The Struggle

When I first arrived back home, I struggled up the stairs. It was a physical struggle because of the C-section, but more painful was the emotional struggle. I knew I had left the cradle by my bed, ready to receive our little Abigail. I knew I had left a trail of blood all across the hall and into the bathroom. Memories of these images had flashed through my mind so vividly, and I was honestly afraid of losing myself to the pain.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I found the floor spotless. My brothers had cleaned away every trace of blood from the carpet. I had spent so much time worrying about that blood on my way home, and I was grateful to them for performing that difficult act of love for me.

As I turned and walked into the bedroom, my breath choked up inside of me as my eyes fell upon the little cradle. My arms instantly felt empty and cold, and for a moment I wondered how my heart could go on beating. My mom and Loren and the children had dropped me off and gone to handle something (I can't recall what it was), and I sat on my bed, alone, and cried. I think it was my first real chance to cry out to God with no one around. Everyone had been trying to be there for me and hold me up, and now I am convinced that I needed that time to learn to be ok all alone. I needed to be comforted by Him. Just Him. It was one of the most difficult moments of my grieving process, but it was important to me and has become one of my strongest memories of God's presence in my life. My own arms were empty, but He was holding me in His.

The emotions that surrounded Christmas only 5 days after our daughter passed away are difficult to describe. I felt so empty, but at the same time peaceful. I spent a vast amount of time on my knees pouring out my soul to my heavenly Father. Then He would fill me back up with Himself. But I had to do this over and over, day in and day out. I didn't want anyone to see this. Not my children, not my husband, not my mother. It was a private purging and filling.

Those lessons I learned on my knees were life changing. There was a cosmic shift in how I saw myself and those around me. I realized how much God in His infinite mercy, grace, and love had shaped my life...shielding me from harmful influences, humbling me by showing me all that I was capable of doing and being were it not for His guiding hand.

I spent countless hours on internet support boards for grieving parents, reminding those other hurt souls that their own pain didn't change the truth of who God is. I think the most important lesson those other parents and I solidified in our minds was that knowing and loving God doesn't shield us from terrible and tragic events. I'm not sure how we as Christians can sometimes come to that irrational conclusion, but it is so common. "How could God allow this to happen to me?" As if being a Christian is somehow supposed to guarantee us a life free of pain. But most of us wrestle with it. Or, "I prayed in faith, believing Him for a miracle. Why didn't He save her?"

But it was there in that place of countless questions and few satisfying answers that I found the comfort for my own heart. I learned that even when I don't know the mind of God and why he allows something to happen (His ways are not our ways, and His thoughts are not our thoughts...Isaiah 55:8-9), I can trust His heart and know that He has only my best at the center of His heart (plans for a future and a hope...Jeremiah 29:11).

It still hurt. And I still had questions (still do). But I was not consumed by the struggle.

Christmas

Abigail had passed away late on a Saturday evening. We entertained the thought of going to church the next day because we felt the need to be in the presence of fellow believers and friends. We were tired, though, and there was much to do, and we weren't certain that we were ready to face the questions or even the silence of those who didn't know to ask.

We decided to go ahead and clear out of the little house we were staying in, even though we had been told we could stay as long as we needed. I wasn't sure I was ready to go back home. I knew that it would be difficult, but I also knew it wouldn't really get easier. Some things you just have to dive right into, and I believe dealing with grief is one of them.

With Christmas coming upon us quickly, we thought it would be good to stop by Toys R Us on the way back home from Atlanta. Again, it seemed like life was going on too effortlessly around me. Why didn't everyone else look like they could barely muster the will to even breathe? Why the carefree smiles on so many faces? Why the frowns and complaining about mundane things like having to wait in line or not finding that certain toy? Didn't they know they had so much to be thankful for? And then there were the babies being pushed around in buggies or straddling their mommies' hips. I remember feeling the aisles closing in around me.

I had decided to stay up near the front of the building as my mom and Loren and the kids wandered about the store. It had only been a week since I'd had a C-section, and I was still easily tired by too much walking. Suddenly I felt so lonely in that crowded place (and if you can think of what the stores look like on the last weekend before Christmas, you can imagine how many people there were). It seemed like we were there for hours.

I found a flat packed box and sat on it while I waited, and I tried to smile at the shoppers as they passed me. As I sat there, I wondered what Christmas would be like this year. I tried to envision myself portraying excitement as our children opened presents. I practiced feeling happy. Above all, I knew that I didn't want painful memories of Abigail to be the focus of this special celebration. Instead, I wanted us to celebrate her life as well as our Savior's.

It was something I had to practice repeatedly, not just that year, but in every year since.

Life should somehow have slowed down

In the days leading up to Abigail's death, Loren and I had been unable to really eat anything. When we had left the hospital's little chapel, we were both surprised to find that we were at last ready to eat. There had been a sense of finality and release once we had spent that time in prayer and praise. So we left the hospital and went to the only place we could find open so late at night, Waffle House.

It was a very strange feeling, sitting there in Waffle House with life going on all around us. Inside, I felt like life should somehow have slowed down. I wanted everyone who saw me to know that my daughter had just died and my heart was broken. Instead, I said nothing. Not even our waitress knew that we had just lost such a precious part of our lives. We ate our meal in relative silence and managed weak smiles as we were leaving. The waitress had been unusually kind and quietly attentive. It was another blessing.

When we got back to the little house that we had been staying in through the graciousness of strangers, my mom was asleep on the couch and our three remaining children were in sleeping bags side by side on the living room floor. We stood in the doorway and held each other as we watched them sleeping. After watching for a few moments, one of us said what both of us had been thinking. "We are so blessed."

Really. Just think of all those parents who lose their first child...or their only child. When we left that hospital, all our parental hopes and dreams were not imprisoned within it's halls. We had living, breathing, beautiful children waiting for us in that cozy little home. We had a reason to drag ourselves out of bed the next morning.

When we spoke those words out loud, my mom stirred on the couch. She looked up at us and asked, "Is she...?" We nodded, and the tears came to her eyes. As hard as it had all been for Loren and me, it had to be just as difficult for her. I knew her heart hurt just as much for us as it did for herself. But she stayed strong through it all. I love her for her strength, both then as she allowed me to be strong when I needed to be, and to let go and cry when I needed it, and now as she has read all these posts. I love her for never having to pretend that any of us have forgotten how very much we loved Abigail.

After Abigail had been pronounced dead by the NICU doctor, the nurses asked me if I wanted to help them clean her up. Immediately, Loren said, "No." One of the nurses very gently told him that they weren't really asking him. They were asking me. She explained that the fathers almost always answer the way he had.

I asked them what was involved and they explained that they would be giving her a bath and putting fresh clothes on her. At first I said no, but something in my spirit told me that I would regret it if I didn't. I wanted to try to explain to Loren, but the nurse beat me to it and told him that it would give me closure.

I wanted closure. Really, I did. But what was even more compelling to me was that not once since she was born had I been able to really take care of her myself. This was a way for me to care for my baby girl for the first and last time.

I helped them bathe her body, and we picked out an outfit from the hospital's stash of newborn clothes. Together we measured her length, something that had never been done because it wasn't medically relevant. She was just shy of 20 inches.

They clipped a bit of her hair for us to keep, and we made handprints and footprints in her journal. They gave us a beautiful keepsake box to hold on to the molds they had made of her foot while we had been away the night before. In it, we also placed the gown she was wearing as she passed from this life into the next, her journal, the little bit of her hair, and pictures of her that were made at the hospital.

We took pictures of us holding her, and we stood and looked at the tiny body that had once been the home of Abigail's spirit.


It was hard to actually walk away. She was all tucked into blankets, with her little stuffed animals all around her in the isolette.

There was a hospital chaplain there with us. Judy had called him before Abigail passed, and when we met him he told us he would be there whenever we were ready for him. When we were finally ready to go, we went to the chapel with the chaplain and our sweet nurse, Judy. We asked the chaplain (I'm sad that I can't remember his name. He was so kind.) if we could sing some songs together and share verses among ourselves. So that's what we did until well after midnight. We prayed and thanked God for giving us the beautiful gift of our sweet Abigail Noel. We thanked Him for having a plan for her life, and for loving us through the most difficult time of our lives. It was a worship service, and it held such healing for our freshly wounded hearts.