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.

Springing Forward

I am surely the only parent excited about losing an hour to daylight savings time.  Because Bella was born at 7:07 a.m., I spend time thinking about her every morning.  I keep a little bit of the curtain pulled back so that I can see the sky when I first wake up.  Now that 7:07 comes earlier, my "Bella time" coincides with the prettiest colors in the sky again.

 

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
 

to hold it against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes

to let it go,  
to let it go.”

--Mary Oliver