Somewhere Between What a Wonderful World and Over The Rainbow

September is such a unique and special month. It is a month of celebration and of grieving. September 10, 2009 was the day our baby girl's heart stopped beating. When her body became still in my womb. The day she no longer needed my body to give her the nutrients to grow. The day Jesus took her to Heaven...somewhere over the rainbow. The day we call her Heavenly Birthday. September 11, 2009 was the day I gave birth to her lifeless body and held her in my arms. September 10, 2010 was the day I heard the most beautiful and surreal sound I had ever heard. The day an amazing baby boy made his voice and strength of his one month premature lungs known. I held him in my arms and he stopped crying. He looked at me with his precious blue eyes and I thought to myself what a wonderful world.

At this time of year I go back and forth between joy and grief. I am incredibly joyful and thankful for Felicity's short life, but deeply sad she isn't here to love and watch grow. I am excited and joyful that Sean is living and we are celebrating his second birthday, but sad that I must say goodbye to the beautiful moments of those two years. So I find myself getting teary eyed when he calls my name and clutching the pink teddy bear we bought Felicity before she was born. I try to hide my Felicity tears from Sean. I reserve my tears and teddy bear cuddles for the night when I crawl into bed. I have an immense guilt when it comes to both of them. I love them both dearly, but she isn't here. So, to spend time thinking and grieving about her takes time away from him. I don't want to lose the memory of her. I don't ever want to forget the way she felt in my arms or in my womb. Just as I don't ever want to forget Sean's milestones....all the moments of growth. His baby voice and now his toddler voice. Then there is the moment...being in the moment and soaking up everything God is providing in that moment. For that is one thing losing Felicity has taught me. Slow down and don't lose sight of the moment. Don't take these precious moments for granted...for nothing is in my control. They can be taken in an instant. For that is having the fear of God. Knowing it is all out of my hands and in His almighty hands.

So that is what their birthdays have been like this year. The dance of grief and joy. I suppose being a mother is mixed with grief and joy anyway. Grieving the moments that have passed to never come again and celebrating the achievements of the past, where they are now, and the possibilities of the future.

I enjoyed the moments with Sean on his second birthday. Dump trucks, excavators, steamrollers, and all! I enjoyed watching him actually eat his cupcake this year. I celebrated him telling me he was two before we sang happy birthday. I won't forget the look on his face when everyone sang to him...just him. When he came down the stairs and saw all of his decorations, the fun he had with his family, the confident walk he had as he happily explored the Georgia Aquarium for the first time. For these moments are why I take tons of pictures and video. These moments make a beautiful world. These moments are a gift. Life is a gift.

If someone had told me that the seemingly healthy baby girl living inside me would go to Heaven before her body was born and exactly a year later (to the day) I would give birth to a healthy baby boy, I would have had difficulty believing them. Both Felicity and Sean are gifts and each unique. Both are celebrated. Both are loved. Both are always in my heart. Both are thought about everyday. When I hear both their names, I am filled with an amazing joy and deep love.

In Sean's words, "Happy Birfday" to my little girl over the rainbow where bluebirds fly and my little boy who helps me see What a wonderful world it can be.

Simple Gifts

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gain'd,

To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,

To turn, turn will be our delight,

Till by turning, turning we come 'round right.

Written by: Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett Jr. 1848

Simple...Simplicity. Those are such comforting words for me. Yet I struggle daily to attain and sustain simplicity.

It was the winter and spring of 1995 and I played this song on my flute often. I was thirteen years old and in band at school. Our spring competition was coming up and this was one of the pieces we were playing. I wasn't very good at the flute, but my Mom liked it. I enjoyed it, but I never felt I was good enough. It was a challenging year in my little isolated family of three. This piece was my Mom's favorite of the three works we were preparing for competition. For the last five years my mother was in and out of rehab. Those were at least the times I know of and can remember. In the last year of her life she was hospitalized or in rehab more than she was home. My life was a roller coaster. It was anything but simple. I would practice this piece and it seemed to make her happy. In the last year of her life she rarely genuinely smiled. I ached to see her happy and I would play this song to make her happy. She looked forward to going to band festival and hearing it performed. She wanted to be there. When that day in March came I was there, but she wasn't. I cried faint tears as I played in the auditorium of my junior high school...which was also where my mother went to high school. I felt like no one around me understood the heavy burden of loss that weighted me down in that squeaky metal chair. Earlier that month my mother finally found complete simplicity. In a place I did not expect...heaven.

As I grow older I discover the appeal of simplicity. I find it, but I don't always keep it. Why is it so difficult to keep?

Simple isn't easily understood. Achieving simplicity isn't so simple. Our world and minds are cluttered. How much of what we spend our time on is really important? How much brain and physical power is actually wasted on unimportant things? Things that prevent us from having a life of simplicity.

In some respects I have been stripped of some of the luxuries this world provides by foolish financial decisions early in my life, the choice to go into a profession that requires much, but doesn't have much of a financial return, and by deciding to stay home and be a full time Mommy to Sean. I struggle with wanting worldly luxuries like vacations, new clothes, pedicures, massages or going to dinner and a movie or concert with my husband. I ask myself are these things important? They are lots of fun...but am I living the life I am given now? Am I finding joy in the simplicity? Am I learning what God is trying to show me? As Oswald Chambers describes in My Utmost For His Highest, "If we have a purpose of our own, it destroys the simplicity and the calm , relaxed pace which should be characteristic of God." Perhaps God is showing me closeness with Him by showing me simplicity in my home...with my family...through the unconditional love of my husband...through the eyes of a child...now.

Simplicity is in the evenings when Patrick and I read together and have an unspoken peace with each other in the silence. Going to sleep and waking up to my best friend everyday. Simplicity is in the way Patrick holds my hand and the way he puts his arm around me when we are sitting side by side. Simplicity is having a marriage filled with a love that has been growing for almost 16 years.

Simplicity is in those moments when I breathe in deeply the smell of Sean's hair, when he wraps his arms around my neck and lays his head on my shoulder, the way he sighs with comfort when he is in my arms, when he smiles that infectious smile, his dancing blue eyes, when he is pleased with himself when he learns a new word or sentence. Simplicity is in the oatmeal I cook every morning, because that is his favorite meal. Simplicity is in truly being still and watching Sean learn and discover. It is in the wrestling he does with his Daddy in the evenings while I cook dinner. Simplicity is watching him explore outside and water the flowers. Watching him gaze at the bird feeder outside the window as the birds have their daily snack. Simplicity is watching him run and hearing his carefree laugh. Motherhood is far from simple, but soaking up the moments of motherhood brings simplicity. Seeing the world through a child's eyes. No clutter...no emotional baggage...a forgiving and trusting spirit.

Simplicity is being in the moment. Not fretting about past hurts or regrets or worrying about the future. It is about now...just as a child sees the world. Being thankful for what is before me. As Jesus said in Mark 18: 3-4,  "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

A day filled with sorrow, peace, love, and joy. The day I held Felicity in my arms.

What a blessing it is to be a mother. What a blessing it is to be mothered. To love. To be loved.

The day Sean was born - His body full of life and our hearts full of joy and thanksgiving.

It is impossible to be a mother and not think about the way you were mothered. I was very loved by my mother. I can remember how troubled she was emotionally and how much physical pain she experienced or I can choose to remember how thankful she was that I was born and healthy. I could choose to be angry, because after all her body and spirit endured, the actual cause of her death was a careless accident by a nurse. Instead I choose to remember her laugh, her smile, her heartfelt embrace, the smell of her perfume, the way her rings from my father looked on her hands, the way she sounded when she said my name, how she played card games with me, the meals she cooked, the delicious pound cakes she baked, the class parties she hosted when I was in school, my girl scout troupe she helped lead, how she said my nightly prayers with me. I can choose to remember all the happy moments with her...the ways she showed me she loved me. I can choose to remember who she was apart from the pain and the effects of overdosing on pain pills. Even though the hurt, the pain, the struggle she experienced daily is a very real and painful part of my childhood, I honor her with knowing she fought a battle and was finally given complete simplicity. A simplicity we strive to attain in this cluttered world. Just days before she died she told me she would see me in heaven. As I left for school that morning, my body shook with fear that my mother was going to die. I saw her once, after I told her goodbye the morning I left for school. She apologized for not being a good mother as I held her hand in the mental hospital. All I remember saying was, "I love you". A few days later her journey on this earth was done. I love my Mommy. I love my children.

Leaving the hospital with my Mommy.

Motherhood...it isn't simple...but it does bring simplicity to the heart. It is summed up in three words, 

"I love you".

My Cup Runneth Over....

Beautiful Things

"As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust." (Psalm 103: 13-14)

  

It was the end of a warm summer and I had just given birth to a beautiful seemingly healthy baby girl with no signs of life. I was faced with a decision. The decision of what to do with her body. It wasn't something we could avoid. It was a reality. It was one of the toughest decisions we would ever have to make. As we looked at our options, not one felt right. We could bury her body in the ground to become dust or we could make her body dust to later bury. We decided on the latter. How we came to that decision was through much thought and prayer. Some did not agree with our decision, but we believe it was the decision God laid upon our hearts. When I first saw our precious Felicity's ashes in a small plastic bag and an ugly white cardboard box, I was broken. I was sick. All I could envision was a man made machine crushing the body that had been so carefully, fearfully, and beautifully formed in my womb those nine months. The bones that so vigorously kicked my swollen womb. The curly brown hair with blonde highlights. The body I held in my arms for hours on that cloudy summer day. I cried and then placed her dust in a beautiful white porcelain box to keep until we could decide what to do with her body. How could I just put her away in a box? I told myself, It is her body...not her soul. Her soul is safe with Him.

How does beauty come from dust? Where are those beautiful things when you have to decide how your child will become dust once again? 

That first autumn after losing Felicity was the richest and most spiritually raw season of my life. New life had been torn from me. However, the autumn colors were incredibly rich and beautiful. Patrick and I would go for walks and it was as if all of our senses were stronger and more intense. As if we were seeing all things with new eyes. The crisp cool air on my skin was deeply felt, the hues of the changing leaves were beautiful, friend's newborn babies were even more precious, the tears of sorrow soaked me daily, the intense pillow screams of despair exhausted me, the searching filled my mind. I was raw. I was dust being recreated. In retrospect I am grateful for the intensity of that autumn...even the painfully intense moments.

I was a child of God who needed compassion. I was a mother hurting for her child's life on earth unfulfilled. A mother who had the privilege of knowing her baby girl more than anyone else on this earth. A mother who would desire that everyone else know her. A mother who will always desire to honor the existence of her life and wonder what her baby girl would have been like if she could have grown beyond those nine months. She knew the rhythm of my heart, she knew when I laughed, when I cried tears of joy and sorrow, when I was asleep and when I was awake...a beautiful thing. 

I remember her and love her more each day. Her soul isn't with me, but her short life has done a beautiful thing in me. I have peace in knowing her soul has been made beautiful in eternity. She has filled my heart with more love and compassion. She has helped me see mere dust become life full of beauty. She has helped me TRUST my Heavenly Father above the hurt. She has increased my FAITH and HOPE in a loving Heavenly Father who has compassion on me and does make beautiful things out of the dust...He makes all things new...including me...a hurting, wounded mother.  

Peace

Peace is one of Sean's new words. He is really becoming quite the chatterbox. It seems he comes up with at least one new word everyday and he is beginning to form sentences! I feel like I say it every month, but I LOVE this age! Every stage of his life is precious and beautiful in it's own way. Perhaps I will be saying this when he is a grown man too!

Sean is now 18 months old. In a little over a week he will be 19 months old. I have found myself going back to his baby days more. Especially now that I see him becoming a little boy. I am realizing how far we have come. I can't imagine what Moms must feel like when their children graduate from high school or college. Sean is just 18 months old, but what an amazing 18 months it has been! I remember being pregnant with Sean. I remember savoring every kick I felt and every heartbeat I had the privilege of hearing. Then he was born exactly one year to the day of his sister's Heavenly birthday. That first cry...I hope I never forget that sound. We prayed for that sound. I remember asking if he was okay. I remember being so tired, but so excited. I remember feeling so unworthy, so incredibly blessed that God would give us such a miraculous gift. I had a very strong bond with him from the start. Maybe because I was so in-tune with him during the pregnancy. I counted kicks all throughout the day. Sean was born quickly and as a result swallowed fluid coming through the birth canal. His little tummy was filled with fluid and he threw up a few times after he was born. His first night we kept him in the nursery, so the nurses could watch him and we could get some sleep. I remember lying in the bed and knowing my little baby boy was crying. I couldn't hear him, but I just knew he wasn't happy. I couldn't sleep. He needed his Mommy. I remember hearing the knock on the door and Sean crying. The nurse said he wouldn't calm down and thought he needed his Mommy to feed him. He stopped as soon as I held him. What an amazing feeling. What an immense responsibility.

He doesn't need his Mommy quite as much anymore. He sees beyond Mommy now and is discovering the world around him. Now I observe, guide, and discipline him more than I hold him. I remind myself that I didn't choose to have a child for me, but to raise him to love and glorify the Lord. To fulfill God's purpose for him on this earth. I remember holding him to my chest and saying, "I am loving these cuddles now, because I know he will be running from me soon." Now he runs from me and explores the world around him. It brings me joy to see him have confidence. However, when he hurts or needs my help or guidance, he calls for his "Mama or Mommy". He is affectionate, but not clingy. Exactly the way I prayed he would be.

I remember the last ultrasound I had when I was pregnant with Sean. It was during the amniocentesis our perinatologist performed a month before his due date. It determined the maturity of his lungs. The technician told me to get my running shoes ready! We laughed, but she was right! He is a busy and active little boy! Those words meant so much to us that day. We were so grateful for every movement...every proof of life. When I see him running and playing I am filled with emotion. We prayed for a healthy baby boy.

A month and a half ago I was in a room with an ultrasound once again. Leading up to the appointment I was very focused on Sean and our present situation. The minute I walked into the room with Patrick and Sean I was taken back. Back to my last ultrasound with our baby girl and all the tense and exciting ultrasounds with Sean. I didn't expect to go back to those memories. There was the probe again. That ultrasound probe that rolled all over my belly so many times with Sean...with the hope that he was healthy, but the awareness of the possibility that something could go amiss. Now the probe was on his head. It was on a little soft bump on his head. Jelly all over his beautiful blonde hair. The hair I saw waving (on ultrasound) in the amniotic fluid in his last month inside me. His head...the first part of his body that entered the world. I tried to keep him still so she could get a good reading. I looked at the screen and saw a bump and that is when my heart started beating fast. I found myself trying to read the technician's body language. Just as I did during my pregnancy ultrasounds. She seemed nervous, but I couldn't tell if it was because the mass was in a difficult spot and hard to get a good reading or because she suspected something serious. Worry and fear came into my Mommy heart. That worry and fear hadn't been there, but there it was. The realization that this could be something very serious or something very minor. I tried to stay happy and strong for Sean. I asked if she could tell me anything. She said if it was really serious (i.e. possibly cancer) they would contact his pediatrician while we were there. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary. Then as we were leaving the office, she asked us if he was our first child. We are asked that all the time. I wonder if other people are asked this question so much. I can never dismiss the fact that he isn't my first child. I always explain that we have a baby girl in heaven and that he was our first live birth. They are always sympathetic and usually say something about Sean being special. That question always sends me back to our baby girl. Back to the memory of her face. Back to her last kicks in my belly. Fear had already entered my Mommy heart that day and then she asked me that question...that question. The question I am both proud and sad to answer. So, I answered as I always do and left the office to wait for a phone call. We waited for a few days...through the weekend...to find the results were inconclusive.

We were referred to a pediatric neurosurgeon. We knew we were either dealing with a swollen lymph node, dermoid cyst, or a cancerous mass. Originally it was thought to be a swollen lymph node, but it was growing and by this time was a little large for a swollen lymph node. We felt pretty certain it wasn't cancerous, because from the ultrasound they could tell it wasn't spreading and was on the outside of his skull. We still aren't 100% certain, but our very competent neurosurgeon believes it is a dermoid cyst. If it was a lymph node, we could just leave it alone. A cyst could interfere with the bone structure of his skull, wear away the bone and eventually affect his brain development, so surgery is recommended. It is a minor surgery, but I would be lying if I said I didn't have any concern about Sean being put under general anesthesia. I would rather our time and financial resources go toward fun spring/summer activities, like going to the beach or zoo. I am grateful it is only minor, but Mommy just wishes it wasn't necessary.

Lately, my feelings have been cloudy. I have been struggling with the challenges and disappointments of this imperfect world. Trying to make sense of it all. Death is an event with which I am very acquainted. The preciousness of life is very real to me. I realize that life can be taken in an instant and I realize first hand the life of my own children can be taken in an instant. Being a mother is an incredible responsibility and that space between caring for your child and surrendering your child completely to the Lord is hard to bridge. That is where I am in all of this. As a woman and a mother I have this desire to care, nurture, organize, manage, and guide. Figuring out how to do that completely in God's power and not my own is so incredibly hard for me. Trusting in His will. I am ashamed to say that I struggle. Some days are much easier than others. Trusting in his will is so hard when my Mommy heart doesn't want my children to struggle or feel pain and suffering. When my Mommy heart doesn't want to see my children die. When my Mommy heart loves them so much. As a mother I am designed to protect my babies. From the beginning of their lives in my womb I ate healthy foods, took my vitamins daily, went to all my pre-natal check-ups and ultrasounds, rested, moderately exercised, talked, read, and sang to them. I nurtured their growth. Being a mother means trusting that I don't know God's will for their lives and accepting that it is completely out of my hands. As much as I try to be a planner, I can't plan my children's lives. The planning part of my personality isn't as strong as it once was. Perhaps that is one of the ways God is growing me as a mother.

Sean suffered from colic the first three to four months of his life on earth. He struggled with acid reflux the first year. He screamed from 5 to 12 every night in those first three to four months. It was so painful to my Mommy heart to see him in pain and to be completely powerless in comforting him. I nursed him much through the night, but he was often in pain and crying through his feedings. We held him through the pain. We prayed for the pain to stop and did all we knew to do to help him, but it lasted as long as it was supposed to. It is a part of Sean's life. A part of his story and an experience that has helped mold him to be the 18 month old he is now and the man he will become. I had no power then and still don't. Even with my immense responsibility as his mother, I am truly powerless. I can't take all the boo boos away, but I can pray. I can pray for the power of the Holy Spirit to live in us and to be strong enough to overcome and see us through the moments of suffering on this earth. When I was pregnant with Sean, Patrick and I would pray daily for him. We expressed the desire for him to be healthy and live beyond my womb. We expressed that desire of our hearts. We prayed for God's love and protection on our hearts, however long his life may be. We believed he would make it, we had faith...but we also understood that we didn't see the full picture and ultimately we had to trust that God would carry us - no matter the outcome. That holds true through every step of his life. 36+ weeks in my womb and 18+ months on this earth has been a gift...a blessing. It holds true as I wait for a surgery (even though it is minor), test results and doctor's assessments.

As a mother who has lost a child, I can choose to be fearful of losing another child or faithful that God will bring beauty from my circumstances. Whatever those circumstances may be and however that beauty may be shown. We are all in his loving hands. Jesus knew there would be times we would be scattered or have cloudy thoughts, but he assured us that he would not abandon us in our struggles. God sent us his only son to overcome our sin and death. Because of that we can claim the sovereign peace of Christ in our suffering.

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have PEACE. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." 

(John 16: 33)

Stay Strong

"Stay Strong", is one of those phrases of encouragement that just gives me an uncomfortable feeling. I know each person who says it means well and I appreciate their good intentions. But I honestly wonder what they are thinking when they say that? Are they thinking that if the one who is facing hardship gives into his feelings of grief with crying and/or screaming that they will end up having a mental "breakdown"? Are they scared of facing reality? Aren't we more likely to have a "breakdown" if we keep the natural process of grief bottled up inside and "stay strong". Maybe they mean stay strong in the Lord and his strength...

I think of Sean and his developing will and his little toddler temper. It breaks my heart that he gets so frustrated when he doesn't get what he wants. In all honesty, I would rather he safely express those feelings rather than bottle them up. As long as he isn't hurting himself, someone else, or something. Once he has his little tantrum all is fine again. He has worked through it and he has accepted reality. He isn't going to always get what he wants because he wants it, and what he wants isn't always what is best for him. A hard lesson for us to learn in life.

Life gives us a multitude of disappointments, but some of the worst are lost loved ones and that is where I have heard those two words, "stay strong". The first time I heard it was when my mother died. I was thirteen years old and I took those words to heart. I was 13...I was impressionable. Maybe I didn't understand what they meant. However, my 13 year old brain processed those words to mean I needed to fight the tears. I had to stay strong for my father. I was all he had after my mother died. I stayed strong for my mother much of my life and now I had to stay strong for my father. As a result of keeping it all in for so long and trying to find the strength in myself, a stomach ulcer formed and I was diagnosed with borderline ulcerative colitis and depression at the age of 16. Fortunately, there were some people who said, "You don't have to be strong anymore. Let it out, Letia". They told me I didn't have to keep the feelings bottled up or try to run from them. I may not have learned how to let it out then, but I am learning. I am still learning. I am still learning what it means to fully trust in God's strength and not my own. I have learned more with each loss I grieve. Those words came again when I lost my baby girl and then I heard it yet again when my father-in-law passed away.

The summer before I lost my Mom I asked Jesus into my heart. There is no way I could have carried the grief on my own. I remember those who told me I didn't have to be strong. It was liberating...a weight had been taken from me...I was free. I let all the stages of grief come...I let the anger...I let the tears of sorrow...I let it all in and it was there that I professed it to God. It was then that God could work in me. For it was in my weakness...my surrender...that he did the work in me. I didn't have to be strong in my flesh. I didn't have to strive to have worldly perfection. I didn't have to be in control. I didn't have to appear to be okay to everyone else. He loved me in my brokenness. He loves me. It was when I let Him take all of me that I was made strong. His grace was sufficient. Just like Sean...as long as he isn't hurting himself, someone else, or something...let it out. Sean's heart is then open to the discipline and instruction we give him and the unconditional love and grace we provide. Just like Sean my heart will be open to God's unconditional love and His work in me, if I acknowledge and truly work through the disappointments this life brings. That is where I find strength...where I find peace...where I find contentment...and where I eventually find joy.

"Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him." (Psalm 126: 5-6)

Now, when I hear those words, "stay strong", I just add my life's lesson. "Stay strong in Him" Lean on him...strength doesn't mean holding back, but letting Him into every facet of my life. Letting Him work in my messy life...in my deep pain...in my weakness and my ugly sin. Often that means crying and getting on my knees in prayer. Being true to myself and God about what is going on in my broken heart. That is how I find that strength everyone so desires to see in everyone around them.

"We rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."
(Romans 5: 2-5)

When I am in the midst of suffering, it is so hard to rejoice. The rejoicing comes after the sting and mental cloudiness of grief. It is then that I rejoice in the beauty of God. When I fully realize this life isn't about me and my fleshly desires, but being used for his purpose and being unconditionally loved by Him. Being content in His will for my life. That is where I find the strength to do the work he has put me on this earth to do. He is a faithful and loving God and I am so grateful for His never ending grace...

March Winds

When I think of March I think of wind, rain, and rebirth. It is almost like winter and spring fight each other in March. I am not a fan of winter. About the only thing I like about winter is the excuse to wear comfy sweaters and drink hot drinks. I'm not even that crazy about snow. I am always happy to see those first signs that spring is fighting with winter. The wind has been blowing a good bit lately and the days are getting longer. I can't wait to see leaves on the trees again and colorful spring flowers...to see the rebirth. One refreshing thing about March is the wind. Sean has recently learned how to blow out of his mouth. We talk about how the wind blows and we blow with our mouths. He gets the biggest kick out of it.

March is one of those bittersweet months for me. I try hard to focus on the sweet, but sometimes the wind blows the bitter into my memory. It was March 9, 1995 when my Mom's journey on earth ended and her rebirth in eternity began. It was March 8, 2011 when my father-in-law's journey on earth ended and his rebirth in eternity began. Two very special people, who I think would have gotten along well if they had ever met. I remember the night of March 8, 2011 very well. I was emotional. I cried for my mother that night before I fell asleep. It had been 15 years since her death and was about to be 16 years the next day. I didn't cry anymore on the anniversary, but I did this time. We would soon celebrate Sean's 6 month birthday on the 10th and I was missing the mother I wish were in my life. Being a mother brings up emotions anyway, but not having my own mother while being a mother myself made it complicated. Funny thing about grief is that it never completely goes away and certain milestones in your life can bring it up again. Much like when I got married. I cried very hard for her the night of March 8th and I just wanted her with me. The last couple of years had been very busy and filled with ups and downs. Giving birth to a still baby girl, grieving for her, experiencing a faith building pregnancy and then trying to learn how to soothe a colicky baby with acid reflux for four months was all physically and emotionally draining. Just learning how to be a Mom was new and sometimes challenging. Not to mention that those beautiful hormones were still trying to get back in order. It was an amazing and eventful six months with our little miracle. That night I had the reminder of my Mom's tragic death and I cried. Little did I know I would be crying in devastation and expected to be stronger than I could handle on my own, just a few hours later.

It was around 3:00 a.m. and I heard music. I immediately knew it was my phone, but it was downstairs. I shot out of bed and ran down the stairs. My heart was racing, because I knew something terrible had happened. I left my phone downstairs. I always took it up with me, but I forgot. I forgot and still deeply regret that I left it downstairs that night. I still remember answering half asleep, but in an awakened panic. I answered, but didn't hear anything. Then it finally registered with me that it was Patrick's brother. He said my name several times and asked to speak with Pat. My first thought was something had happened to his wife. That they were in trouble. They live in England...so it would have been waking hours for them, but we hardly ever talk on the phone and not during times we should be sleeping. I ran up the stairs and gave Patrick the phone. He listened to his brother for awhile and then started trembling. I asked what was wrong. He told me Dad was gone...gone? My first reaction was disbelief. I asked, "what?!?" in a panic. He said Dad was dead. It was a moment I wasn't ready for. I wasn't ready for this...not in the least bit expecting it....a complete shock. I felt sick...very sick. I felt sick for my husband, sick for my son, sick for my brother-in-law, sick for my sister-in-law and especially sick for my mother-in-law. After Patrick talked with his brother, we cried and held each other. There we were again...crying in pain and shock. Grief came banging on our door again and I didn't want to answer. Can our marriage handle this? Will my husband be okay? It wasn't very long ago that he lost his daughter. It isn't just about us and our marriage anymore. There is a baby boy sound asleep in the next room and he still needs us to meet all of his needs. We live over two hours away from Patrick's mother. She needs us. We have failed her. We didn't answer the phone when she first called us earlier in the night. She needed her family...her sons...she needed her eldest son. We forgot to bring our phones upstairs that night. Why of all nights did we forget them that night?!?! After we cried, held each other, and discussed our plans, Patrick just wanted to sleep until Sean woke up. Thankfully, God gave him peace and rest that night, but I didn't have a peace. I was broken.

I went downstairs and finished up laundry and began to pack. I was crying and trembling. I couldn't handle it. The prayers asking God for comfort, peace, and strength began. I remember talking to him and thinking, I can't take this again, God! I can't take this again! What are you doing to me? What are you doing to my husband? What are you doing in our lives? What are you allowing to happen to our family? You just blessed us with the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby boy and now we are facing loss again? I thought about how I am a mother without a mother and now Patrick is a father without a father. Who would we call on with our questions? Sean isn't going to have a relationship with his Pop. He had so many things he wanted to teach his grandson. How are we going to do this, God? I was very weak...I wasn't the strong wife, mother, or daughter-in-law that I should have been.

I was grieving the loss of a great father-in-law and grieving for the family he left behind. I had known him since the summer of 1996. That was the summer I met Patrick and his family. I was 14 years old and lost my mother, just a little over a year before the Lord sent Patrick into my life. He quickly became a friend and was my first and only true love. The first time I ever met Patrick's family seems so long ago. So much has changed since then. I was invited over for dinner. Not only did I like Patrick, but I was interested in his family. He had a mom, dad, and little brother. They ate dinner every night as a family at the dinner table. They had many family moments. My life hadn't been "normal" for awhile. My parents loved each other deeply and tried very hard to keep our life as a family of three "normal", but my mother's sickness and death made our lives very inconsistent. Mainly in my Mom's final years. What I saw in Patrick's family was security and love. I saw it from the first Saturday I spent with them. That security and love was rooted in his parents as individuals and their marriage. Patrick and I continued our relationship and I watched his parent's relationship as ours matured through the years. I clearly saw that God was the head of their household and they raised their boys to love and follow God. They invested in each other. It was always clear that they had a deep love for each other in how they looked at each other, talked to one another, held hands, or the little things they did for each other everyday. I miss their beautiful marriage and the home they created together.

It wasn't until I heard those words from my husband, "Dad is gone", that I started to truly understand how much he meant to me. How much I respected him for the man he was. He was a thoughtful man or "thoughty" as he would say. He took that word from Disney's Robin Hood. He loved to read and had a thirst for knowledge and for understanding God's will for his life. He was a leader, teacher, and had a strong work ethic when it came to his family, church, and business. He wasn't outwardly emotional, but he was thoughtful.

He understood the importance of a sense of humor in life and I remember his smile and laugh. I always laughed when I was in his presence. I came to accept and love his sarcasm with me...like calling the hamburgers he grilled well done for me on Saturday nights, "hockey pucks". He picked on my serious side and would make me lighten up. He didn't offend me, because I knew he accepted me and there was much more to him than just being able to lighten a situation. He had an unspoken depth and sincerity. His eyes said so much to me. Those blue eyes he passed on to Patrick and Sean.

He was a gentleman. He taught Patrick the art of chivalry. That is one of the many things that attracted me to Patrick. Patrick's Dad always made sure I had enough water in my glass at dinner, opened the door for me, and he would take my hand to help me out of the car. He called me "Little Mama" when I was pregnant. He held both Felicity and Sean on the day they were born. He held them and stared at them, with such love.

He liked classic rock music from Three Dog Night, Journey, Chicago and Foreigner. I cannot listen to those bands without thinking of him. He loved classical music and jazz. He was a very devoted member of the church choir. He enjoyed cooking and gardening. He was a master with the grill. He loved coffee and certainly knew how to make a great cup of joe. He loved nature. He had an appreciation for all seasons, but he enjoyed the season of fall most of all. His love of fall and the mountains taught me to love fall and the mountains even more. I have such special memories of family trips to the mountains, where we would go hiking and have picnics. I remember him lying on the grass and looking at the sky. He took time to enjoy the beauty God created. He always looked forward to football season!

He was interested in current events and could carry on a conversation about politics for a length of time. In his last years, he was greatly concerned about the condition of our world. His time serving in Thailand gave him a respect and appreciation for other cultures.

He loved his family and he understood the importance of relaxing and spending quality time with each other. He always preferred to visit with his family in his comfy recliner after a meal, instead of the hard chairs at the dinner table. He loved to tell stories of his sons' childhood years. He loved being a father.

He was well composed and educated when he spoke. He was humble and never boastful. He knew when to interject humor and when not to. He was noble and loyal. He passed so many of his qualities on to Patrick. He lives on in the sons and grandson he left behind. He lives strongly in the hearts of his family. For he always put God first and his family second in his life.

I remember the last weekend I saw him. He and Patrick's Mom babysat, so Patrick and I could go on a date for Valentine's Day. We all had a nice time together that weekend. I so vividly remember that last family hug before they left to return to Dublin. Patrick's Dad always led the family hug. The night Patrick and I went on our date, Pop sang "Jesus Loves Me" to Sean while rocking him in the rocking chair. Sean always found security and comfort in his Pop's arms. He could soothe him when he was fussy. Pop loved Sean so much. Just before we left for Dublin the morning of March 9th, I sang "Jesus Loves Me" to Sean while rocking him in the rocking chair. I cried and couldn't help but think Pop might be holding his granddaughter in heaven singing "Jesus Loves Me". Perhaps he met my Mom and she shared Felicity with him. I worried about how my tears and grieving would affect Sean. He is a sensitive child and he did pick up on the emotions that flooded our family. But, he was a blessing from the Lord...a gift of life and hope to us in the midst of our sorrow.

We left our home that morning in the pouring March rain and wind to begin a very painful road of grief for a great man. He was a man who was respected, admired, and taught me so much about what is important in life...a man who will always be loved and never forgotten.

He was fascinated with nature and especially the universe. He had a deep respect for the magnificence God created on this earth. I think of him when I read this beautiful verse...

"Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God, without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life-in order that I may boast on the day of Christ that I did not run or labor for nothing." (Philippians 2: 14-16 NIV)

He was a man who shined like the stars. He was a light for God and he did not run or labor on this earth for nothing. I can't even begin to imagine the beauty, rest and reward he is experiencing in heaven for being a good and faithful servant...for doing a good work on this earth!

For months I woke up at 3:00 a.m.. Remembering that phone call the night of March 8th. Imagining the tragedy a beautiful marriage and Patrick's mother experienced the night her husband died. Thoughts and feelings flooded my brain and I couldn't rest. I couldn't sleep. I wanted a mental and physical vacation. I was so tired. My heart would race and I would cry. I was weak and hurting...not strong. I am finding the sweet in the bittersweet of loss. I know I can't take grief on alone. I rest in the Lord and this verse...

"Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." 

(1 Peter 5: 6-7)

 

The Pink and Girly Place in My Heart

 "I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us." (Romans 8:18)

The Pink and girly place in my heart. It is a restful, peaceful, happy, and sometimes a sad place in my heart these days. It is a complicated place for me. I suppose in some respects it will always be complicated. Your children aren't supposed to go to heaven before you. I don't recount the story of the little girl who touched my heart so deeply very often, but I wanted to share her story. Maybe in hopes of helping someone else. I used to recount it all the time. People would ask or I would meet someone who had or was walking in similar shoes as me. I used to tell the story with a shaky voice. I tried to be strong, but I couldn't hide my pain. Now her story has been written on my heart and it has found a home. I am at peace, but sometimes I still find myself deeply sad. As I think of her now, I smile. She was precious. She was beautiful. She was my baby girl....but she was....not is.

Her story started in early January 2009. I remember coming home from a day of teaching on January 28th and taking a pregnancy test. I remember seeing those two pink lines. I remember feeling shocked, excited, blessed, nervous, and scared. I was shocked because I thought it would take much longer for us to get pregnant. I was excited because what I wanted more than anything was to be a wife and mother. It took five pregnancy tests and the doctor confirming on February 9th, before I was convinced. The next hour was the longest hour...waiting for Patrick (Pat) to get home from work. I put the test in a small blue gift box. It was all I could find. I wanted it to look like a gift. I had him sit on the couch and open the box. He thought it was odd, but he went along with it. I won't ever forget the look on his face. It was a look of calm. We kept it to ourselves until we told our family the week of Valentine's Day. We told our parent's over lunch the day after Valentine's Day. I remember feeling bloated and very sick. I had all the symptoms...down to the metal taste in my mouth. You know what they say. It is a very good sign if you feel sick. I was certainly sick. This little baby must be healthy! I remember being fearful of a miscarriage, because my Mom suffered so many and miscarriages ran in my family.

The second trimester came and all was going well! We felt so incredibly blessed and we thanked God for her! I still remember feeling those first flutters at four months and how new and amazing that feeling was. It was all so new and exciting! That is when I really started to enjoy the anticipating. I only had one ultrasound with her and that was my 20 week ultrasound. It was on May 18th. Near Patrick's birthday, our 3rd anniversary, and Mother's Day. I hold the memory of that day very close. It was the only time I saw her move or saw her heart beat. She kept turning her face towards the ultrasound probe. We saw her face several times. She waved at us. She liked to keep her hands near her face. She was healthy! She was a girl...pink! Pat would be a protective Daddy. She would be a daddy's girl. I would be responsible for teaching her what it means to be a woman...a lady. Really God? You would give me this responsibility? I thought she was a boy. I asked the ultrasound technician if she was certain. Pink...Really?...Pink? As weeks went by I began seeing in pink. I picked out her pale pink "coming home" dress with a pale pink sweater and she was going to wear the white crocheted booties I wore as a newborn baby. I shopped for sweet baby girl clothes and I couldn't help but think if my Mom were alive, she would help me shop and prepare for her. I wanted my own mother. I felt very lonely without my Mom, but I felt so incredibly close to this baby girl inside me. I began to bond with her. I began to fall in love with her. She was a blessing...a gift. Her room was painted a very pale green and was accented with pale pink. The valances on the windows were fun. They had a pale pink background with white, pale green, and darker pink polka dots. The valances matched her crib skirt. I had so much fun picking out the fabric. Her grandparents helped us paint and decorate her room. Patrick put all the furniture and equipment together. I loved her room. I would go in her room during the day and read, sing, and pray with her in the rocking chair. I loved the growing belly...the kicks...the check-ups when I got to hear her heart beating.

I remember her beautiful girly baby shower given by sweet, gracious friends and the fun I had with family and friends that day. I remember the very hot summer before she was born and I remember the tank top and shorts I wore the day I felt her last kick. It was September 6th when Patrick took maternity pictures of me... it was September 9th the last time I heard her heart beat...it was September 10th when I felt that last strong kick...and it was September 11th when I saw her beautiful face.

She was always very busy at night, but she was especially busy the night of the 9th. She had the hiccups and they always made her mad. She kicked, rolled, and punched so much that I couldn't sleep. In retrospect I wonder if she was in distress. Was she hurting? I hope she never hurt. The next day she was calm and I was busy preparing her room and washing her clothes and blankets. I was a little over 36 weeks into the pregnancy and I was in full nesting mode. I was cleaning and organizing. I had just seen my doctor the day before. All was going perfectly! I was 1cm dilated and thinning out. My body was getting ready. I was preparing for the arrival of our healthy baby girl! The last movement I ever felt from her was around 11:30 the morning of the 10th. I still remember what it felt like. After an afternoon of no movement from her I began to worry and ate chocolate in hopes the caffeine would wake her. I wasn't ignorant about stillbirth. I knew it could happen and I began to fear it. Patrick came home from work a little early, because we had a tour of a pediatrician's office that afternoon. I told him I hadn't felt her move in awhile. He was concerned, but we went ahead and went to our tour, in hopes that our baby girl would wake up. He played music on his phone for her while we waited in the waiting room for the tour. She wouldn't move. She always moved to music. My baby wasn't alive, but all these other women on this tour had live kicking babies in their bellies. We went home and I ate more chocolate, drank juice, played more music for her, poked her, and Patrick even held me upside down. We had never wanted anything more in our lives. We just wanted her to move. But there was nothing...no movement...stillness. Patrick urged me to call the doctor. I was scared...very scared. At this point it was early evening and we had no choice, but to go to the hospital. We very quickly packed the bag. Packing the bag was something on my "to do list" that day. I never got to it. Patrick thought we would go and come back, but I remember saying, "we should pack a bag. We don't know what is going to happen." I was hoping she was just taking a long sleep. What I didn't want was an emergency c-section and what I was fearing the most was what happened. In a haste to get packed and out the door I forgot her pale pink "coming home" dress with sweet little white booties. I still regret forgetting her beautiful dress. As Patrick raced down 400 we were mostly silent, but we prayed. We prayed for our baby girl to be okay. It wasn't the race to the hospital we had hoped for those nine months.

When we arrived we were calmly taken back to a very small room with a bed. I was told to put a hospital gown on. I remember thinking, is this necessary? Can't I just hear my baby's heartbeat like I do when I go for my check-ups? I remember thinking, this isn't the way I want it to be. I don't want to be in a panic while putting the hospital gown on before she is born. Isn't this supposed to be exciting? It took me forever to figure out how to put that silly thing on. Patrick was moving our car to the parking deck. Maybe I took so long because I wanted him there with me when she put the doppler on my still belly. I finally got in the bed and Patrick was there. We were scared...very scared. She put the doppler on my belly and rolled it everywhere. She said, "I hear a heartbeat, but I think it is yours". My heart was beating incredibly fast. Fast enough to be a baby's heartbeat. She then said, "let me get another doppler", and I could see the fear in her eyes. She told Patrick to hold my hand and my heart started beating even faster. The next doppler was just the same. It wasn't a malfunction in technology. It was a malfunction with me or my baby girl. The imperfection of this world...of humanity...was showing itself. But my heart desired perfection.

Then she told us not to worry, she wanted to ask my doctor to perform an ultrasound. My doctor happened to be on-call that night, but she wasn't the one to perform the ultrasound. We waited for her, but the nurse didn't want to wait any longer. So, a doctor we didn't know, and not even with my ob group performed the ultrasound. We rushed through the pleasantries and she quickly put the probe on my belly. Our baby girl's face wasn't against the probe anymore. She wasn't looking at us. She wasn't moving. Her heart wasn't beating. She was still. She was calm. Her body was dead. The long painful silence...my heart racing...Patrick's hand painfully squeezing mine in an effort to hold back tears. It was the longest minute waiting for the doctor to turn around and look us in the eyes and say those two words, "I'm sorry"...the words we would hear for several months. The shock of hearing your child is dead is like no other. It is like a knife in your heart and as her mother, I felt responsible. What did I do wrong? The nurse was very sensitive and the doctor was pretty neutral. I didn't know the doctor. I felt like I knew the nurse. We had been together since I first walked into that small room. They left us alone and Patrick and I cried together...like we never had before. A dream was taken away in an instant. Our baby girl was gone. We called our parents and told them. The hardest phone calls we ever had to make. My Dad had just had surgery on a detached retina and I remember being concerned if and how he was going to be able to drive to Atlanta. Patrick's parents graciously drove themselves and my Dad in their car...a car that had seen much better days. Ironically that car died in Athens the day of our baby girl's memorial service. Time stood still that night, but to our relief and comfort our parents arrived safely at the hospital sometime in the night. My doctor eventually came to us in that tiny room. She was pregnant...her baby girl was due just one month behind our baby girl. She sat there on the bed and cried with us and she discussed our options. We could go home and come back when we were ready or go ahead and deliver her. I couldn't imagine going home and knowing she wasn't living. The doctor recommended we proceed with the delivery and we took her advice.

The induction began that night. We were moved to a room that was supposed to be far away from crying babies. They placed a dove on our door, so nurses would know I would be delivering a baby who no longer had a beating heart. I remember filling out paperwork and just not having the mental capacity to do it. But I remember feeling a push to work. I had to fill out this paperwork, I had to deliver my baby and it didn't matter if her heart was beating or not. I didn't have time to think about what was happening. I just had to do it. The next day I felt like I was in a tunnel, but I felt an amazing peace. The night before she was born was sleepless. Even with the help of medication. I wanted to see my baby girl and my focus was on embracing the moment of meeting her and holding her for the first time. I couldn't think about anything else yet. I couldn't handle it. They gave me an epidural at 5cm. At this point the contractions were getting painful. Patrick was very strong and supportive. We did the breathing techniques we had learned in our birthing class just a couple of weeks prior. The nurses and doctor didn't want me to be in physical pain. They knew I was already in a lot of emotional pain. The epidural didn't work. So, they kept coming back and finally got it working. At that point I was very numb. I couldn't feel anything, but I could hear the heartbeat of a baby on a monitor next door and I later heard that baby cry. I tried to ignore it. In just a couple of hours the doctor came in. Not my doctor, but one from my group I had never met. She checked me and her head was right there. She was surprised that it was happening so quickly. The nurse who was there with us the night before, made a special effort to be with us for the birth. I can still hear someone saying as I was pushing ( I don't know who), "Are you ready to meet her?" She said it in an excited voice and I thought, yes, but I won't fully meet her, will I?  

I was in a tunnel. Focused on one thing and only one thing. Her body was here after three contractions. I was numb...physically numb and in some ways emotionally numb, but I felt her release from my body at 4:07 p.m.. I will never forget that moment in the quiet room with the dove on the door. The moment they put her on my belly and the only thing the doctor said, was she looked like an angel. She was perfect. I tried to prepare myself for bruises or an umbilical cord around her neck. She looked like a newborn baby...just still...just calm...beautiful...peaceful...precious. She had chubby cheeks, chubby hands, short legs with chubby thighs, a long torso, long feet, blonde eyebrows, brown hair with blonde highlights and a touch of curl. She had my nose and her Daddy's eyes. Patrick said, "She was just too beautiful for this world". Such a beautiful thing for a Daddy to say about his daughter. When I saw her I thought of my Mom. There was something about her that reminded me of her. All I could picture was her holding her. She loved babies...she loved children and now she gets to enjoy her granddaughter in heaven. She and my father dreamed of having a house full of children and eventually grandchildren. We named her Felicity, after her grandmother, Felicia. Felicity means, "happy" and I know Felicity is happy in eternity. She never knew the pain and sadness this imperfect world can bring. Her middle name was Amanda...after my father's mother, who died from colon cancer when he was 13. She was also named after me. My middle name is Amanda. Amanda means, "worthy of love". Felicity Amanda will always be loved. She will always be that pink and girly place in my heart. There was a reason why we could never decide on a name for her before she was born and now we understand. Felicity and Amanda were some of our choices, but we had decided we wanted to see her face before we named her.

Her body was still warm from mine, but it was limp. The nurse bathed her and dressed her in a Winnie the Pooh sleep n' play the hospital donated. I remember looking at Winnie the Pooh and thinking back to the day we found out she was a girl. We bought her a little pale pink Winnie The Pooh security blanket after the ultrasound appointment. It was at home in her crib waiting for her, but she would never cuddle it to her face. We had the afternoon and evening with her. Those hours we held her were precious. A volunteer at the hospital took pictures of her. They dressed her in a handmade pale pink dress that someone sweetly made and donated to the hospital. We kissed her...we stared at her in hopes of never forgetting her beautiful face. We had the chaplain pray and she read Psalm 23, while I held her calm and peaceful body in my arms. I couldn't see it then but, "my cup did runneth over". I still remember painfully wiping the blood from her lips and nose. There were so many tissues for our tears and tissues for her nose and blood stained lips. Patrick was calm...just like the day I showed him those two pink lines, but this time his eyes showed a pain and despair I had never seen before.

It was heartbreaking when Patrick told me it was time to let her go...that we wanted to remember her body warm and not cold. I called the nurse to come get her and I had to let her go. The nurse who was there just the night before, searching and searching for her heartbeat. I had let the hopes of meeting her spirit go, but now I was letting her body go. The focus I had been strong for all day was done and I cried. I cried hard in my loving husband's arms and with such heartache and pain. My breasts tingled from my milk coming in and all I wanted to do was nurse my baby girl. To hold her in my arms and tell her I would take care of her. I wanted to take her home to the room we had prepared for her and rock her in the rocking chair. I wanted to watch my baby girl grow into a little girl and a lady. I wanted HER in my arms instead of pillows and a box of things to remember her by when I left the hospital. I wanted her to wear that pale pink dress I bought for her and my little white booties. I didn't want to have to decide what to do with her body. I didn't want to plan a memorial service for her. I didn't want to have to physically recover from a pregnancy and birth without a baby to hold and care for. I didn't want to have to stop producing milk. I wanted to give her nourishment and love. I remember looking into her face and asking God, why? She looks so perfect and healthy. She is 6lbs. 15 oz and 20 inches long with ten fingers and ten toes. If she had been born just a day earlier she would have been okay...right? I asked God if he allowed her to be taken from me, because he didn't think I was a strong enough woman in Him to be a mother to a little girl...especially without my own mother. I asked Him why He would put the desire to be a mother in my heart, give me the privilege, and then allow my baby to be taken away.

Those questions no longer enter my mind, but they did. The searching for the biological and spiritual answers to why my seemingly healthy baby was suddenly taken away. The frustration when after the autopsy and blood tests were done, we were still left with no answers. When I finished planning her memorial service and celebrated her life with ceremony and loved ones, when Patrick returned to work, when the gracious friends and family left and no longer took me out for lunches, sent cards, emails, texts, calls, came for visits or brought meals...I was there with the raw pain of grief...just me and God. I was left to do the work of grief. Not the responsibility I had planned for those nine months, but I had been called to do it. I had to do it to see the blessings. I cried until I had no more tears...I screamed in pillows... I read other people's stories and how they made it through...I slept to get away from my thoughts... I would write when I couldn't sleep...I wrote in the pale pink and pale green baby book I bought for her...I physically ran to deal with the anger and the baby fat that had to pass as fat to strangers, because there was no baby...I felt like a failure...I remembered the prayers, words and arms of comfort and encouragement from friends and family......I read God's word...I prayed...I prayed on my knees with my face to the ground or my pillow. What I did eventually find was peace. Peace in knowing that she is okay...she is safe..she is in the arms of Jesus...she knows paradise...she knows what it feels like to dance to the beautiful music of heaven...She truly understands the depth of the greatest love...the love of God. I have peace in knowing God does love me in my suffering. I don't have all the answers and I don't expect to get them anymore. Not while I am on this earth. Before I could get to that place I had to deny...I had to be angry...I had to question...I had to search....I had to cry...I had to be completely broken in the arms of Jesus. I had to sort through all the negative. I had to completely surrender to Him and I had to surrender the baby girl I was given for a short time to Him. He was the only one who could get me through the grief. I still cry, I still hurt, but I have accepted that she is in eternity and one day I will see her open her eyes...I will see her smile...I will hear her laugh...I will see her dance...I will see her walk to me, take my hand and introduce me to Jesus. One day I will see Felicity Amanda happy and full of the greatest love...the love of Jesus. For she is so very worthy of love.

Until then, her 9 months of life in me have changed me forever. You are never the same person you once were, when you lose a child. The road of grief doesn't end, but the pain isn't as raw as it once was. There will never be a Christmas I don't think about how old she would be or remember the anniversary of her death and birth, or her due date (my birthday). There will always be things that remind me of her and now they often make me smile. When Sean and I listen to the music she listened to in my womb and always kicked to. When I hear "Sleepers Wake" or "Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring" by:  Bach, "Claire de Lune" by:  Debussy or sing "Jesus Loves Me" or "Brahms Lullaby" to Sean, I think of her. I think of her memorial service and how this music filled the Botanical Garden Chapel as the sun finally came out after days of storms, since the birth of her still body. The sun was comforting shining through the beautiful chapel windows...as if God was saying, "she is in my loving arms and beauty will come of your suffering". When I look at Patrick and when I look at Sean I think of her, because she favored them. When my body would wake to feed her in the middle of the night I would stare at Patrick when he slept. Just so I could see his eyes as I saw hers. I am more in love with my husband now and our marriage is stronger, because we clung to each other in the grief. Life seems shorter and eternity is even sweeter knowing she is there. Heaven and the hope it holds became so much more of a reality for me and my responsibility on this earth is becoming so much more evident. I began to see God's blessings in my surrender to Him in the pain and just how weak and broken I am. It was in my weakness that I was fully open to the love he has for me and the work he wants to do in me. I began to see the simplest things in life as the most beautiful and precious. In the surrender I heard God tell me to trust Him with my family and have faith in Him and His plan. In the surrender God gave me the strength to carry on with my life.

She isn't here with us, but she is in our hearts always. She is that pink and girly place in my heart and even if we were blessed with another baby girl someday she will never be Felicity Amanda. She will be different. Just as Sean may have filled my desire for a baby in my arms and a child to teach and love, he will never replace her. Felicity will always be my first child. She is unique and special...just as every person is. When anyone asks me if Sean is my first child I always say... no...he is my second child. I have a baby girl in heaven. I am honored I was chosen to be Felicity's mother for those nine months. I loved caring for her in my womb and preparing for and anticipating her arrival. Those are such beautiful memories. Her little life has changed me forever and touched my heart in a way I never knew a child could. Her brief life showed me the deep love a mother has for her children. She was the child who first made me a mother and in some ways I think losing her has made me a better mother than I would have been. She helped me begin to understand the depth of love my heavenly father has for me, as one of his children. Sometimes the shortest lives leave the biggest marks on our hearts...

I share Felicity Amanda's story in honor of her beautiful life and the mark she has so beautifully left on our hearts forever...