The “Joy” of Christmas

Merry Christmas, Little Girl!

I’ve always loved Christmas. As both a kid and an adult, Christmas has always filled me with deep wonder. In that wonder lies as much stress and uncertainty as happiness and comfort.

In youth, the mystical powers of Santa consumed my thoughts. After all, he knows everything. As a five-year-old with an impressive rap sheet, the concept of everything inspired a few more than a few sleepless nights. I hadn’t really meant to tease Amber on the bus ride to school, had I? And, I’m pretty sure that my little sister started the fight that landed me in timeout without trial or jury. Surely letting the word stupid loose from my lips was a transgression that Santa could overlook, right? As much as the magic of flying reindeer and a secret workshop full of elves and toys tickled my imagination, the threat that Santa might find it in his judgment to judge me naughty—and not nice—tormented my conscience.

And, I must admit that I am indoctrinating your sister with the same dichotomy. I don’t really think it’s by design so much as it is for my own amusement. Yet, perhaps there is method in the madness.

In this season of unequivocal joy, we celebrate the actors who played out the beauty of the nativity. I wonder if the actors felt unequivocal joy in the unfolding of the story.

I imagine Mary as a young girl. She is devout in her faith and she loves God as much as any earthly being can, but she is an earthly being. She has probably fantasized about being swept off her feet by some debonair young prince who offers her family to forego a dowry for the privilege of taking her hand—after all, her beauty is without parallel. She has probably dreamt of being a princess in a palace with servants and luxuries. At times, she has probably wondered about the treasures of the world and longed to taste them in her own life. And yet, the Angel Gabriel comes to her and tells her that she will birth God’s son, a king among men. I then wonder, in the pains of labor, if she ever imagined birthing this king in a stable. I wonder if she knew that she would watch her son walk away from the family to live among thieves, prostitutes, and beggars. I wonder if she knew that he would be branded a heretic by the men of the word that she so dearly loved. On that Christmas night, surely she did not see him dying an agonizing death at the hands of the men he was supposed to rule. Despite her faith, I wonder if Mary’s Christmas was served with equal parts of joy and fear.

I see Joseph. He’s a good man, the type of man that I’d be happy to see Caroline—or you, if you were still with us—settle down with. He’s not bound for greatness, but he makes an honest living and his peers respect him. His word is his bond and he has a kind heart. And, in the confusion of a dream, he is instructed to marry a pregnant woman. He is probably not entirely sure what he has signed up for, but he obeys despite the strict norms of his society. And, in the stable on that Christmas night, he holds Mary’s hand and tries to comfort her through her labor. Maybe, in his heart, he wishes that someone was there to take his hand and comfort him, too.

More than anything, I see the mothers and fathers of Bethlehem. I hear their cries of agony as they watch a wicked fated army steal the future of their sons. I feel the sorrow of a generation of parents whose children have suffered genocide at the hands of a jealous and despicable king. For them, Christmas is a pitiless reminder that the thirst for power can trump all human emotions: dignity, compassion, decency, and the least of which is surely not love. For them, the heavy burden of Christmas reminds them of their buried sons, needlessly lost at the hands of the wicked Herod.

I fathom to think what went through His mind at Christmas. Perhaps it was true joy. Not the superficial joy that I feel from time to time when my pillows are appropriately fluffed or when my spirit is adroitly inspired. Perhaps it was the joy of knowing that, despite all of the immeasurable pain and suffering that fills the journals of history, this story of life is truly a story of victory and love. Perhaps it was the joy of knowing that, as we go about the real and tangible tribulations of our daily lives, if we could only see the master plan, we would know that Mary, Joseph, the parents of Bethlehem, and Jesus, truly lived out a story of unmatched joy and glory. Maybe, in this Christmas season, if we could understand this unfounded joy, we would realize that our trials are part of a bigger story.

It won’t change today. Pain is still pain and sorrow is still sorrow. But, beyond act three scene four, victory awaits! For those of us who are unsure, wait. And, if still unsure, be still and wait some more!

Bella, I miss you so much that it hurts. I know that my pain is not unique. I know that victory does not come cheap. My heart hurts for all of those that feel what we feel in your absence, but my heart also celebrates knowing that we will be together again. There was a young king who loved me more than I could ever fathom. His birth signaled as much tribulation as triumph. His birth in this wondrous Christmas season ensured that, despite what we actors may feel from time to time as the scenes play out, this story is truly a story of joy, victory, and the least of which is surely not love!

We will see you again. When we do, these tears will seem silly. Merry Christmas, little buddy!

Love,

Dad

P.S. Please do tell Santa that I never meant to say stupid. I’m quite sure that the word never would have entered my vocabulary had it not been for the corrupt influence of Kerry, my older sister. And, for the record, I never enjoyed a fight. Any fights that transpired between me and my little sister were undoubtedly instigated by Kathleen.

 

Caroline's take on the nativity. I'm pretty sure that's a guinea pig at left.

Happy Birthday!

Happy birthday, little buddy!

I have loved this season for how close it makes me feel to you. Of course, that same closeness has also made the season heavy. I’ll try and lighten it with story.

I was brewing some coffee the other morning when your sister said to me, “Dada, we are really lucky that we had a baby that died.” She presented this as a maxim that needed no further explanation or investigation.

Still, I pressed—as half-witted parents often do when presented with the seamless logic of their offspring. “Oh, really?” I inquired. “Why do you think that’s true?”

“Well because we have Bella in Heaven,” she expounded. “Not every family has a baby that is an angel in Heaven.”

I told her that she was right, and that I was proud of her for loving you so much even though you aren’t with us on earth. I also told her that even though I felt lucky to be the father of a little girl in Heaven, I’d rather have you here with us on earth. Caroline conceded that she felt the same.

And that’s the part that is heavy. It’s tough to think about all of the firsts that we missed. It’s tough to think about the giggles that you won’t make and the steps that you won’t take. What would you have been like in school? Who would you have married? Despite a five year age gap, would you and Caroline have been best friends?

I know that we will see you again and I know that, on that day, all of this grief will seem inconsequential. But in the moment, there are sometimes when it feels so heavy that it’s hard to breathe. In those times, I try to remind myself that we grow through our trials. I will be a better person for having the privilege of being your father, Bella.

I love you and miss you so much!

 

                                                                                    Love,

                                                                                    Dad

November and December

And just like that...it's November again.

Halloween is a safe day.  I have a six year old and my focus was on her.  I watched her walk down the street holding hands with her Daddy and thought about how grateful I am to have this one beautiful, healthy child.  She softens the blow of remembering that my 11 month old is NOT here.   For smiles and happiness and even laughter and celebration. 

It's November 1st.  It's cold and rainy today.  I planned to go for a run with Caroline, but it's too wet outside.  So we snuggled under the covers in my bed to watch cartoons on my Kindle.  She was watching.  I was just there, thinking about how this month is here and wishing I could somehow stay put--hidden under the covers--until January 1st.  If I had just two wishes, one of them would be that I could somehow fast forward through the next two months.

The reminders are overwhelming.  November and December of the past two years have been a nightmare.  It's hard to completely separate tragedy and fear from pumpkins and turkeys and bright twinkly Christmas lights. Two years ago, I put Caroline on Santa's lap--her face almost as white as his beard.  I see that photo and remember that we didn't yet know that the next two weeks would be consumed with hospitals, consenting to emergency surgeries, blood transfusions and a ride in an ambulance.  Thanksgiving dinner brings back the memory of profound sadness, absence and empty arms.  Christmas decorations remind me of the hospital room --complete with "Elf on the Shelf" because Santa heard that we weren't going to be home that year.  The cold and snowy winter weather reminds me of planning a funeral and the Christmas tree we bought and put up early because we were just so sad.  We stood there in the hardware store with tears streaming down our faces looking at all the beautiful lights.  We so badly needed something bright and new.

Too many anniversaries are ahead.  Due date, the day she died, the day she was born.  The memorial service.  And the big one--planning a first birthday party.  For a dead baby.  Is it even possible?

I know this all sounds crazy.  And I admit it--November and December aren't to blame.  Neither are Thanksgiving or Christmas.  I know I'll get through it and hopefully  remember this year with some happiness and celebration.  But I can't shake the apprehension I associate with the holidays coming up--bracing for something bad that might be around the corner.  I probably won't feel this way tomorrow or next week, but just for today--it's too much.  It's unfair and I wish I could somehow negotiate the removal of November and December from this year's calendar.  I promise.  I'll try again next year.

A Letter From Caroline

Dear Bella, 

You are our baby and we will see you forever and ever in Heaven when we die. I am really proud to be your big sister and I love you.

We have guinea pigs. Their names are Helen and Alexa. They are really cute and they have a really big cage. Bella, I wish that I could be with you and we could pet the guinea pigs and I could play with you and show you the snowmen on my mirrors, with stickers. If you were here right now, I would ask you if you wanted to play with the guinea pigs.

We are releasing balloons. I hope you see them and that you have a great time with them. I hope that you love them. We release the balloons every month because we love you and it’s almost your birthday. It’s something really special that we do with you and I hope that you get them.

Well, with those guinea pigs you would have a great time, but you would have scratches on your face. I love you!

Thank you so much for being our baby and you will always be our baby.

Love,

Caroline

 

Bella Bear

A very special package I'd been waiting for since December arrived last week.

This is our "Bella Joy" bear.  She is a Molly Bear created by another angel baby mom--customized with a little giraffe on her tummy and weighted to match Bella's birth weight-- 7 pounds and 15 ounces.

Only memories of our daughter remain, so this is a very special way to capture one I'd already forgotten--exactly how heavy my little baby felt in my arms. 

Caroline never met her little sister.  But because of this bear, she is proud to say that she would have been strong enough to hold her.  I'm grateful to have found a new way for her to know a little more about Bella. 

Father's Day

Hey little buddy!

Your momma asked me today how I felt about Father’s Day.  I really hadn’t thought much about it until that very moment.  I felt like I should say something meaningful in order to bring meaning to the moment, but I was lost for meaning.  I’ve thought about it more since then.

Though I am incredibly proud to be your father, you are with a Father who loves you more than I ever could.  You have left your precious, brief, and poignant impact upon this earth.  As much as I love and cherish you, you need absolutely nothing from me.  Your big sister does not fall into the same category.

Caroline will continue to need me as a father, and I will continue to need her as a daughter.  It’s funny how much strength we can draw from our children.  Bella, when we lost you, your big sister was a refuge of strength and comfort.

I’ve talked about the night we broke the news of your loss to her.  She hid herself behind a blanket and insisted that I was teasing.  In the moment, she was so excited to have a little buddy in this world that she wanted to hide from reality to assuage the disappointment.  It has been amazing and beautiful to see how excited she is to have a little buddy in Heaven.

The day after we lost you, we took Caroline for a ride up Bear Mountain.  It was a beautiful, clear, and crisp fall day.  As we did our best to explain your physical and spiritual disposition to Caroline, she suddenly lit up with excitement.  “So my sister is an angel in Heaven?” she asked with delight.  She was so enchanted with the revelation that we had to caution her about sharing the news with other people.  We didn’t want her to be confused when others reacted with sadness as she bragged about her little sister in Heaven.

A few weeks ago, we sent some balloons to you.  Caroline had drawn you another picture and wrote you a note.  One of her friends saw her release the balloon and asked Caroline what she was doing.  Caroline responded, “I’m sending a letter to my sister.”

Her friend—in the earnestness of youth—replied, “But you don’t have a sister.  She died.”  She truly meant no harm by this statement.  She was simply betraying the stalwart honesty of a young soul who has yet to learn the urge to manipulate truth.

Caroline, finding her own truth in the situation, immediately replied, “I still have a sister, even if she died.  I send notes to her on balloons.”  Her friend, fully accepting Caroline’s explanation, further inquired as to how you get the notes—I suppose that it is a bit confusing.  Caroline—also seeking some logical explanation—furrowed her brow for a moment and responded, “I don’t know.  She just gets them in Heaven.”  Your sister’s answer seemed to completely appease her friend's curiosity.

There are countless other times where Caroline’s optimism and vibrance have served as a beacon, guiding me back to the demands of today.  In the maddening sadness of saying our goodbyes to you, my precious Bella, your sister has moved onward without losing a beat.  It’s not that she doesn’t love and miss you; it’s simply that she loves and misses you with the purity and passion of a child.

On this Father’s Day and every day, I am thankful for my own father.  But, I am also thankful for the gift of fatherhood.  Bella, you have given a tremendous amount of meaning to my life.  Thank you for that!  But, I must thank you sister even more.  Without her, I’m not sure that I would appreciate you half as much.  In many ways, you have been a challenge.  Your sister has been an inspiration to overcome obstacles and to move forward with strength, conviction, and hope.

If you could do one thing for me on this Father’s Day, look after your big sister from Heaven!  She would so much love to have you here with her, but your physical absence has done nothing to diminish her love for you and the light in her soul.  Your sister is an incredibly special young lady!

Thank you for the privilege, Bella!  I love you so much, my dear baby!

Love,

Dad

 

Six Months

Happy six months, my little girl!

I met a woman who lost her husband in combat the other day.    We were with mutual friends so the conversation was pretty light.  As I was saying goodbye to her, I couldn’t help but say that I was really sorry for her loss.  I don’t know if they were the right words, and I don’t know if they made any difference whatsoever.  Still, I knew that I had to say something.  I’ve not forgotten her husband, and it’s not for the significance of the weekend that I remember him.  Not a day passes where I don’t think about those who have given their all for this country and its values.

I also think of you every day.

I’m still not sure how to mention you in conversation.  When I meet new people and they ask about my family, I tell them that I have two little girls.  Inevitably, the next question inquires about your and Caroline’s ages.  I’m still not sure what to say next.  “One is five and the other would be six months,” is how I often respond.  Maybe it would be better to just say, “They are five and six months.”  Then again, I worry that this answer would provoke inquiries about your habits.  Are you eating?  Are you crawling?  How do you sleep at night?

I wonder about these things, too.  Would you grimace at plain oatmeal, as Caroline did at six months?  Would you be crawling around the house and getting into all types of trouble?  Would you be a good sleeper, unlike your big sister?  But, this conversation seems heavy for new acquaintances.

I suppose that it is simply difficult to talk about those who have departed early.  I am incredibly proud to be your father, and I want to find a way to talk about you that makes people feel warm and happy.  You are a beautiful and perfect part of our family, and I’ll never stop talking about you.  Still, I’m searching for the right way to do it.

I imagine that on this Memorial Day Weekend, there are plenty of other families who struggle with the same challenge.

Happy six months, my precious little girl!  We love you and miss you so much!

Dad

 

Easter

Hey sweet baby girl!

I miss you.  I’ve kept the shirt that I wore when I held you.  It’s in my top bedside drawer.  I don’t suppose that I’ll ever wash that shirt again.  It smells like you.  It reminds me of you.  There is a part of me that wants to live forever in the moment when I last wore that shirt, but time has somehow mastered the best of my intentions.

It’s been five months now, but it’s not five months without you.  You’ve been on my mind constantly.  As Our Father holds you in Heaven, I hold you in my heart. 

As time passes, it’s tempting to let you fade from my conversation with friends and family.  I know that people who love us dearly worry that you might be a wound upon our souls.  If you were a scab, you’d be best left hidden and alone.  You are not a scab, you are treasure.  You are as much a part of my life as your Momma, your sister, and your Lord.  And, despite the pain in losing you, I know that you went quietly and peacefully into the arms of our God. 

Jesus did not go quietly.  He went in a torment of tribulation and thunder, bound and beaten by the very men He sought to save.  If I can celebrate the life of my Lord, surely I can celebrate the life of my precious daughter.  In this season of victory over death, I will celebrate your life!  Your nine months meant so much!

You remind me that the ultimate end for all of us is death, and it really doesn’t matter how we die so much as it matters how we live.  Before I met your mother and before your sister was a part of the equation, I didn’t worry about death in my line of work.  I figured that death would find me when God saw fit.  After your sister, I regretfully admit that there was a particular firefight when I wondered how Caroline would do without a father.  I knew that these thoughts were not productive, but they crept into my consciousness during brief lulls in enemy fire.  This is not how a man who believes in his cause ought to fight, and I promised myself that I would never entertain these feelings again.  In fights thereafter, I think that I upheld my bond.  Now, you’ve made my promise easy.

I know that in my next contest with death, I’ll have you on my mind as much as your sister.  Perhaps, one who fears death cannot experience true life.  For all of us, the immutable call of the grave will silence the fleeting and petulant calls of this earth.  Until then, we are all called to move on, one step at a time. 

I want to take meaningful steps.  I want my walk to mean something.  Bella, your life means so much!  I want each of my steps to leave your tiny imprint next to mine.  I want our shared journey to testify to our Savior’s victory.  This life is an introductory chapter, but it will foreshadow the entirety of the volumes yet untold.  As I think of those who have completed their first chapter, I remember the company that you keep. 

I know that you are surrounded by the love of Aunt Mary Anne, Mike, Rich, John, J.P., Grandma, Grandpa, Knox, Catherine, Lucy, Margaret, and so many countless others.  I selfishly wish that you were here to giggle as your sister hunts for her goodies tomorrow morning, but I know that you are in a better place.

Happy Easter, baby girl.  There is victory over death, and death has nothing on this family!

Love,

Dad

 

 

 

Applesauce

I recently read a powerful post from an online magazine about triggers.  Easter is a huge trigger for those who have experienced loss.  I wondered if/how Easter would be hard for me considering this is my first one after losing Bella.  As always, I tried to prepare.  I tried to brace myself.  I can handle this.  But it's always the unexpected.

Bella was born right before Thanksgiving.  I expected to come home from the hospital with my tiny new baby daughter just in time to celebrate.  And being the ultra preparer I am, I cooked my entire Thanksgiving dinner--aside from the turkey--a week in advance and had it ready to pop in the oven.  I imagined myself sitting on the couch nursing and snuggling my two girls while Greg would warm everything up. 

A special meal isn't a special meal without homemade applesauce.  It's a staple for any celebratory dinner at my stepmom's house.  So for me, it's very nostalgic.  Last fall, I took advantage of having access to amazing local orchards and started making it myself.  Of course, I can't replicate hers exactly, but a house full of the scent of apples and sugar and cinnamon simmering on the stove is heavenly.

Tomorrow is Easter.  We're hosting a half-dozen cadets for dinner.  It's bittersweet because it will be the last big meal with them for awhile.  So it's important.  Homemade applesauce is on the menu.  I still have one vacuum-sealed package in the freezer from Thanksgiving, but I can't bring myself to thaw it.  That applesauce was meant to be served after Bella came home from the hospital.  How in the world can I bring myself to eat it?  Just as the boxes of diapers sit in the corner of my spare bedroom closet and Bella's clothing is neatly hung in the closet that is still dedicated to housing all of her things, I am at peace with the nonsense of being obsessive over this silly bag of applesauce.

It hit me after I poured the finished batch from my dutch oven into the china dish.  There was a bit too much, so the few extra scoops went into a small plastic bowl.  The same exact one it went into last November, when I had a little extra from that batch.  That exact container of applesauce was one of the things Greg grabbed from home and brought to me while I was in labor.  I had a few bites right after Bella was born.  You can see it there on my bedside table in the hospital in some of my photos from that day.   And so it reminds me of her.  And so there I am this evening, in my kitchen with this tiny plastic bowl in my hands and tears streaming down my cheeks.  Out of nowhere.

In my almost five months of experience with being a mother who has lost a child, I've learned that triggers are almost always a surprise and exquisitely painful--only because the love and the missing are so enormous.  The good news is the pain dulls.  The shock of that little memory is big now, but I've learned that it won't be so big next time.  Living it, getting over it, experiencing it.  That silly little bowl of applesauce is a reminder of the most terrifying and devastating day of my life.  But at the core, it's a reminder of her.  I only had nine hours to make memories of being with her after she was born.  Missing her will never change.  But from now on, this won't be a trigger.  This will be a peaceful reminder of my love for this beloved little girl.