Two Years

It's not easy to write from the most painful places within yourself. But when you feel deeply about something--enough to want to put pen to paper--you write anyway. You write through the pain, and through the difficulty of it all.

Our precious glory baby would be two.

For two years we've missed having her in our lives. Missed rocking her to sleep, missed kissing her little nose, missed knowing her sweet spirit.

Many days I don't think of her. It may sound strange, but that's the way of grief as it weaves into one's life. Her memory is always there, just beneath the surface. But the thought of her is readily brought forth with any trigger. Her due date on the calendar. Every Thanksgiving-time... the season we lost her. Each time my six year old tells a stranger she has four siblings; three here with her and one "up heaven".

I cannot live my life without commemorating hers. Such a brief time in my womb, such an impact on my soul.

I can remember laying in bed a few nights before I lost her. I was cradling my womb and singing her a lullaby.  Her only lullaby. I knew in my spirit something was wrong. I somehow knew I'd never hold her my arms, never rock her as I sang this same sweet song. But oh, how I treasured that moment. Knowing that no matter what the future held, she was there inside of me--alive and well.

Two weeks before our loss, Peyton had a dream. "I saw Jesus, Mommy." I asked her what he looked like. "He was lovely, Mommy. And he was holding a little lamb. Our little lamb." I closed my eyes and prayed, No God, please. Please, don't take my baby. But the same dream that brought me fear also brought me peace. He would hold her. The baby I could never hold.

Two years without my glory baby. Two years that she has danced with Jesus and been sung lullabies by the angels. Two years that she's been waiting for me to come home where she can hold me and wipe my tears and heal my heart.

Someday soon, my baby.