My Would-Be 3rd-Grader

Amidst all the back-to-school-first-day photos, this is where mine would be....

You can imagine a beautiful 8-year-old 3rd grader, with curly hair and blue eyes. There would surely be a big smile on her face and a pink backpack draped over her shoulder. The twinkle in her eyes would tell of her excitement for a new year and all she'd learn and the friends she'd make.

That's what I would be posting today and what I wish I was.

But March 16, 2010 took that photo and moment from me.

That's what I want others to grasp about infant loss - when you lose a baby, it's not a one-time occurrence that only affects you one day of your life.

It takes away the first day of 3rd grade too, and a thousand other days.

As John Piper described in a letter he wrote to comfort a mother who lost her son to stillbirth: "Amputation is a good analogy. Because unlike a bullet wound, when the amputation heals, the arm is still gone. So, the hurt of grief is different from the hurt of other wounds. There is the pain of the severing, and then the relentless pain of the gone-ness. The countless might-have-beens. Those too hurt. Each new remembered one is a new blow on the tender place where the arm was."

Today my heart is tender as I miss my 3rd grader, my sweet Lily Kat.

Who are you missing today and what grade would they be starting? 🍎 ✏️ 🎒 ❤️

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There is a touching letter being shared on Facebook and different blogs and websites, written by a Kindergarten teacher. This is what she had to say about it, with the letter below:

"Summer is winding down and I'm gearing up for a new school year. Yesterday, I sat down to finish my mailing for my new Kindergarten students. I worked my way through the list, personalizing each letter with my student's name (I feel like it adds a little extra love when you put pen to paper for someone). and daydreaming about the year ahead.
Then, I thought of them; the children who should be coming to Kindergarten. I imagined the families who should be receiving letters from new teachers, but instead, they are receiving yet another dose of heartbreak at the milestone their child did not reach.
So, I have decided that, for this year, they can join my classroom. I will be their teacher.
Here is their welcome letter."

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My Second-Grader

When you're scrolling through Instagram and one of the pages you follow has this picture of a 7-year-old girl starting the 2nd grade.

And all at once your heart remembers that it's August and your own daughter who should be 7-years-old as well would also be starting the 2nd grade this month.

Moments like these are never-ending. 😔 💔  #whatstillbirthlookslike

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Kindergarten

This month marks the Lily-would-be-starting-Kindergarten milestone. Since spring, people have been posting on social media about their children who are starting school this year. My heart has been anticipating this milestone since then, so I've been feeling the sting of it already for a while.

Friends, acquaintances, and family members have children born within days, weeks, or months of Lily... A couple children I know were born on the exact same day.

And I wish my sadness this month was the same as theirs. I wish I could be emotional because my baby is growing up too fast, but instead I cry because she won't grow up at all. I cry because I'll never know the children she would've called friends or their parents who would've become my friends. I cry because I'll never be able to post a picture of my first-born at the beginning of her new school year, whether she was homeschooled, at a Christian school, or public school.

Instead of getting her ready for school, I'm going out to Colorado to Ellerslie, something I most likely wouldn't be doing if she were here.

As John Piper wrote in a letter to a mother whose son was stillborn: "God’s crucial word on grieving well is 1 Thessalonians 4:13: “We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.” Yours is a grieving with hope. Theirs is a grieving without hope. That is the key difference. There is no talk of not grieving. That would be like suggesting to a woman who just lost her arm that she not cry, because it would be put back on in the resurrection. It hurts! That's why we cry. It hurts. And amputation is a good analogy. Because unlike a bullet wound, when the amputation heals, the arm is still gone. So the hurt of grief is different from the hurt of other wounds. There is the pain of the severing, and then the relentless pain of the gone-ness. The countless might-have-beens. Those too hurt. Each new remembered one is a new blow on the tender place where the arm was. So grieving is like and unlike other pain."

This Kindergarten milestone is one of those countless might-have-beens. The gone-ness doesn't get easier through the years. But I grieve with hope and know that if Lily Katherine were meant to be starting Kindergarten on Earth this year, then she would be. She already knows far more than I ever could, about what is most important.

For all the should-be-Kindergartners, I'm thinking of you and your parents who wish with all their hearts they were packing that Hello Kitty or Spider Man backpack and lunchbox with their little one's favorite foods, the parents who wish they even got to know the things their child would like or prefer, the parents who should be crying this month for an entirely different reason, the parents who are feeling a fresh pain of gone-ness.

Some of the children I'm remembering: Addison, Angela, Lillyan, Matthew, Charlotte, Lillian Joy (I'm sure there are many I'm forgetting, these are the names that popped into my head).

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A thousand times a day

"I am reminded of you at sunrise and sunset 
and a thousand other moments in between."

Most schools are starting this week...that means little ones are starting pre-school and kindergarten, middle school, high-school, and even college.

My heart is heavy as I take in yet another milestone I will never experience with my first-born. I plan on homeschooling my children, so Lily would have never "gone off" to school on the bus or anything like that. But, she would have learned and I would have loved getting her school books and supplies and teaching her from a Biblical worldview. I like to imagine how excited she might have gotten to get pretty pink notebooks with Hello Kitty on them. Of course that would be down the road from now. These days, she would probably be singing her ABC's and I imagine I'd clap when she finished and say, "Good job, Lily! I'm so proud of my smart girl." She'd smile up at me and I'd smile down at her, my chubby-cheeked girl.

In the next couple years, I may have sent her to pre-school to have the opportunity to be with other kiddos. I'd definitely want her around children, learning to play and share. A dear friend of mine recently posted a photo on facebook of her daughter's first day of 3-year-old-pre-school. She was standing by the door with her backpack on and had a huge-open-mouth grin on her face. Upon seeing it, I just about lost my breath. I couldn't bare to click "like." I just couldn't. I hadn't even thought of Lily's school days yet. I love this little cutie and her mama, but it's still so hard to see things like this. I like to imagine if Lily were here, she and this girl would be the best of friends. Those posts should be my posts...

I read a quote somewhere that says something along the lines of when you lose a child, they die a thousand times a day. Not only did Lily die on March 16, 2010...but in all those little moments that stack on top of each other that take my breath away...when I realize all that could have, should have been...but will never be...

Every day, I lose another piece of her and another dream I had for her life. All the fun things we'd do together. It's like not only do I grieve the loss of her life, but specifically all the things her life would have held. First words, steps, school, sleepovers, teaching her about Jesus, going to her wedding, being there for her babies...all the precious moments I will never know with her, all the milestones she will never hit, all the things she won't do, all the ages she will never grow into. She will never outgrow her clothes and shoes and need new ones...she barely even got to use the outfits she had, only ever wearing two. As everyone else's children grow up, mine is forever a babe...so many sweet kiddos born around the same time as Lily are growing so much. Some even have younger siblings now, which seems so strange.

I cling to the truth that though Lily is not here on earth with me to love and be there for all those special moments, Jesus is with her. There's no place else I'd rather she be. He takes such good care of her and I can picture them smiling at each other through all those precious moments (like in the picture below that makes me fall apart)...as he teaches her things and rocks her. She must smile so big when He tells her how her mama loves her and will be there with her one day very soon...to the thought of that, she must nestle into his strong arms and fall fast asleep, fully trusting in His love...just as I'm to do...

Today, I read this beautifully written post on Still Standing Online Magazine that shows that those who lose a child never "get over it." Every year, the grief changes as you realize something else you are missing. This mama writes about the five-year mark, two and a half years more than where I am in my grief journey. Reading it makes me feel not so alone in my thoughts. It's nice to have a glimpse into what the coming years might bring. I find myself wondering how different things will feel as the years march on.

If you are reading this and have lost a baby, know that it's okay to miss that baby forever, because a mother's love is forever...don't ever be made to feel that there is something wrong with you for not being "over it." You can go on in life and laugh and find joy, but that lost little one's absence will never be far from your heart...and for those who know someone who has lost a baby, please be gentle on them. This loss has irrevocably changed them forever.

"I wonder if there should be a manual for parents who lost about the later years, when the world expects you to be over it. Has anyone written about the unexpected landmines of the first day of kindergarten, the first father-daughter dance? Will I be a hot mess when the flier comes out about the school's Mother-Son Bowling Party next year? Will ten be like five? What about thirteen? High school? Will this ever settle into something gentler, more bittersweet? I know in grieving my parents who passed away years ago that memories of them now feel more like a hug, a moment of thanks that I got to have them as my parents. But grief for a child is so different, so much harder-maybe because I never got to know my younger children outside of me. Can these jabs ever evolve into sweet moments if I never got living moments with them outside of my uterus? Is this why the first day of school hurts more than some random Tuesday when my kids would have been three or four or six-because these should be milestone days that we look back on fondly?"

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