How we’re doing, and other un-important matters.
Here we are, one month after our daughter’s birth and death. Sweet and miraculous and sorrowful. I wouldn’t change any of that.
One month after the storm whipped us up and landed us on the shore. And really, it’s kind of like I’ve been on an island, just wandering around these past four weeks.
Rather aimlessly, I must admit.
We’ve been through actual storms before, and the aftermath of all of that, where you pilfer through your soaked or molded belongings and save what you can, let go of the rest. That time after the winds cease, when you look around and quickly figure out what – or rather who – is really important in life.
Stuff isn’t, really.
When your head stops whirling and you find your feet under you again but you’re not really sure where you’re walking to – or if you should walk any direction at all. Or maybe we should just be still a while. Just sit here and brush off the sand and salt.
So really, that’s what we’ve done.
A month has flown by and the sun is shining. I’m still choosing joy. Most days, anyway.
There were – and still are – times of deep sadness and loss. The waves of grief that come over you quite suddenly, out of nowhere. Walking through the store and looking up to see that I’m passing by the baby section – and then running my hand over the big box of newborn diapers, feeling the stinging sensation in my nose before the moisture hits my eyes – because I know I won’t be needing diapers.
Realizing that in a few months a very dear friend of mine will give birth to her sweet baby… and wanting with all my heart to hold her baby, while simultaneously wanting with all my heart to NOT hold her baby. Because the last baby I held was my own one-and-a-half pound treasure. And the moment I hold another baby, Rebecca will NOT be the last baby I held, and somehow in my mind that puts more distance between us.
Because when you’re wandering around aimlessly on an island, logic somehow gets fuzzy.
In the weeks that followed Rebecca’s funeral I was still waist deep in the physical healing process, recovering not only from surgery, but from the effects of toxemia. I was working so hard on physical healing that emotional healing was kind of an afterthought. But I would find myself over and over again standing in a room without a clue as to why I had entered that room… or walking across the kitchen only to forget what I was doing. Or looking at the clock and being shocked that it was almost supper time – and then being grateful so many people had brought food because I hadn’t even once thought about dinner preparation that day.
I’ve sat down many times to write about this journey, really wanting to not forget so many details – how I felt the moment Rebecca was born… the look of sheer joy on my kids’ faces when they met her… the dozens of ways people loved on us in those first few weeks. The small glimpses of the kindness of God. But every time I’ve opened my journal or my laptop to write, I’ve found myself just staring out the window. Just being still.
Now four weeks have passed and I’m finding myself coming out of the fog a bit and fumbling around for my compass. I’m not sure I’m ready to go anywhere, but I want to at least know where I’m heading.
And when it’s time to tell the story, I want to come out of the quiet.
Because telling about God’s goodness is worth leaving your own private island.