Another Invisible Mother's Day ~ His Compassion Fails Not

My heart has already begun preparing for yet another year of being an invisble mother on Mother's Day. I'll never stop missing the lives who only existed inside of my own life. I will never not feel their absence in my days.

I know the fact that I dare to possibly love and miss my babies still, even all these years later, makes people thoroughly uncomfortable. I know some people think I'm "stuck" on something I shouldn't be.

I rehearse the words recently spoken that cut so deeply while also rehearsing and tossing over and over in my mind what I could write to help people understand. Maybe there is a time for that, for speaking on behalf of the invisible+bereaved+longing-to-be mothers. But right now, I'm done with trying to get them to see what is. I'm done trying to explain the unexplainable-unless-you've-been-there. There is freedom in letting go and knowing He who sees all things has compassion on me.

Rachel Joy Welcher wrote in one of her lovely poems:
"Love isn't something we bury with dirt or time."

She also wrote:
"It's ok to look forward to the future
with a broken heart and a limp.
Is there any other way to
travel toward God
this side of heaven?"

I will continue to look forward to the future - my future here on earth where I'm trusting God that I will see and taste His goodness in the land of the living - and my future with Him where He will wipe away every tear I've ever shed.

I'm limping from loss, but I'm dancing because of this mother love that cannot be buried. A love that only my Father could birth in me as a mother. A love that never ceases and has taught me more about His heart for me than anything in this life yet.

And I'm trusting that even in the messy-complicated-sometimes-immature-and-twisted-by-pain that publicly sharing my story has meant over the past decade... that God will even use all that.

Dear one, if you feel like the compassion of others had run dry in your unanswered questions, in your longings, griefs and burdens... find comfort in this:

"There are pains in our stories that no person has an adequate storehouse of compassion for. God's compassion for your recurring, long-standing pains never ever reaches a limit." -K.J. Ramsey

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National Rainbow Baby Day

Two days ago was National Rainbow Baby Day. 🌈 ❤️ 💛 💚 💙 💜 💕 

A "rainbow baby" is a term commonly used in the pregnancy/infant loss community, referring to a baby born after the loss of a baby.

People like to imagine that everyone gets their rainbow baby. It's assumed that if you know the heartache of pregnancy or infant loss that you automatically get a license to bring home a healthy little one, almost like it's a guarantee to know that joy after being acquainted with such pain.

The reality is that not everyone does get a rainbow baby, some never and some not for a very long time. I'm not trying to be a Debbie-downer here, but please hear me out.

It has been 8 1/2 years since my daughter Lily passed away unexpectedly and for no known reason at full-term. I've seen my fair share of rainbow babies.... in fact, some of those who lost their baby around the same time as me have gone on to have 4 children since that time! It's like a fresh wave of loss parents comes along every year or so and then inevitably they have a healthy child soon after. I've seen this time and time again and it doesn't get any less painful with each pregnancy announcement and birth.

It's not that I am not overjoyed for them. It's that I'm sad for those of us who feel left behind. And I'm sad because I wonder if this is what I'm destined for, especially with the way so many parents of rainbow babies talk about them.

There is a community within the babyloss community of women who don't have a rainbow baby (for many different reasons). We're known as "still mothers," because we are still mothers even when our motherhood is invisible to the world. We have a website and a support group with other others who "get it." We are mothers who understand that not everyone is guaranteed a rainbow after the storm, but that doesn't mean we lack hope. Many of us prefer not to use the term "rainbow baby" because the babies that we lost were not a storm. Our babies brought light and love and COLOR to our worlds and their death doesn't negate that.

Parents of rainbow babies talk about their child bringing them out of the pit of the sorrow that comes when one loses their child.

A particular friend I know lost her son early one year, got pregnant with her daughter later in that same year, then welcomed her into the world at the end of the year. She wrote on her blog about how the day of her daughter's birth overwhelmed her with gladness. She said, "To this day I know she is the only reason I ever recovered. She's the only reason I am not still deep in sadness."

A few years ago, I met a mother online whose daughter was due just days before Lily in March 2010. This little girl shares both Lily Katherine's first and middle names, just with a different spelling for both names. She was stillborn in late February of that year. We connected over our daughter's similar dates and names. Then she told me she had a healthy daughter a year later. She told me if she lets go of her focus on her living daughter, her heart becomes much heavier about her daughter who is no longer living.

Seeing and hearing these things is difficult for the invisible mother club. When I read these things, it stings because I wonder, will I recover? In many ways, I think that having a baby in my arms would help heal me in deep and immeasurable ways while on Earth, ways that only ever having another child can heal. Does God not want me to be healed in the way He has allowed others to be? Am I just resigned to the fact that I may always be haunted by silence, never to hear my own baby's sweet cry? Is this what my motherhood is going to look like for the rest of my life?

We should be careful not to pain the picture that life gets better if and when you have a rainbow, so if you can't or don't, you're destined for a life of misery and isolation.

Maybe us invisible mothers should redefine how we view rainbows. Maybe our rainbow is how we mother our baby's legacy. Maybe the rainbow that's been born after our loss is how we honor them, how we write about them, how we go to remembrance walks and candlelight ceremonies, release butterflies, continue with traditions on their birthdays, plant gardens, make hospital comfort boxes, etc. Maybe the light and color that comes is how we bring light and color to other families whose worlds have been darkened by loss.

Not everyone gets their rainbow baby, but maybe we can still have our rainbows. Even if we don't get what most people think will heal us and make us whole, Jesus is still enough. He is my rainbow, my hope in life and for eternal life. Maybe that's what my rainbow story is supposed to be.

I'm not trying to make anyone with a rainbow baby feel bad or feel like they shouldn't share. I personally *do* like the term and you better believe if my time ever comes, especially after waiting so many years, that I will be thrilled and all about some rainbows!

I just hope in my sharing others will realize rainbow babies aren't always expected or guaranteed and how it can be painful, confusing, and isolating for the invisible mother wrestling with these things. Let's weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice and not forget to have empathy with where others are.

If you are also a bereaved mother without a living child, check out the website Still Mothers (there is also a Facebook page and an online support group).

I appreciate this article about The Unique Grief of Mothers without Living Children. It is so comforting and validating. I thought I'd share it here for anyone else in similar shoes and also to give a glimpse into what it's like.

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On another note regarding rainbow babies, I saw this touching video on Facebook (click link to view) that made me tear up. It's of a mother taking her rainbow baby home from the hospital. I've been praying and hoping for even the opportunity to have a rainbow for 8 1/2 years and don't know if the day will ever come, which hurts more than I could ever express. But I imagine I'll feel a lot like this beautiful mother if my day does comes. Somehow experiencing great loss makes love that much deeper. And I can only imagine how the longer the wait, the sweeter it'll be.

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Handmade Mother's Day Cards

A little project I did this year in Lily's honor for Mother's Day was to make handmade cards for some people who the day is bittersweet for... most of them were for mothers who have lost babies and don't have any living children (*still* mothers like me, who hold a special place in my heart... this may be the only Mother's Day card or wishes they'll receive), mothers who do have living children as well as babies in Heaven and I am close with or this was the first year without their little one, a friend who is a birthmother who placed her son for adoption, friends who lost their mothers, and those who always wanted children but are not at the age where they most likely will never have them, and friends who are battling infertility. In Lily's memory, I wanted to send some love and light to these precious people. Card-making is something I got into while I was carrying Lily, so it's a craft that makes me feel close to her. I wish I could send one to everyone I know! #LilysLegacy #handmadewithlove #snailmail 💕 

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Still Mothering Her

The only motherhood I've ever known is mothering a grave. A legacy. It makes me as a mom feel quite out of place, especially on Mother's Day.

I hold my daughter in my heart, rather than my arms.

I have no other living children on Earth with me to help ease the pain and ache. My motherhood is invisible to the world.

My "parenting decisions" are things like deciding what sort of headstone I wanted for Lily. Did I want it flat or upright? What did I want it to say? What words did I want permanently etched in stone? What special things should I take to the cemetery where she's buried when I go up to Virginia to visit soon?

I must imagine what my own child might be like. How she might look. Who she might have become in these past 7 years.

What is it even like to look at your child in their eyes? Blue eyes. That's what I truly believe she had. Blue eyes like her mama. She looked just like a mini-me.

My daily reality consists of loving a precious princess that I never got to know past 40 weeks 2 days. Instead of thinking what I can do for my daughter, I think of how I can honor her. I think of how I can be a mom to her, without her here. I pour out my heart to her on my blog. I share the same select photos of her over and over. I go to remembrance walks and candlelight ceremonies, release butterflies, eat all things red-velvet, plant a garden, take photos of lilies, make hospital comfort boxes.

How many different ways can I say, I miss her. I miss who she would have become. I miss who she might've been in the future. How many different ways can I say, this is hard. How many different ways can I say, I am thankful still. And the Lord is good, always.

Lily is still very much a part of my every day, which is demonstrated in all the ways I honor her. And with each person who remembers her with me. A friend remarked a few days ago on how special it is that so many people around the world remember Lily with me. And it truly is a HUGE gift. With each photo sent my way, it validates my motherhood. It silently speaks that Lily's life matters. With each gesture of remembrance, it's as if God is saying, "you are a mother, her mother, and you will mother her in Heaven in all the ways you didn't get to on Earth."

When I post photos of Lily's name around the world, or share my heart about her publicly, know that I am not dwelling on something sad or "not moving forward." I am moving forward. And my final destination is Heaven... where she is. She is ahead of me, in my future and in my forward. When we live across the country/world from those we care about, we miss them, right? We don't stop loving them, thinking of them, and wanting to see them. Instead we long for the time we will see them again... So it is with Lily. We have a long-distance mother-daughter relationship, so to speak. But the separation hurts for now. Even when we know we will see someone again, it hurts to be apart. She is not just "a thing that happened to me" in my past. SHE IS MY CHILD, whom I will always dearly love. And I am STILL A MOTHER. Her mother. My motherhood might look different than most, but it's mine, and it's real. ❤️ 

This photo and post was shared as a part of multiple projects for Mother's Day... the Mother Hearts Project, where we take a photo of our hand over our heart to signify how we carry our children in our hearts. Also, the Still Mothering project, where mothers without any living children got this t-shirt that says "mother" on it to share what our motherhood looks with the world, and to show that we are still mothers. And lastly, I'm sharing this as part of Motherhood Rewritten, where a "community of women who have lived Mother's Day outside what culture claims as the norm" share their stories. In the photo, I am wearing a necklace with Lily's photo on it, and am obviously holding her foot and handprint. #stillmothering #thisisstillmotherhood #wearestillmothers #MotherHeartsProject #MotherhoodRewritten #icarryherheartinmine

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On Rainbows

This is something I shared for the first time last February. I've been reminded of it lately as I wrestle with similar thoughts and feelings, another year into the journey.

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Many people who have lost babies that I've met in the past 7 years have gone on to have a "rainbow baby," as they are called (many have multiple rainbow babies). A rainbow baby is a child who is born after the storm of losing a child. These people talk about their child bringing them out of the pit of the sorrow that comes when one loses their child.

A particular friend I know lost her son early one year, got pregnant with her daughter later in that same year, then welcomed her into the world at the end of the year. She wrote on her blog about how the day of her daughter's birth overwhelmed her with gladness. She said, "To this day I know she is the only reason I ever recovered. She's the only reason I am not still deep in sadness."

A couple years ago, I "met" a mother online whose daughter was due just days before Lily in March 2010. This little girl shares both Lily Katherine's first and middle names, just with a different spelling for both names. She was stillborn in late February of that year, meaning her 7th birthday is soon. We connected over our daughter's similar dates and names. Then she told me she had a healthy daughter a year later. She told me if she lets go of her focus on her living daughter, her heart becomes much heavier about her daughter who is no longer living. On her eldest girl's birthday last year, she took her little sister to her stone.

A good friend of mine who lost her daughter in 2010 as well had a healthy baby daughter a little over a year ago, with a couple boys born in between those years. When my friends have their rainbows, I am truly delighted for them, but it does sting to see her hold her littlest girl in her arms. I want a little girl in mine.

Another friend who lost her baby girl last year already mentioned that she's hoping to have another healthy baby this year to help brighten the mood. 

Seeing and hearing these things is difficult for me, because here I am, 7 years later, and still no living baby. In some ways, I am still deep in sadness. When I read these things, it stings because I wonder, will I recover? In many ways, I think that having a baby in my arms would help heal me in deep and immeasurable ways while on Earth, ways that only ever having another child can heal. Does God not want me to be healed in the way He has allowed others to be? Am I just resigned to the fact that I may always be haunted by silence, never to hear my own baby's sweet cry? Is this what my motherhood is going to look like for the rest of my life?

The way it feels is that I am running this marathon on a track and it seems to be a never-ending race. There are all these other runners, many having started the race after me, who keep passing me, and then lapping me. They are leaving me in the dust. And for some reason, I can't keep up. I picture myself in quick sand, unable to move, despite how much I want to. Each lap represents a new relationship, an engagement, a wedding, a baby, another baby, and then another. And I am still on that same track, still running, still waiting for the rewards of each lap. 

Where exactly do I "fit"? I don't feel completely understood at infant loss support groups because I am not in the place to have another child, like most of the others there are. It's not their fault, and obviously they don't want it to hurt me, but that's just the way it is.

I have many different experiences, making it impossible to find someone who can relate to them all. This has driven me more into the arms of Jesus, as I recognize nobody can or ever will be able to understand completely. But I know He does. And maybe I'm meant to be in the place where I feel completely isolated and misunderstood, so that I will turn to the only One who validates, understands, and loves me through it all.

Not everyone gets their "rainbow." I pray that the Lord reveals in and through my life that even if we don't get what most people think will heal us and make us whole, He is still enough. He is my rainbow, my hope in life and for eternal life. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be on the "track of life," referencing the marathon analogy.

If you are also a bereaved mother without a living child, check out the website Still Mothers (there is also a Facebook page and an online support group).

I appreciate this article about The Unique Grief of Mothers without Living Children. It is so comforting and validating. I thought I'd share it here for anyone else in similar shoes and also to give a glimpse into what it's like...

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Unused Baby Names

Still Mothers is a website/blog/online support group for mothers without any living children. We are still mothers.

They post these photos on Facebook that say "You know you're a still mother when..."

I saw this one and relate too well...

I have names treasured in my heart, names that I long to be able to call out to a living child, names that I long to have written on certificates of live births. Names that I hope my imaginary husband would like. Names that I think compliment Lily Katherine's and Luke Shiloh's. Names that I don't want to share with anyone because they are so sacred, yet I wonder if I'll ever have the need to share them. 

As I wrote about last year at Christmas, there's always this balance of waiting between missing and longing... missing my girl and yet aching for the future. Hoping that God will redeem things that are difficult to picture Him doing so.

Oh Heavenly Father, I know if my little one(s) whom I already love and have a name picked out for him/her/them is meant to be, you already know him/her/them. May Your perfect will be done in Your perfect time and way and may I trust in Your sovereignty and goodness. May I one day look back and see how these years of pain and longing were for a purpose and that the story couldn't have been scripted more beautifully.

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On Rainbows

Many people who have lost babies that I've met in the past 6 years have gone on to have a "rainbow baby," as they are called (many have multiple rainbow babies). A rainbow baby is a child who is born after the storm of losing a child. These people talk about their child bringing them out of the pit of the sorrow that comes when one loses their child.

A particular friend I know lost her son early one year, got pregnant with her daughter later in that same year, then welcomed her into the world at the end of the year. She wrote on her blog about how the day of her daughter's birth overwhelmed her with gladness. She said, "To this day I know she is the only reason I ever recovered. She's the only reason I am not still deep in sadness."

About a year ago, I "met" a mother online whose daughter was due just days before Lily in March 2010. This little girl shares both Lily Katherine's first and middle names, just with a different spelling for both names. She was stillborn in late February of that year, meaning her 6th birthday just passed. We connected over our daughter's similar dates and names. Then she told me she had a healthy daughter a year later. She told me if she lets go of her focus on her living daughter, her heart becomes much heavier about her daughter who is no longer living. On her eldest girl's birthday this year, she took her little sister to her stone.

A good friend of mine who lost her daughter in 2010 as well recently had a healthy baby daughter, with a couple boys born in between those years. When my friends have their rainbows, I am truly delighted for them, but it does sting to see her hold her littlest girl in her arms. I want a little girl in mine.

Seeing and hearing these things is difficult for me, because here I am, 6 years later, and still no living baby. In some ways, I am still deep in sadness. When I read these things, it stings because I wonder, will I recover? In many ways, I think that having a baby in my arms would help heal me in deep and immeasurable ways while on Earth, ways that only ever having another child can heal. Does God not want me to be healed in the way He has allowed others to be? Am I just resigned to the fact that I may always be haunted by silence, never to hear my own baby's sweet cry? Is this what my motherhood is going to look like for the rest of my life?

The way it feels is that I am running this marathon on a track and it seems to be a never-ending race. There are all these other runners, many having started the race after me, who keep passing me, and then lapping me. They are leaving me in the dust. And for some reason, I can't keep up. I picture myself in quick sand, unable to move, despite how much I want to. Each lap represents a new relationship, an engagement, a wedding, a baby, another baby, and then another. And I am still on that same track, still running, still waiting for the rewards of each lap. 

Where exactly do I "fit"? I don't feel completely understood at infant loss support groups because I am not in the place to have another child, like most of the others there are. It's not their fault, and obviously they don't want it to hurt me, but that's just the way it is.

I have many different experiences, making it impossible to find someone who can relate to them all. This has driven me more into the arms of Jesus, as I recognize nobody can or ever will be able to understand completely. But I know He does. And maybe I'm meant to be in the place where I feel completely isolated and misunderstood, so that I will turn to the only One who validates, understands, and loves me through it all. Not everyone gets their "rainbow." I pray that the Lord reveals in and through my life that even if we don't get what most people think will heal us and make us whole, He is still enough. He is my rainbow, my hope in life and for eternal life. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be on the "track of life," referencing the marathon analogy.

If you are also a bereaved mother without a living child, check out the website Still Mothers (there is also a Facebook page and an online support group).

I appreciate this article about The Unique Grief of Mothers without Living Children.

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