help you to find meaningful ways to embrace the joy of anticipating the day of our Savior’s birth while still honoring the lives that have left us with ragged and tender edges during the happiest season of all.

One of the long-standing traditions in our home is that every year each of the kids get a new ornament to hang on the tree. Wanting to include Ellie in that, yet realizing it didn’t make sense to gather a growing collection of ornaments that she would not be taking with her to leave our nest one day, we came up instead with Ellie’s Christmas Tree. Delighted to find a tree existed in purple, her favorite color, we set about adorning it with miniature ornaments that all reminded us of her and her precious days spent with us. Every year the Ellie Tree gets set up on a tabletop and decked out with all the girly symbols of her tiny self. Occasionally we find a new ornament to add that suits her perfectly, but for the most part we keep the same collection and enjoy every year this small but bold representation of our girl.

As I hung the family stockings that first Christmas without her, it felt like betrayal somehow to not include her in that tradition, yet an equally painful gut-punch was staring at a limp, empty stocking that would never hold gifts for the littlest sister. So we started the tradition of Letters to Ellie. As the calendar page turns to December each year we purchase a pack of cards specifically for Ellie’s stocking, and as we move through the days of Advent toward the coming of the Christ-Child, each family member takes the time to write a personal letter to our girl and slip it into her stocking.

In the early days when the siblings were bitty, that often looked like adorable drawings of stick people representing the littlest girl twirl-dancing in Heaven, or memories of what they missed doing with her. As they’ve grown the letters have grown too, to include writings of their memories with her, updates on what they wished she could have been a part of this year, or wonderings of what she would look like or be involved in today. Each year as the celebration of Christmas winds down I have taken the cards and added them to a growing scrapbook of Ellie’s Letters that we all enjoy looking through and seeing how time and maturity and the aching of missing her have colored what has been documented. It has been a sweet way to include her and to reflect on the impact her life has had on our lives.

However you choose to include your missed loved ones into the celebration of our Savior’s birth, always remember that the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay has made a way for us through the tears and the deep grief-aching of our hearts. His birth paved the way to the cross that beckons us to come and makes space for all of our grieving, and promises to bring us rescue from these dark days into an eternal life of joyous fulfillment.

Come, oh come, Emmanuel.