Tag: Infant loss

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.

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.

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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.

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Permission to Mourn

Hannah

July 14, 2011 Was the day I entered the wildness of grief, and I learned in order to get out you must go through.

As much as I’d like to tell you that grief will be orderly, neat and tidy, predictable, and unfold in five stages, it will not . Grief expresses itself in surprising and confusing ways. You must give yourself permission to mourn; you must choose to heal instead of choosing to stay stuck in that spot. You must choose to move forward.

I have had to decide to live many times since in the face of my daughter’s death. It’s a decision you will have to make too. Not just once. But over and over again choose life. Say yes. Life has other plans for you too.

Grief is wild and messy and unpredictable and uncertain and ever-changing and unsettling and unnerving.

There may be times when all you want to do is sleep, and there may be other times when you can’t sleep at all. There maybe be times when you can eat and eat and other times when you have no appetite at all.

When your arms physically ache to hold your beloved , when you have heart palpitations and stomach pains and fight to keep your balance, this too is grief.

You’ll think you are going crazy. You are not. You have entered the wilderness of grief. And in order to get out you must go through. You must give yourself permission to mourn.

It’s in the telling the story of what happened over and over and over again that you are able to see and come to know the truth, the magnitude of what has happened.

It’s important to comb through the details. To relive the sights, the sounds, and the smells. Go ahead and ask “Why if, and “Why didn’t I,” and “if only.”

Make sure nothing is off limits. Look in every corner. In every crevice. Turn over every rock.

So that nothing is secret or hidden. So that no part of the experience is hands- off or locked behind a closed door. Allow no part of the experience you’ve lived through to have any kind of power over you. Walk through all of it.

And yes, it’s painful. Especially at first.

But keep on telling your story. Over and over and over again.

And after much time has passed, and you’ve told your story more times that you can possibly remember, you will come to the day when you begin telling it again. Like you’ve done so many hundreds of time before, because you know that telling the story is a path to healing.

And you discover that you can’t tell it. Not one more time. You don’t have the energy or the desire, or the strength, or the need to tell it one more time.

You just can’t do it.

And with your exhale you say to yourself, this is what healing feels like.

I invite you to sit down in the chair next to me. And when you are ready to talk I’ll listen.

To all of it,

Permission to Mourn-Tom Zumba

Uncategorized

The Unshakable

Hannah

Today it has been 11 years since we snuggled our little girl close and held her tiny hands as she took her last breath on this earth. Sometimes I am still so angry that I could not make her better. That’s what mamas are supposed to do; make things better. I had one big important job, and I could not do it.

Then I remember that WASN’T my job. I /wanted/ it to be my job; the job of being a mama that could fix things. Instead I was given the job of opening my hands wide of my own control. I was given the job of looking into the teary faces of three sweet, grieving siblings and teaching them to trust that God is still good, even in our hurting. I was given the job of white-knuckling a marriage that the statistics were stacked against because of the big trauma we went through. I was given the job of learning to grieve with hope; the hope of knowing that someday all will be made right again.

As I look back over these years I can see where I have been given the grace to grieve, the bravery to lament, and the courage to heal. I have learned that grief is not the absence of faith, tears do not negate our trust in God, and pain does not mean we are not saved.

Wrestling such a deep pain is so intimate. For me it has required clinging, grasping, watching, communicating. It has meant digging my heels in and standing firm on the truth of God’s word. Grieving with hope still hurts, but as I have clung to the unshakeable hope I have in Christ Jesus, and fixed my teary eyes on eternity, I have been given the freedom to wrestle and lament, and with it a deep-seated peace that I could have never found on my own.

Our precious Ellie Grace will always hold a part of my heart. I will forever wonder over who she would have been, and will ache for the warmth of her in my arms again. As these years tick on however, I will rest in knowing she is whole and complete; that she lived every single day here that was planned for her beautiful life, and that I’m surely the luckiest for getting to be her mama. 💜

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Blue House

Hannah

This hot summer has been brimming with opportunities, and through my delight in seeing my littlest having grown into shoes big enough for some life-changing new experiences I did not even realize that the very thing that brought so much joy and revival for him would be the thing to send my head swirling under the tepid waters of another grief wave unexpected.

Finally old enough for church camp we excitedly rolled tshirts and shorts into the duffel bag as big as he is, and lingered in the aisles of the dollar store choosing just the right snacks to share with the other campers who would become friends. We watched videos of what to expect, and excitedly counted down the days to when he would set out on his big adventure. My heart bubbled with anticipation for him as I prayed over the days ahead.

Finally it was time to drive him the 40 minutes out to where camp was being held, and he was ready as ever. As I heaved his bag into the back of the car I felt a surge of emotion I could not put my finger on. I pushed it out of my mind and slid into the car to see him grinning in the back seat. He looked solid and strong, a maturity I had seen blooming in the preceding weeks. His face was already tanned from days spent playing in the sun; a smattering of freckles beneath his fluffy shock of dark blonde hair. His eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and it was the smile he flashed at me that poked that emotion I had pushed away, and sent it raging to the surface. It filled my insides with gravel and sent my thoughts spinning. I knew exactly what had me feeling a little “off.”

Looking over my shoulder into the back seat I was staring at the carbon copy of his older brother, blonde and freckle-faced also at the age of 9 going off to his first faith-based summer camp. When we dropped our firstborn off for a week at camp we had the same joyful anticipation for him, but that week was the one that changed our lives in the most painful way, tearing from us something so sacred. The last time I picked my 9 year old up from camp I had to tell him his little sister had died unexpectedly, and I watched his whole world turn on its axis and shake every foundation he had believed in.

Somehow, without me even realizing it my subconscious had put all of these signs together, and the unease I had felt was a full blown terrifying fear that when 9 year olds go away to camp, terrible things happen. I was in fight or flight mode; my memories having strung together a warning of perceived danger.

I prayed silently across the stretches of tar specked pavement that cut through swaying wheat fields and sleepy towns. I prayed for protection, for freedom, for healing. I knew my thoughts were just tricking me, so I pushed them down and smiled as I helped my littlest man choose the top bunk and unpack his belongings for the week. As he stood tall for the obligatory first day of camp photo, I could not believe how grown up and how tender and small he looked all at once. We prayed again as I hugged him goodbye and all the way home I sung loud with the truth on the radio to drown out my anxieties.

Each night that I got to talk to my boy that week was such a balm to my soul, and this time I was the one counting days. Camp ended on a sweltering Friday morning, and I arrived right on time, fiercely ready to pull my little bird back under my wing. The parents all waited in scattered patches in the burning sun until we heard it; the low buzz of a large group of children walking toward us, smiling and skipping and hugging each other. It took me a minute to pick my boy’s face out of the crowd, but as soon as I did I let out a huge exhale I had unknowingly been holding; perhaps all week? I tried to control the tears that swelled at the rims of my eyes and pricked at my throat. Some part of me had still been waiting to know that everything was going to be ok.

I talked with my counselor about these events this week, and she shared something so enlightening with me. She put it this way: If you walk by a blue house and a dog comes out and bites you, it’s going to make you leery of blue houses. The next time you see a blue house you are going to feel afraid, palms sweating, anticipating the ferocious beast you met before. But not every blue house has a dog that bites. We can learn to pick out those blue houses, call them what they are or are not, and confidently walk by with our heads high because we know; this blue house is different.

Glancing in the mirror at my suntanned and thoroughly exhausted 9 year old, I thanked God to be bringing him home with joyful celebration, and I thanked him for the lessons of the last blue house, and the blessings of this one.

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When Mother’s Day Wasn’t

Hannah

Today millions of moms woke up to hand-drawn cards and beautiful flowers, breakfasts in bed and cute little “What I Like Best About my Mom” papers from school. Moms woke up to the pleasure of the kids doing the dishes, and the distinctive taps of their tiny baby’s feet as they wiggle and turn in the womb. Moms woke up excited for this day and the joys it would hold, but what if you didn’t?

What if your story does not look like the Mother’s Day version written in the Hallmark cards? What if you woke up with an aching hole in your life from your mother passing away? What if you woke to the sight of all the days crossed off on the calendar that you had not conceived, or a counter full of needles and liquids, a longing attempt at being a mama? What if you saw your child’s beating heart on a screen, but never got to hold them in your arms? What if you have to share your children with another adult, and they do not get to be with you today? What if your child is grown and this date sends you counting the days since the last time they have wanted to be around you? What if you wanted to hide under the covers because you were so weary of the arguing and fighting? What if you do not know where your child is? What if the children you sacrifice so much for forgot it was Mother’s Day? What if you cradled your child as they drew their last breath; what then of Mother’s Day?

To the ones that woke up today and had tears and sorrow and grief… I see you. I hear the loud crack of your heartbreak as you wake up hurting on a day that is supposed to elicit such joy. I hear the echo of the emptiness where you grasp for what was once in your arms, or what you hoped would be. I understand your sadness and shame when instead of an Instagram perfect breakfast in bed, you are met with harsh words and an ungrateful attitude. I see the tally of all the hours you have spent pouring your very lifeblood into the littles in your life, only to have your circumstances not look like you dreamed they would. I hear the deafening silence as you sit at a familiar grave sight.

I hear you and I see you and I want you to know that you are not invisible. I know that the hard, painful threads of your story can be woven into something more beautiful than you have thought to imagine. I know that the One who holds your shattered heart is big enough to put it back together again. I know that this day brings a burden heavy to carry, but I also know that your current situation does not have to be the end.

Choose to feel those hurts and be transformed into the gentle, compassionate human that you are capable of. Choose joy and life and hope and know that even on this hard day that challenges your motherhood, you are created for something beautiful. Believe that.

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Never

Hannah

Someone recently asked how long it would be until we “got over” the death of our youngest daughter. As if it were an obstacle course to leap over. As shocked as I was, it shed some light on an area where maybe people need help to understand. Perhaps for those who have never walked through something like that it truly is something they can’t comprehend. I think I know the answer to the question, and I’m going to share it with you.

When will we get over the passing of our daughter?

Never.

That’s right; I said never. If “getting over it” means when we will we stop talking about our beautiful blue-eyed little girl, stop sharing her pictures, stop acknowledging that she was a part of our lives, then that will never happen.

Last week would have been our Ellie’s 10th birthday. It has been most of a decade since we held her in our arms. Did we check the box; “10 years, now you can move on, stop bringing her up.” No. We did what we always do on Ellie’s birthday. We celebrated.

We celebrated because we are grateful for the 4 1/2 months of pure joy of having her here with us. We celebrated because her short life has changed us in ways we needed to be changed. We celebrated because if she were here we would be celebrating her, so why not still celebrate? Also we never pass up an opportunity to have cake! We reminisced over cake and then carried on our tradition of doing something helpful and kind for someone else in need.

Are you familiar with muscle memory? How your body automatically remembers how to do certain things because you have done them so many times? Well 10 years later my arms still have the muscle memory of what it felt like to hold my girl close against my chest. I can close my eyes and remember her smell and how her fine hair tickled my lips when I kissed her on the head.

These things will forever be treasured in my heart, and we will always find ways to honor her on special days, and that does not mean we are not “over it.” It means we loved someone so deeply we gave pieces of our hearts away and those holes will never be filled by anything else.

There will always be triggers of grief; when she would have started school, graduated, gotten married, etc. No matter how long it has been we will allow ourselves to grieve those things; that is a normal, appropriate, and necessary part of our healing process.

I am aware that some people are uncomfortable because, well, sad things are uncomfortable and they want us to get back to the happy baseline as soon as possible. We are not stuck in the deep mourning of our daughter, but as far as getting over it, we will never get over it, nor would we want to. We want to honor her life, her place in our family, and her spirit, which is still very much alive.

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A Decade

Hannah

My sweet little love. How is it possible that today is already your 10th birthday? A whole decade! It seems just yesterday I was feeling the warm weight of you on my chest, your delicate fingers wrapped around mine.

We talk about you often around here. Reminiscing over sweet memories with you, and wondering over so many things. What your laugh would sound like. If your eyes would have stayed that piercing blue. If you would have my sense of humor or your daddy’s quiet strength.

It still hurts, missing you. There will always be an Ellianna-shaped hole in our lives. That hole has brought about so many amazing things though. I am thankful for that. We have formed deep and lasting relationships built around the scars of losing you. We have reached out and filed gaps and met needs and made magic happen all in the name of honoring you and the impact your mighty life had on us.

On this momentous birthday of yours I am eternally thankful that I was chosen to be your mama. I’m thankful for the scars that have pushed me closer to Christ and helped me stand in the shoes of the hurting. I’m thankful for the people we have gotten to love on because we’ve been there and we get to pay it forward. I’m thankful for all the ways that your life and death has opened our hands to trusting in God’s plan, and has opened so many doors for us to spread love and support in your honor.

We love you, Ellie Grace! Happy birthday!