Milk and Lost Things

It was a normal morning - well, at least by this stage of life’s definition of “normal.”  This stage, is that of life with a newborn, and a toddler, and daylight savings time. It is true, there is no ‘gaining’ of an hour when it comes to changing clocks and expecting children to change along with it. 

Still, it was quiet in that early morning hour, as my husband had already left for work, and the baby had just been fed, and our two and a half year old had not yet declared from her room, “the sun is up mommy!”

No, it was still dark.  The only light was from a plug-in night light, and now from the fridge as I opened the door to get the milk. I wanted to add just a little bit to my coffee - which is of course always more milk and cream than actual coffee.

The expiration date, across the top of the plastic carton, caught me off guard.

My eyes filled with water, as I all of the sudden stood there trying to remember if I was getting the milk out or putting it back. The date seemed big. It felt heavy. It didn’t seem like it should be on a milk carton, or really in existence at all, anywhere. But there it was.

Nov 17, 2019.

It was the date (or close to), that our daughter, Promise, would have been celebrating her 1st birthday.

But that special event would not be coming.  We lost baby Promise at 22 weeks gestation (July 14, 2018).  Her due date had been November 17th.

Later, the same morning, I still couldn’t keep back the tears. My two and a half year old daughter, Lily, asked why I was crying.  I hesitated and then tried to speak, “I’m crying because we lost Promise and I miss her.”  Lily’s confused look begs me to clarify what I mean when I say, “we lost Promise.”

“Well,” I start out, always wondering what is going to come out of my mouth when giving explanations to Lily. “You’re right, we didn’t lose Promise, as if we lost a toy.  She...well...she died..., and is with Jesus now.”

Lily looks at me for a long minute, as if the answer I gave her is literally tiptoeing from her ears, to her mind, to her heart.

Once it has settled, whether Lily actually understands, or simply has enough information for now, she returns to looking through her books.

There is a finality to the idea of death as I state the words out loud. But there is also a comfort in the image of Promise living her best life now with Jesus.

I’m not gonna lie, I will be a little bit glad when that gallon of milk doesn’t greet me every morning. But, as this month rolls on, and the memories and the heartache swarm around me, I am thankful.  I’m thankful for my toddler’s curiosity that demands truth and reason which move me from the reality of earthly death, and propel me forward the heavenly reality of life and hope.

I'm okay

It has been ONE month since we said hello and goodbye to Promise.

The world has gone on, and...so have we, strangely.

What else can we do?

I shared last night with Jason about how sometimes the emotions of missing Promise and all that was lost, are overwhelming.

Every time I see a "big sister" or "little sister" shirt, I feel something I didn't used to feel. Every time I see two girls playing together, I think about Lily and Promise. Every time I think about all the TIME that was lost (in the trying to conceive, in the pregnancy itself), I feel like a big chunk of my life was just omitted, with nothing to show for it.  I get frustrated sometimes, but mostly just grieve all over again.

But honestly, most of the time, I'm okay.

I told Jason that I actually feel guilty that I am not more sad, or stuck in a room somewhere overcome by tears.

As I went on, upset by the fact that I was not more upset, finally Jason said to me, "Do you remember when we went to the ultrasound (when we found out there was no heartbeat)?"

I said, "Yes."  I then followed up with: "That was the worst moment..." I hesitated, and then confidently said, "Yeah, that was the worst moment of my life...That was worse than the labor. I would rather go through the whole night of awkward labor again than relive hearing that 10 second life-haulting message from the doctor."

He said, "Do you remember what you did then?"

Yes.  Jason and I both remember: My whole body crumpled, responding in complete collapse at the worst grief I could have imagined.

He said, "We have grieved. We will still grieve....but, like King David said when he lost his son, " Why should I fast when [the child] is dead? Can I bring him back again? I will go to him one day, but he cannot return to me.” (2 Samuel 12:23).  We are sad, we do miss Promise...but God is giving us strength to continue in life, to move forward. It doesn't mean that somehow we haven't or aren't grieving enough."

God is providing the strength we need to remember Promise, but also to not be overcome by the reality of her death.

This is a gift - and I want to embrace it, rather than look for ways that it might not be right.

Maybe I am naive when it comes to grieving this kind of a loss, and maybe there are harder days to come - well, actually I know that there are.  But, for now, He has sprinkled our lives with joy -- mostly through watching Lily learn and grow!

Jason reminded too that in the past, I have often allowed my joy to be squashed by feeling guilty about something that I shouldn't feel guilty about.

So, while I fully anticipate more moments of tears and longing, I am going to try to let myself be okay when I do feel joyful, or when I laugh, as these are certainly good gifts from the Lord.

Speaking of which, here is a moment of joy for which I am indeed thankful.

Any Siblings?

Today (August 6th), emotions hit me from a new angle.

At Lily's eye doctor appointment (for a slightly clogged tear duct), the nurse asked me a variety of questions about Lily's life.

She asked things like, "Are there any dogs in the home?" "Does anyone smoke in the house?" etc.

Then she asked this one, " Does Lily have any siblings?"

I hesitated for what felt like a loooong time.

My thoughts immediately wanted to respond, "Well...she did.... I mean, she does... I mean...I just held Lily's little sister a few weeks ago, but... she's not here anymore.....I mean, basically...I just had a miscarriage..."

But, I swallowed my thoughts, and managed to remember that this was simply a black and white questionnaire. I realized the question really meant to ask: "Does Lily currently have any living siblings, or if she did - did any of them have eye/vision issues..."

So I simply said, "No."

And then ALMOST fell apart. But I didn't.

Between trying to appease Lily's hungry grunts by looking in the diaper bag for snacks, and trying to pay attention to the nurse's next questions, my emotions were blocked in a healthy way, in that moment. Thankfully, I could put them on hold to focus on the task at hand.

But now I can reflect a bit more on the morning.

In spite of this painful question, the morning at the hospital was wonderful. Once again, in the midst of the real, gut wrenching painful truth, there is hope.

There is life. There is beauty.

Actually, there was this tree in the reception area. Somewhat awkwardly placed, and also somewhat gaudy, but also pretty at the same time. I imagine it's lights look even more attractive when it's dark outside.

But, what meant a lot to me was the sign next to it.




If you can't quite see the words, the sign basically says that in Japan, the cherry blossom tree is a reminder of fragility and beauty of life - and that these trees bloom only for a short time each year in April. They serve as a reminder of how precious and precarious life can be - and that the Japanese people are reminded by these trees to remember those who have been lost.

The last sentence surprised me: "This tree stands in honor of families and friends of Nemours Children's Hospital coping with a loss this holiday season."

Maybe I'm missing something.  Or maybe "the first day of school," has recently been labeled a holiday? Or maybe they forgot to take the tree down from Easter? What "holiday season" occurs in August?

Or maybe...just maybe, this tree is meant to be here for me, for today, for Promise.

Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
    my body also will rest secure,
because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
    nor will you let your faithful one see decay.
You make known to me the path of life;
    you will fill me with joy in your presence,
    with eternal pleasures at your right hand. (Psalm 16:9-11)

In addition to this good gift given to me by the Lord, Lily and I had a joyful time adventuring to her appointment together.

We especially enjoyed the massive windows outside of the Ophthalmology department from which we could look out and see the world below.

A new angle, a new view, a dose of emotions, remembrance for Promise, and a thankful heart for my little Lily.

Flowers, Books and Booties

(Note: For those who follow this blog, I know this is my first update in a while. The most recent thing that has happened in our lives is that we lost our little girl, Promise, - born at 22 weeks gestation. Thus, there may be a few posts connected to that event, including this one. I am writing a bit more about it on another blog - if you are interested in that one, let me know)

A week or so ago, I threw away the first of the flowers that people had sent for Promise’s funeral. I knew that time would eventually come.

But it was good. I reflected again on the service and Promise’s life - which is, of course, pretty much what I do all day right now anyway.

The flowers were not just tangible reminders of Promise and of beauty in the midst of pain, but also of the family and friends who love us deeply and care for us so well.

A few hours after I threw some of the flowers away, Jason brought in two packages from the mail.

The timing of these packages arriving the same day I was starting to throw the flowers away was not just a random happening.

I see it as God's reminder to me He always and continually provides ways for us to know His love and care for us.

One package was from an aunt.  The other was from a high school friend who I haven’t seen in probably 15 years.

My aunt sent two books.



How had my aunt known that earlier that day I would be searching for some kind of devotional book to read exactly like this one: "Grieving the Child I Never Knew?"  Actually, I had even saved this particular book to possibly order later. Now I didn’t have to, and I didn’t even need to look up any more, I could simply start with this one. Thank you.

And how did she know that this book “Mommy, Please don’t cry - there are no Tears in Heaven” would bring the most joyful of tears I may have ever cried.

To think of Promise in Heaven, and to imagine what she might want to tell me in this moment is so painfully wonderful. Oh! It is so good and this book takes me right there. Thank you.

My high school friend sent a pair of teeny tiny carefully crocheted white booties, with a note. A woman in her community makes these for families who have lost their babies.





They were amazingly perfect just on their own.

But then I put them next to Promise’s actual footprint we have from the hospital, and was blown away by the fact that actually, they would have fit her little feet.

Is God not this exact in his measurements of love and grace for us?

He cares for us beyond what we know…and then…sometimes like in this moment, we do know. Or at least have a little bit of a taste of it.

And, it is oh, so good. Thank you Lord.

I must add another BIG thank you here to those who have sent emails, facebook messages, texts, cards, gifts, meals and to those who have prayed. I know that this road would be much harder without the support of those around us, and of those far away! You mean so much to us.