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.