Give Me A Song to Sing

In that moment, I decided that maybe I could open myself up again by opening my mouth to lift a song. Attending mass was completely painful anyway, so why not sing with my husband and lead worship to offer as a distraction?  Little did I know how much this decision would change things for me.

At that first mass, in that first song of true and profound prayer (because I didn’t even know how to pray anymore), I felt her, and I felt heaven, and I had a vision of her eternity of praising God the Father, endlessly.  And it kept me going. Week by week.

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Rescue

 “I will send out an army to find you in the middle of the darkest night...

I will never stop marchin’ to reach you in the middle of the hardest fight...

I hear you whisper underneath your breath. I hear you whisper you have nothing left...

It’s true, I will rescue you...”

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Speak to Me

How much longer will I be able to keep this up?  How much more will be asked of me?  I miss her. I miss her so much. And I cry out to my God who gave and took: Speak to me!  Speak to me.  Because at your command, these waters can be stilled. Your voice can calm the waters raging within (“the sea in me”).

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Beauty From Ashes

Six months. Today, we celebrate six months of life. It’s your little brother’s half birthday. As I type this, he’s cuddled close to me, sucking on his pacifier, while his softie is nestled into his neck and lullabies lull him to sleep.  It’s beautiful. But it stings. It’s bittersweet...  I’m overcome with love for him and the joy he brings me to the point that I’m overwhelmed and brought to tears.  His breaths fall heavily on my arm, while you remained so still.  His little life, in my arms, because your life slipped through my hands.  Death literally passed through me, so a new life could be planted. Could grow. Could resurrect from the darkness and bring to fruition a redemption I had not thought possible.  There’s so much guilt.  But there’s so much love.  And grief, it still remains.

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Transformed

Who am I now?  How has this experience changed me?  I hesitate to even call it an experience. It was and is so much more than that.  It was stillbirth.  It was losing a child. It is loss.  And it is grief.  But nonetheless, I am different.

Transformed, however, makes it seem as though I have come to the end of this difficult road. I am ever evolving. Ever changing. In each day, each moment, in each breath...I am transforming.

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Wisdom

Dear Friend, I’m sorry that someone in your life has experienced the greatest loss—the loss of a child.  You must feel so sad, yet so awkward...so unsure as to what you should do. Because, what can you do?  What can you say?  You can say nothing. You can do nothing.  Just be. Just be there for them.  Nothing will fix this. Nothing will take away their pain. Nothing will make them feel better.  No cliches, no words of wisdom, no biblical quote or spiritual truth. Nothing.

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Healing

Healing has been a process of surrendering, remembering, and waiting. It has been allowing the emotions and the memories to surface.  It has been going through the pain and not stuffing it away. It has been allowing the gaping wounds to be exposed to the light.  It has been counseling, and writing, and graveside visits. It has been nights of endless tears and crying to the point of vomiting and being unable to breathe.  It has been going through your memory box and looking at your pictures.  Meeting others in their suffering and talking about real and hard things.  It has been allowing others to love me and admitting that I can’t do it all.  It has been an attempt to trust, and getting let down—but trying again anyway.  It has been acknowledging my pain, giving it a name, and being okay with who I am now.  It has been accepting what life after loss looks like, moving one step forward, one day at a time.  And it has also been taking steps backward.  It has been losing relationships, losing friends, and letting go of the expectations I place on myself and others.

Healing has been allowing the old wound to touch this new wound.  It has been waiting in joyful hope.

And healing will come because you existed.

Healing will come, because of you.

My healing baby.

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Today

Today my grief is a longing.  A dull ache that never goes away, stealing my breath  and causing me to feel like I can’t breathe.  Today my grief is finding beauty.  The Eucharist. A smile. A glimpse of joy. A warm fall morning.  The flowers at your grave. Standing near you as the sun warms my skin, and the birds sing, reminding me of our silent retreat together. Today my grief is feeling you in my heart, always. Knowing that wherever I go, you are always near. And I feel it so deeply. Today my grief is choosing. Choosing to take another step forward. Choosing to be present. Choosing to remember. Choosing to let God soften the edges of my heart.  Today my grief is real and tangible. I am aware of its presence. But I invite it in.  I do not hide from it or run away.  Today, I step back, and I allow it to take its place in my life.

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Purpose

Purpose. You are the reason. You are the reason I write. You are the reason your little brother is here. You are the reason I am a mother of six. Purpose. What is the purpose of this pain?This loss?This life without you?Your death?This valley?  Purpose. Your existence...so short, now eternal. Impacting every fiber of my being. Changing our family. Changing my life. Changing me. I’m trying to discover this purpose, but I don’t think I will ever fully discover it this side of heaven. And that’s something I have to accept. Purpose?My purpose was to carry you. To be your mother. To participate in God’s plan for your life and salvation. The purpose of that day?To experience the grace. To witness the veil being lifted. To be united momentarily to the other side.The purpose of the past 16 months?To survive. To let love in. And your purpose?Was it to bring love?And simplicity? And a life back to the basics?To love big in small ways?To get me to heaven?Let this pain have a purpose. Let this suffering not be in vain. Let this longing not go without reward. Show me my purpose now. Show me how to move forward in this life, where you and I do not reside together. 

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