 |
| via |
I've gone about today in pretty much the same way I've shuffled through the past 6 weeks or so. Wake up earlier than I usually would to feed a squirmy ball of love and delight. She's been sleeping such long stretches at night that I usually have to pump a little bit of milk so I don't overwhelm her when she nurses. Rock her back to sleep. Try to sleep again myself. Wake up again to a usually happy squirmy ball of love and delight. At some point in the day (usually just before bed) I will pour the precious ounces of liquid gold sustenance into a baggie to freeze for later use. I'll pull apart the pieces of the pump's plastic and plunge them into hot, soapy water. Scrub. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Routine.
But this afternoon, my routine was interrupted. That strange, ugly monster who's been graciously silent for quite some time, reared his ugly head again. Grief. As I disassembled my pump, I thought back to life 4 years ago. There was no sink full of soapy water. No bleary-eyed late-night feedings. Instead, there were frozen peas and ice cold cabbage stuffed into a sports bra that was two sizes too small. Whitney had passed away, but apparently, my body didn't get the memo. My milk came in just as it would have if she had been there to receive its nourishment. And it hurt. It stung. It burned. My body was betraying me, a constant reminder of my baby who was not in my arms. As I wept from the physical pain and the raw emotion of her loss, it seemed that even my body was weeping too.
The wave of grief washed over me, I felt something new and strange towards the familiar, ugly monster of Grief: I welcomed it. I steadied myself with wet hands on the side of my cold kitchen sink and let salty tears fall to my cheeks. I let myself feel the squeeze of loss as my heart physically ached. Moms who have empty arms know just how real this kind of physical heart ache is. For that moment, I welcomed every bittersweet memory and emotion Grief threw at me. The tide rolled in, and faster than real time, the tide rolled out. "They" (whoever "they" are) always tell you Grief is a journey. (Here's another post from a few years ago about this Grief journey.) Four years in, I'm beginning to learn what that means. And I'm learning with greater clarity what it means in 1 Thessalonians that we do not grieve as those who have no hope. I'm learning its okay to grieve, to miss what should have been-- the birthday candles that will never be blown out, the gifts that will never be opened... well, the list of "should have been's" is endless. But in my grief, I can't forget the future that I know will be. And I know that it will be far greater than anything we're missing out on in this life. As it says in The Message translation of 1 Thes: "Since Jesus died and broke loose from the grave, God will most certainly bring back to life those who died in Jesus."
Tomorrow, Whitney would have been 4. We've all been a little busy lately, what with a newborn and all. When we haven't been busy, we've been hopelessly snowed in. I haven't had time to plan much at all for Whitney's birthday... no special planned acts of kindness, no gifts for the hospital nurses- I haven't even bought a cake mix yet. (Yes, keeping it real- cake mix.) I'm trying to practice giving myself grace in this area this year. Its hard to picture what life would be like with Whitney... Gia is only 2, so I don't know what its like to have a 4 year old running around. I'm only just learning what its like to have two kids... some days I drift off to Neverland, wondering what we'd be doing as a family of 5. There's always Neverland... a place where time stands still, and Whitney is whatever beautiful age I imagine her to be. But in reality, I know nothing of that life what should have been. I only know what is true for now, the life we are given and living for real. So tomorrow, we will bake a cake, sing happy birthday, and blow out a candle for our first born girl who is in Heaven. I'll stumble over words as I try to explain Heaven to my 2 year-old. I'll shed a few tears as we look at her pictures, and tell Gia its ok to be sad sometimes. I'll hold Whitney's bunny and try desperately to remember the tiny details of her face, her hands, her hair, that time has slowly erased. I'll remember the supernatural goodness of our Lord and the unbelievable graciousness in his provision. And I'll remember the Reason for our Hope. As waves of grief sneak up behind me, I'll welcome the warmth as they wash over me. The waves remind that Whitney is real, she was here, I held her in my arms, and she is worth crying for. The after that, I'll go back to the sink full of soapy water and continue to love my babies more each day. Love. Hug. Kiss. Cuddle. Repeat. Routine.
