Dear Lily

Dear Lily,

Today is your second birthday. It is not only the second birthday I have spent without you, it is the second birthday you have spent in Heaven. It is the second time I will compare this day to how it would have been if you were celebrating here with us, instead of with Jesus.

If you were turning two here, I would wake up to your excited squeals and giggles as you climbed up into our bed and bounced on daddy. Maybe you would have bounced on Jake and Eisley first. We would have smothered you with kisses and told you "Happy Birthday Lily girl! You are so big now that you are two!!! You aren't a baby anymore!"

Instead, I will wake up to the quiet still of the morning, before the sun comes up, and the silence will be deafening. I will feel your absence. I will not say that you aren't a baby anymore, because you will always be a baby to me. I will close my eyes and ask the Lord to hug you for me, two big squeezes for the two years you have been both here and gone.

If you were turning two here, we would be having the most adorable, Pinterest crazed birthday party ever! I wonder what the theme would be...princesses or cupcakes or ballerinas...and everyone would come! Our whole family would come to celebrate you and kiss you and shower you with presents. Nana Robin would have made super special cupcakes and given you a big one with a "2" candle on it for you to blow out. You would probably be running around with a tutu on and your blonde curls would be bouncing up and down with you. Jake and Eisley would "help" you open your presents, and if I'm at all right in the kind of personality you have, you would have stubbornly told them that you were a big girl and didn't need their help! We would have balloons everywhere, and this would be the extra special birthday where we would do a "Binky Release" like we did for Jake and Eisley on their second birthday. We would tie your binkies (except for one, which I would save for your memory box) to a dozen balloons and kiss them goodbye. You would let the balloons go and wave goodbye as they floated off into the sky.Years ago, Jake and Eisley said they were sending their binkies to "the babies in Heaven". Little did I know how much that would mean to me today.

But instead of a birthday party, we will quietly visit your grave as a family. Instead of birthday presents, we will bring you lilies to fill the vase by your stone. And the balloons that should have brought laughter to your lips, will bring tears to my eyes, as each of us releases one up to Heaven, hoping it somehow reaches you. Jake and Eisley will tell Jonesy all about you, and we will talk about what kind of party you are having in Heaven. There will be nothing to put in your memory box, because every memory I will ever make with you has already been made. I will get out the box I do have from my closet, open it up, and touch each and every object inside of it. I will use the blanket you were wrapped in to dry my tears. I will marvel at how very small your feet were. I will read all of the notes and letters we were given after you died.

If you were turning two here with us, I would watch you as you opened your presents, and I would cry. I cried at Jake and Eisley's second birthday, because I realized that they weren't babies anymore. There were no more diapers, no more binkies, no more cribs. They were growing up so fast, and it was bittersweet. I would have done the same for you, Lily. I would have cried when you sent your binkies away, and I would have cried when daddy took your crib apart, and I probably wouldn't have cried throwing all your pull ups in the trash, but it would still feel a little sad.

Instead, I will cry for different reasons. I will cry because you never got to use a binky, or a crib, or a diaper. I will cry because I have now gone two whole years without seeing you, or holding you, or being your mommy. I will cry because I am missing your birthday party, and no mommy should ever miss their baby's birthday party. I will cry because I miss you. Because I've missed you for two years. Because I will miss you for so many more.

There is something soothing about having Jones here to snuggle and hug. But soothing is as far as it goes. There is no replacing a child with another child. Each baby I have had takes up a uniquely shaped space in my heart. You left a uniquely shaped hole, and nothing and no one could ever fill that but you. I love Eisley with all my heart. I love Jake as big as the sky. I love Jones times infinity. I love you to Heaven and back. I am so thankful for the children I have here with me, because they will make this day so much easier. But they cannot make it easy, ever.

It is such a balancing act, mothering babies on earth as well as in Heaven. I can't explain it fully, but it always feels like if I tip too far in one direction or the other, I will fall over. I will fail either my babies in Heaven or my babies on earth. I always have to find a perfect balance between being a mother to you and being a mother to Jake and Eisley and Jones. I want to make sure they know how important you are to me, while also making sure they know how important they are to me. I want them to see me cry for you, but not too much, so they aren't scared. I want to honor your memory, without dwelling on the tragedy of your loss. I am holding and loving and cherishing a baby in my arms who would not exist if you had not left them. How do I come to terms with that? How do I wish you were here knowing that if you were, Jones wouldn't be? How do I feel your absence so sharply while also feeling overjoyed that God blessed us with Jones? How do I mourn you fully while fully embracing the blessings that have come since your loss? Am I doing it right? Am I missing something I should be doing? I always wonder...

If you were turning two here...

But you aren't.

One day, when I get there, I promise we will celebrate every single birthday I missed. Until then, I am confident that you are having a much cooler birthday party than I ever could give you!

I. Miss. You.

Happy birthday baby girl. Mommy will be there soon.

Love,

Mommy


"Never again will there be in it an infant who lives but a few days, or an old man who does not live out his years..."
Isaiah 65:20

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.
Revelation 21:4

Dear Lord

Dear Lord,

Do you remember when I first started asking you to bless us with a new baby? Of course you do. Jake and Eisley were three. They had gotten so independent, becoming less and less needy of their mommy. I had begun to get that "itch". That baby itch. I knew some of my friends would be trying to have their first baby soon, so maybe this time I wouldn't be going through it all alone like I was with the twins!

Josh and I had begun to talk about it. Wondering if it would be a good time, thinking if we were going to do it, we should do it before the age gap got too big (little did we know that "gap" would grow another four years!). We talked about how weird it would be to "try" and get pregnant, when we had tried for years to not! When the babies were, well, babies, I remember thinking I could never purposely get pregnant again. They were so much work. They had put such a strain on us and our marriage. I was perfectly content with two. Until I wasn't...

Somewhere down the line, you put that desire back in my heart. Most people think having a boy and a girl, twins no less, is "perfect." That we had hit the jackpot (and we had!) getting a boy and a girl in one shabam. I was asked all the time if one or both of us were going to "get fixed". Friends, family, even strangers would ask me that. My answer was always, "I'm 22 years old. I have a feeling God might not want me to close that door with 20 good years left of fertility."

I had times I didn't want any more children, but I could never have gone through with doing anything permanent. I knew I wanted to leave that door open. And when the kids were three, I was so glad I did!

But, then, everything changed. My life was turned upside down and inside out as I watched my marriage crumble to the ground. It was nothing I saw coming. It destroyed me. It destroyed Josh. It absolutely destroyed our marriage. And after that, planning for another child seemed like a memory from another life.

What was that like for you? Knowing, before I knew, what was about to come to the light? How was it for you to listen to my heart, knowing I wanted another baby, and knowing it would be years of struggles and heartbreak before you could give it to me? Did you weep with me? Did you dread the day when it would come to my knowledge as well? Did you hope beyond hope that I would choose the path you desired after it all, that Josh and I would choose to reconcile and allow you to rebuild? Did you worry about what would happen if we didn't? Do you worry about things, or is that the opposite of being omniscient? Someday I would love to ask you that.

I am so thankful you are in the business of rebuilding. You are an architect like no other. You can create magnificence from pure ashes. Ashes. When I think of ashes, in my mind I have the picture of chalky grains of soft sand running through my fingers, blowing away in the breeze. Blowing away all that was left of my marriage, of my relationship with Josh, of our plans for the future, of our hopes and dreams for Jake and Eisley, of our relationship with you. There was nothing left. Just ashes.

Isaiah tells us that you are a God who gives us beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, a garment of praise for a spirit of heaviness. (Isaiah 61:3). I had heard that verse a hundred times growing up, but it wasn't until these past few years of my adult life did you prove that to me over and over again. So much so that I tattooed it on my wrist as a reminder. Not that I need a physical reminder. All I have to do is look up. Look up and see how you restored my marriage, how you didn't just renovate it, you burned it down into pure ashes and rebuilt it from the ground up. When was the last time I thanked you for that miracle? Thank you.

And it was a miracle. Josh and I had to completely start over, start anew and begin again. And we did. When we renewed our vows, Jake and Eisley were then four years old. And this time, we were not only making a promise to you, we were making a promise to them. And no offense, but promising your children you will stay together forever seemed even bigger than promising it to you.

And then, there is was again. That heart tugging. My desire for another baby didn't vanish, it had just been sleeping for awhile while my life was getting straightened out again. Josh and I talked about how it would be such a blessing for us to bring another child into this marriage, into this family. Because we felt it was a completely different marriage and family than the ones we were planning to bring it into a year before. And we decided together we wanted to try.

I wonder sometimes, if that's when you cried. When you realized that we were asking for another baby, and you saw us start on that path, and you could see where it led us, years out, and you saw how much we would be hurt, how much would be asked of us...did you cry then? I would have. If I knew Jake or Eisley was beginning on a path that would bring them joy and pain, a lot of pain, I would cry. I would rejoice that they were choosing the right path, but it would still be so incredibly hard for me to watch.

Before we even got pregnant, we said if it was a girl, we would name her Gracie. We were so very thankful for the grace you had shown us that past year. We wanted to honor you with that. And when you gave us Gracie, knowing we'd never meet her or even know for sure if she was a girl, we were so happy. So thankful. And when it was time, you took her home. And that's when we experienced you as the Great Comforter. We had never known pain like that. I had known worse pain, sharper pain, different pain, but never pain quite like that.

But there you were, holding us so very tight. And we didn't feel alone. We struggled with anger, and fear, and sadness, and feeling like it was so unfair. I can't imagine how hard it would be to watch your children struggle like that. I fight not to jump in when Jake can't sound out a word right away. I hate watching him struggle. That must have been unbearable for you.

But we grew. We grew together as husband and wife, and we grew as parents, and we grew closer to you. And perhaps that was your desire all along.

Six months later, I finally felt healed enough to feel that desire again. It had been blocked away by boulders of grief over my miscarriage, but it was still there. And as you pulled away each stone, one by one, the desire came back again.

You blessed us with another baby, and you didn't have to. I have to believe there was a reason you did, why you created a special, beautiful little girl to live inside me for 20 weeks. I have to believe that you loved her as much as we did, more so, and that you knew we would be the perfect family for her. I have to believe you had a purpose in it.

Did you rejoice with us when we got further and further along, our fear shrinking with each day? Or did you know what was coming, and hold your breath? I have come to believe that you created our Lily knowing the exact number of days you would be giving her life, and to you, her number of days was no more tragic than someone you give years and years of days to. You knew what her purpose was, and you knew she needed just that number of days to accomplish it. But I also know that you know us, and you know how the humans you created and love find such a short amount of days to be tragic and heartbreaking, and you knew Josh and I would be tragically heartbroken when Lily's days were up. And I'm sure that broke your heart as well.

Thank you for giving her to us, even for just a short time. We wouldn't trade it for anything. And maybe that's why you chose us to be her parents.

I know how you saw my heart harden after Lily died. Not in every way, but in certain ways. Maybe harden isn't the right word...toughen? Strengthen? I'm not sure. But it changed. I still desired another child. Josh did too. But we were forever changed. We could not take for granted that what we wanted was what you wanted.

I can only venture to guess why we tried once more and we lost one more baby to miscarriage so early. My guess is that it was the straw that broke the camel's back for us, the one thing that would turn us towards adoption. Had we had a successful pregnancy, I don't think we ever would have started that adoption path. But that did it for us. As you know, we didn't grieve much for that pregnancy, if at all. We were so...jaded. We just had no grief left for a pregnancy we barely had the chance to accept. But Lord, please know, that I know it was another one of my children, and I look forward so much to meeting them one day!

I remember how very quickly we dived into the world of adoption. How you led us so clearly, step by step. How you continued to open door after door after door, leading us through them confidently. What were you leading us to, Lord? Who were you leading us to? As the months of this pregnancy has gone by, I have wondered. I have wondered why we were rushed down that path so quickly, so easily, only to have it halt at the very end. But then...I have wondered. I have wondered if it didn't end at all. I have wondered if you were quickly leading us to Ember Rose. If she was the goal. If she was the one and only reason you hurried us down the road...to be there just in time for her.

Why did we feel led to say yes to this mother, knowing her situation and risks to the baby? Why did you open that door and nudge us through, knowing it would end with another goodbye? Was it because you knew? You knew this baby, this child, would have been alone? Completely and utterly alone, had we said no. Lord, you know we did our best to show Ember's mother your love. We did all we could to be an example of unconditional love to that mother and her baby. I hope we did okay. I really do.

We loved that baby girl. We would have taken her home in a heartbeat, if that's what you wanted. You know that to be true. I cherish those hours and hours of snuggling her, of bathing her, of dressing her in pretty clothes and hair bows, of combing that gorgeous hair, of staring into those blank eyes. We loved her, and we would have loved her as our own daughter. But you knew.

You knew she had a short number of days as well. You knew we weren't her parents, but we were put there to be her caretakers. The ones who would make sure she was loved and doted on until she moved on in her life. And we did the best we could. And our hearts broke, again, if that's at all possible.

Sometimes I wish I knew where Ember is now. I know she was blessed with an adoptive family, somewhere out of state. That's the most I'll ever know. I don't know if she is here on earth or perfectly whole again in your arms as I write this. I wish I knew. But I don't have to know. We have total peace that we made the only decision we could make, and total peace that you took perfect care of her once we released her from our arms.

And even then, even in the midst of letting go of Ember, you had blessed us again. Even though I was not able to accept it for some time, even as I rocked Ember to sleep in that NICU, a baby grew within me. One you had put there despite our wishes, despite our "plans." And I have to believe you knew what you were doing.

Here I sit. Nine months later. That tiny baby has grown into a beautiful, healthy, wiggling, rolling child ready to burst out at any moment. I am enjoying my very last moments with him or her inside of me, directly under my heart. You have brought me so far. When I rocked Ember to sleep, I remember telling you, "I don't want to talk about it." And you knew. You knew I'd need time to accept this baby, to grow in love with it, to allow my perfect love for this baby to drive out all of the fears crowding my heart.

And I did! I have grown to love this child so much. So very much. So much so, that what I feared would happen back when I was rocking Ember to sleep, what I promised myself I would never let happen again, has happened. My heart has become so intertwined with this baby, that losing it will rip it to shreds once again. I tried. You know I did. I rejected each attachment of each string. I turned my head. I closed my eyes. But one day, I woke up, and there it was. The realization that millions of tiny strings had formed from my heart to this child. And there was nothing I could do about it.

So I enjoyed it as much as I possibly could with my wounded heart, such as it is. I hope you will reassure this child throughout its life how very, very much I love them. I hope they never doubt it. Please Lord, make sure they know their story, the full story, not just the beginning. The story of how we prayed for years that God would bless us with a child, and how you took years to prepare our hearts for this child.

We are only hours away from laying eyes on this gift. I think you know how excited I am. You also know how absolutely stone cold terrified I am. You have heard my cries, my doubts. What if this baby can't make it til tomorrow? What if something goes terribly wrong? What if the baby dies? What if I die? What if Eisley's heart is broken again? What if Jake cannot recover from another blow to his sensitive little heart? What if...what if...what if...

Thank you for listening to that. I'm sure it gets very frustrating for you. Especially since you have tried to teach me time and time again that you are in control. That nothing happens without your say so, and if you say so, I trust that to be the best thing.

Thank you. Thank you for Jake and Eisley. Thank you for Josh. Thank you for the countless family and friends who have continued to love on us and support us throughout this entire process. I ask that tomorrow will be filled with joy, but Lord, if it isn't, I ask that it will still be filled with You.

I cannot wait to lay eyes on the child you've known we would be given years ago, when we first started on this path. I cannot wait to tell them of all we've been through to get to them! I cannot wait to feel your tears of joy right along mine, after all the tears of sorrow we have cried together.  Please, Lord, show us how we can honor you with this little one. With this gift you've given us. A gift you didn't have to give at all.

Amen

39 Weeks and our Easter Lily

Well, I was secretly hoping for a little Easter bunny, but apparently this baby doesn't want to share his or her birthday. ;) That's okay though, because we got to enjoy a beautiful Easter weekend with our family. Saturday night, we had such a nice dinner at my parent's house with my brother and sister and their spouses, and Jake and Eisley got to do an egg hunt which they loved! On Sunday we went to church as a family and then enjoyed the annual Harrison Easter Bash at Josh's parents! That is always so much fun! The kids have a blast getting in their first swim of the season! We played some yard games and had a huge egg hunt and enjoyed the yummy food and weather. We very much missed Mike and Nicole as they are living in Thailand right now! It wasn't the same without them there! But we sent lots of pics and videos. :)

Here is a picture of our little family at church on Sunday. Last family pic before baby makes five!

As we try to do on every holiday, we made a trip out to the cemetery where Lily is buried. My mom had put together a beautiful flower arrangement with sweet little Easter eggs in it, so we wanted to put that over her stone and spend some time there praying and thanking the Lord that because of what Easter means to us, we will hold Lily again one day.

We sang a song in church that morning that really spoke to my heart as a mommy who's lost little ones.The song is called "Because He Lives," and if you've ever been to church on an Easter Sunday morning, chances are you've heard it. :)  It is an old song, I remember singing it in my very "old school" Baptist church my grandfather founded. (Like, we sang it straight out of a hymn book and everything...) ;) It's been redone by a few different bands, but the words remain the same. If you haven't heard it, I will put the lyrics below.

God sent His Son,

They called Him Jesus

He came to love, heal and forgive

He lived and died to buy my pardon

An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives

Because He lives I can face tomorrow

Because He lives, all fear is gone

Because I know He holds the future 

And life is worth the living

Just because He lives

How sweet to hold a newborn baby
And feel the pride and joy he gives
But greater still the calm assurance
This child can face uncertain days because He lives

And then one day

I'll cross that river

I'll fight life's final war with pain

And then as death gives way to victory

I'll see the lights of glory, and I'll know He lives

To me, as someone who has not only royally messed up in her life countless times, but also has had some trouble facing tomorrow after I've had todays that are nearly unbearable, this song is such a beautiful reminder to me. God sent His Son, who lived and died to buy my pardon, for all of those countless royal mess ups in my life. And because of that, because I know Who holds the future, because I know my Savior lives, I can face my tomorrows, even after the most horrendous todays. Because He lives...I am capable of so much more than I would be if I did not have that promise, that hope, that someday, death gives way to victory, and we win. I will win. I will win an eternity with the babies that I lost a lifetime with here. Because of how very much my Savior loves me, I know that life is worth the living, even amongst the pain.

This is the song I was singing in my head when we spent some time at Lily's grave yesterday. To clear something up quickly, we don't visit her grave because we believe she is there and she might "feel lonely" if we don't go. We know she's not there. But the marker that honors her life and her memory is there, and that's what we go visit. We know that we buried her tiny body under that marker, in a beautiful wooden casket that my dad made for her. We know that's where her body is, but we know she isn't there. We don't visit that grave for her, we visit it for us. We go so that we have special, set aside moments where we can sit together as a family and reflect on her life and death. To remember what God has done through her very short existence. We think about what life might be like if she hadn't died, and there were no graves to go visit on Easter.

We pray with the kids and talk to God about our babies in Heaven. We ask Him to kiss them for us. We thank Him that Lily isn't in any pain, and that she never knew anything but love, never hurt or sorrow. We talk to the kids about why it is important to remember Lily, and not just move on as if she was never born. How God gave her to us purposely, not accidentally, and how God took her back purposely. That God had a purpose in it, and we need to honor that. We need to make sure we pay attention to opportunities where Lily might come up in conversation and be used to comfort another in pain. How God might have other plans for her short life that we have yet to discover.

Josh and I take some time and sit near her grave and just think. Think and pray. I don't know what Josh does during his time. Usually I just think about that day, the day she was born, how it was beautiful and horrifying all at once. How it changed me forever. This time I thought about how far we have come, that I am about to give birth and put my heart on the line once again for a child we desire so much. I thought about how good God has been to bless us with another baby after all we've been through.  And I thought about how we'd fit another tiny grave next to Lily's, if something goes terribly wrong this week. I asked the Lord to give Lily extra snuggles today, if He could pry her from my grandmother's grip. ;) And I blew her a kiss I knew she wouldn't see, but it made me feel better.

Josh usually just sits for a minute. I don't know what He thinks about. I'm not sure what goes through his daddy heart during that time. I just watch him, and hurt for him. I hurt that he carries his grief all by himself most of the time. He'll share it with me sometimes, but that's the extent of it. He doesn't have the support system I've accumulated after our losses. I'm free to talk or text through my pain to my close friends, or even blog through it! He doesn't have that support with his friends as much as I wish he did! But thankfully he has a shoulder to lean on in the Lord, and I'm so thankful for that.

Anyways, I just wanted to share a little about our Easter. Even though we have an incredible blessing coming up this week, we never forget what we lost to get here. We think about our losses even more the closer we get to being blessed with this baby. We appreciate it more, and we fear it more. We're so very excited, but also so very nervous. The last time I was wheeled into that same hospital to deliver my baby, I was wheeled out without her. You don't shake those feelings, ever.

But we are so hopeful that this experience will be nothing but dripping with joy! We're praying for that! And it won't be long now!

Here is the very last weekly preggo picture at 39 weeks! I might have Josh take one more just before they wheel me back, but for now, this is the end of it!

Me and the kiddo in our last week together!

So that is what almost ten months pregnant looks like! Attractive isn't it? ;) That's okay, we've had a grand ol' time together. :) I will miss so many things about pregnancy, but there are a few small things I won't miss! The baby has gotten so strong that its kicks and rolls now feel like inner assaults. They make me cry out randomly and give Josh the creeps when he feels them. I am able to play this game with the baby now where it kicks me with its giant foot, I can grab it and move it over, and then the baby moves its foot back where it was. I grab it and move it to a different spot, and it kicks back and moves it back to where it was. That's a true story, I would video it for you but Josh would probably say that's creepy. ;)

Tomorrow will be a big day! I have a lot of cleaning and packing to do! Then Josh and I are taking the kids out for a late "Last Supper" if you will, as a family of four. We are going to stay up late and talk and play games and have some fun. Then we all plan to sleep in on Wednesday and wake up feeling refreshed and ready to face a HUGE day!!!

If you think of us, we'd appreciate your prayers for the safe arrival of this baby! For calm nerves, not only for me and Josh, but for the kids as well as our parents and siblings. We are praying for a wonderful hospital experience and great support while we are there. And that God will once again use the birth of this baby as a way to bring Josh and me so much closer together. There is something about going through that with your spouse that makes you fall in love with them all over again. Probably because you are both falling in love with the brand new person you just created!

Thank you so much for following us this far. We can't wait to finally have some joyous news to share!!! Stay tuned!!!

Karen

When Do They Matter?

Last week Josh and I had a bit of a scare that caused me to have to take a trip down to OB triage to get checked out. It is quite normal, in my experience, with my pregnancies, to have a lot of harmless contractions. That is how it was the entire last half of my pregnancy with the twins, so I wasn't that surprised when around 20 weeks, sure enough, I started having regular contractions with this little one as well. It isn't anything alarming, just sporadic contractions that aren't comfortable but come and go with no real rhyme or reason.

This day however, I had finished a long, six hour infusion of IVIG, which typically causes dehydration that isn't a big deal, unless of course, you are pregnant and prone to early contractions already. Sure enough, when it was over, I was not feeling well at all. I started having those contractions, except this time they weren't just uncomfortable, they were very very uncomfortable, and they were not sporadic, they were regular and evenly spaced at two minutes apart.

I did what you are supposed to do. I laid down on my left side (someday I'm going to research why you are supposed to do that), downed about 70 ounces of water in five minutes, and tried to relax. Two hours later, however, the contractions were no better, I felt no better, and I was starting to get concerned.

Thus our trip to OB triage. On the instructions of my on call OB nurse as well as my concerned sister/physician, we hauled our tired selves down to the hospital to get checked out. I have made these trips before when I was pregnant with Jake and Eisley. It usually ended in the "Walk of Shame" as I had fondly nicknamed it, leaving the hospital after being checked out and told you are not in labor and there is nothing wrong with you, other than you are an overly concerned first time mother. Except this time I was not a first time mother, and I could only hope that in a few hours I would be walking back to my car, relieved and still feeling the movements of my baby.

I've made a lot of friends since we lost Lily at 19 weeks. I belong to a "club" of sorts of mothers who have had late losses. We somehow find each other and know each other's stories. I lost Lily to a cord accident, but most of the mothers I know who lost babies around 20 weeks did so because they went into pre-term labor that was unable to be stopped. I imagined myself at that moment, 22 weeks pregnant, a mere two weeks away from having a baby that could possibly be saved by medical technology today, but knowing that two weeks makes all the difference. If I was to go into labor, my baby would live a mere seconds, and no one would be able to help it. The thought of that urged me to put my pride aside and go in to be checked, just in case, because the nagging possibility that things were not okay meant I wouldn't sleep that night until someone told me otherwise.

What do you know? As soon as I got situated on that hospital bed, my contractions had slowed significantly. I was of course relieved, but also wondered if the staff would think I was one of "those" patients who come running into the hospital for every little thing. But then I remembered that I have lost three pregnancies, and if anyone deserved to be overly cautious, I certainly did.

I won't go into all the details of our experience at the hospital that night, but I will tell you the part that struck a very sensitive cord in a mother who held a baby in her hand that was a mere 19 weeks into development.

Since my contractions had nearly stopped, we were told by my nurse that we were free to go. After asking her if they could just check me to make sure I hadn't dilated, we were told, "Honestly, it wouldn't matter if you were dilated. The baby isn't viable until 24 weeks, so even if you were in labor, there is nothing we can do."

Two weeks. I was a mere two weeks from being able to help my baby. I pushed further and asked if it wouldn't be possible to stop my labor, if I were in fact in labor, so that I may get to 24 weeks and have the possibility of delivering my baby alive and able to receive medical intervention. I was told, "Medications to stop labor are ineffective until 24 weeks. The baby isn't viable until then."

Now, I know this is not all necessarily true, and very much depends on each individual case. We were also told that if I were in fact in labor, I probably had an infection and "it would be in the best interest of the mother to deliver the baby", even though that meant my baby would die. If I were to have an infection, then yes, as sad as it is, this is true. But I wasn't checked for an infection. I wasn't checked at all. For all they knew, I had started to dilate and was being sent home to deliver that little baby on my bathroom floor.

I was told to disregard my discharge instructions that stated I needed to go back to the hospital if I had more than six contractions in an hour, because "your baby isn't viable until 24 weeks, so it won't matter if you're in labor. There is nothing we could do about it. There's nothing we could do for you or the baby at this stage."

We were told a number of things that night that didn't quite add up and I very much did not agree with, but that isn't the point of my telling you this story. Have you ever heard that saying, "You may not remember what they said, but you will always remember how they made you feel."? For some reason, in my conversations with the nurse about my history of losses and her lack of a sympathetic reaction to them, in the way she acted as if it was no big deal that I was a full three weeks further along than I was when I delivered Lily and to me this was such a big deal, in the way I was essentially told, "Your baby doesn't have a chance at life for two more weeks. Come back when it does," the way I was left feeling was that my baby did not yet matter, at least it wouldn't for 14 more days.

Well who decided that?

I wondered to myself what this particular nurse would have thought of my giving birth to a 19 weeker at that very hospital a little over a year ago. I wondered if she would have thought it was silly of me to grieve deeply for that baby, to name her, to hold her and take pictures of her, when she was a full five weeks from viability. I wondered if she knew I would go to the ends of the earth to save the baby I am now pregnant with, and would do absolutely anything to stop my labor and get the two more precious weeks it so desperately needed to survive. I wondered if she knew I would probably be up all night wondering if I had started dilating, wondering if I would be forced to do it all over again, to deliver a tiny baby with no chance of survival, but this time with the torturous knowledge that I was so incredibly close.

Now, all of that being said, the baby and I are just fine. I went to the doctor the next day and got properly checked out and given a clean bill of health. But the incident at the hospital has had me thinking constantly. One might not even call it an "incident" really, we were never treated rudely or disrespectfully, we were just extra sensitive, and rightly so. We have held in our hands a baby much smaller than the one I'm currently growing. I have labored with a "non-viable fetus," and as someone who has delivered full term, seven pound twins, I can tell you it was just as painful, just as exhausting, and ten thousand times as emotional. Lily may have been weeks away from viability, but she had been loved and cared about for 19 weeks and 3 days by her family. The very hospital who was now telling me there is nothing they could do for me or my baby for two more weeks was the same hospital that helped me give birth to Lily, that made me and Eisley matching charm bracelets with Lily's name on them, that cried with us as we held her and grieved her loss, that helped wrap Lily in a tiny blanket and showed us how to hold her so we wouldn't damage her incredibly fragile little body. I was being told by this nurse that there was nothing they could do for me if I went into labor before 24 weeks, but after my experience with Lily, after all the hospital did to make her birth a cherished experience even though she was not viable, not even alive, when she was born, I knew that wasn't true.

I remember when I was in labor with Lily how I had three different nurses because of shift changes and the fact that the labor dragged out for nearly two days. I remember my last nurse, the one who got to deliver Lily, holding my hand and telling me, "We've all been through this you know. Each of the nurses you've had has been right where you are, doing what you are doing right now."

I remember how very much that meant to me, how it gave me this peace that they knew the pain I was in, that they knew how much I loved this baby, even though she wasn't considered "viable" and was probably the smallest baby they had ever delivered. I remember how it gave me validation that my baby mattered, that this labor and delivery mattered, that it was meaningful and I had every right to be a complete and utter broken mess over the whole thing.

It is amazing how different people's reactions can cause such a stir in me. When people ask me how many kids I have, sometimes I say, "I have three. Twins who are seven and a baby girl who passed away." Sometimes people push for more details and ask how she died, how far along I was. Many times I leave that part out, because I can see the thoughts behind their eyeballs when I say "20 weeks". A few times I have even had people say to me something to the effect of, "Oh, thank goodness you didn't get further. I have a friend who lost a baby at 40 weeks, imagine how painful that would be." Well...I imagine it would be incredibly painful. But those thoughts, those attitudes, much like the one I was getting from my nurse last week, they take away my "right" to let my baby matter. Am I not allowed to truly love, and consequently truly grieve the loss of my baby until I am 24 weeks pregnant? Does this baby not matter until then? Twenty years ago 24 weeks would have been considered "non-viable". In twenty more years will the world finally allow mothers to fully grieve their tiny babies because medical technology will have progressed to be able to save 19 weekers? I wonder.

And what about the mothers who deeply grieve the loss of their very early pregnancies? I have lost two in those early stages, and know countless friends who have as well. I know it is a struggle for many of them to claim their right to grieve those losses in a world where we allow and even encourage those early pregnancies to be terminated if that is what the woman chooses. It is not politically correct to grieve a "baby" when as a society, we do not consider it to be one yet. The world collectively side eyes any woman who refers to her early pregnancy loss as a "child" when in their minds, this woman is essentially grieving heavily for a mass of undeveloped tissue. Most of them figuratively pat the woman on the head like a small child crying over a broken toy and humor her so called grief for a short while, but really, how long must we allow this woman to go on this way over something we refuse to admit was a life, with a soul, that has been lost?

I often think about what it is that changes reactions in people when they hear my so called "daughter" was only 19 weeks along, as opposed to a full-term baby that passed away. I am not proud of it, but I have once or twice fudged how far along I was when I lost Lily if I sense that the person asking will not understand my grief unless I was past the point of viability. I wonder if by giving the right to women to choose whether or not to end their pregnancy before 24 weeks, we have consequently stolen the right of mothers who lose their babies before 24 weeks to fully grieve their death?

I don't mean to start a debate about abortion or even imply that mothers who make the heartbreaking choice to terminate their pregnancies do not also grieve heavily, but I do think that it is impossible for most people to both believe it is acceptable to end the life of a baby before it can survive outside the womb, and also treat babies who can not yet survive outside the womb as, well, babies. Because...how can they? How can you say "I am so incredibly sorry for the loss of your precious daughter Lily" while at the same time believing that life is not really life worth protecting until that life is much older?

So...my question remains. When do they matter? When is a woman allowed to fully love and therefore fully grieve her child? Is it the moment she is aware that baby exists? Is it after she sees a beating heart on the ultrasound? Is it not until she and the baby have conquered the first trimester? Is it not until the baby has a chance at surviving outside the womb?  At what point in a pregnancy does a mother earn her right to grieve the child within her if it has been lost? And who decides that, exactly?

When I had my first miscarriage, I was fairly early on, still in my first trimester. But far enough along that I had recklessly allowed myself to attach to that baby, or the idea of it anyway. When I was told I had miscarried, I was blindsided and broken. As a Christian, I believe that life begins at conception, so it is mutually exclusive that I then had to grieve the loss of a child, even though I had never seen a heart beat, had never felt the baby move, had no real evidence that it even existed except some blood tests and an ultrasound showing an empty sac where my baby should be. Yet, I grieved. And to the dismay of the world, I still do.

When I was pregnant with Lily, I had so much more "proof" of her existence. I had a dozen ultrasounds documenting her growth from a tiny spec to a fully formed baby with wiggling arms and legs. We knew she was a girl, which somehow made her even more real to us. We got past that dreaded first trimester. We were told everything looked perfect...until it wasn't.

When I lost Lily, I grieved heavily over the daughter I knew existed. It was not just my Christian convictions that led me to grieve her loss, it was holding her perfectly formed body in my hands. It was kissing her tiny, perfect lips. It was marveling over each and every detail of her tiny toes, miniature hands, and fingernails as big as mustard seeds. Yet...Lily had no chance of surviving outside of me. Because I was four days short of 20 weeks, it wasn't even a legal requirement that we bury her. It certainly was out of the ordinary for us to hold funeral services for her. I know for a fact there were some that raised their eyebrows at how "far" we took her loss. But I have never cared about that, because I know that if they held her like I did, if they saw how she was a mirror image of Jake when he was born, only a tenth of his size, they would understand. They would understand that she mattered, even at that stage, even before the world recognized her right to life.

I had another miscarriage a few months after Lily was born. I was so early on, even I hadn't allowed myself to accept that I was pregnant. This did, in fact, make the loss much easier to bear. We didn't name this baby like we did the others. We count it when Jake and Eisley are counting how many seats we would need in our car if all of our babies had lived, as they sometimes do, but it was a blip on our radar after the earthquakes of grief we had experienced. I was not broken over it. I was sad, of course. But I was incredibly jaded and hard-hearted by that time, and that baby, while I know it was there and it was lost, did not get the benefit of my broken heart, because it was practically stone by then. When I hear of friends who have lost babies as early as I did that last time, I do not compare my lack of grieving over that short pregnancy to what they must be feeling. I know now that pain is relative. That if my third miscarriage had been my first, it would have rocked my world and brought me to my knees, because I had nothing to compare it to. It would be a loss greater than any I had experienced. It would matter.

This is the point I am trying to drive home, in my long winded way: These losses matter. They matter to mothers. They should matter to the world, but you know what? We aren't asking that. As the mothers who have lost these babies, we will settle for the world allowing them to matter to us. Give us back our right to grieve them, whether they be four weeks along or forty weeks. The loss of young life is always tragic, especially to the parents. Please remember this as you come across women who have experienced pregnancy loss. Treat them with the reverence that women who have walked through fire deserve. Don't put your ideas of when babies should matter on their already overloaded shoulders. Pay attention to your attitudes about their loss. Be mindful of how you speak about it. Follow their lead. If they refer to their early loss as a baby, as a child, you should too. On the same token, if they can't bear to do so, if treating their loss as the loss of a child is too painful for them to handle, don't push it. We live in a world where women are conditioned to emotionally detach themselves from their babies until they are past the first trimester, past the healthy anatomy scan, past the point of viability, and if we lose them before those accepted milestones, we are not only left empty and grieving, we are left feeling invalidated, guilty for allowing ourselves to attach so early, overly sensitive, indulgent, and emotional.

I am 22 weeks, 4 days pregnant and counting. Like, literally, counting down the days until "viability". When I can wake up and know that if I went into labor, they could possibly save my baby. There would be a good chance at me holding him or her alive. But knowing that if I gave birth today my baby would die does not lessen the love I have for this little one. Her kicks are no less real because she wouldn't be able to do so outside of me. This baby matters...so much...and has mattered since the moment I knew about her (or him!). Even as someone who had a very, very hard time emotionally attaching to this pregnancy and this baby, and rightly so, I have never been able to fool myself into thinking that its loss wouldn't matter. As mothers, we do not have a magic switch of emotion and love for our babies that we can turn on once the doctors tell us it is safe to do so. It is there from the beginning. We all handle it differently, we all handle loss differently, but I think the one thing we can all agree upon is that these babies we are carrying, they matter. Even if the world can't agree on when they should matter.

And as a Christian, one thing I can take comfort in, even when it seems my babies do not matter to those around me, is that they mattered to the Lord. They mattered from the very moment of their creation. And I am confident they matter to Him just as much as my sweet Eisley and my precious Jake matter to Him...and that, I know, is a whole heck of a lot.

Psalm 139: 13-16a
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you, when I was made in the secret place,
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body...

"...Knowing there will never be a day when we will ever get over this, no matter how fast society turns on this axis, we will never move on, we will never forget, we will always hold onto you..."

Lily's Birth Day

Okay, this is the last post in my "Series of Lily" if you will. This week has been about remembering her, and celebrating the impact she had on our family. Thank you for following along, even though these posts haven't been easy to read. She was and is a huge part of our family's story. Thank you for remembering her with us, and for being there for us through it all.

We walked into the hospital when it was still dark outside. The sun hadn't come up yet, and I had no idea it wouldn't be until the next day's sunrise that I would finally deliver Lily. I knew I would be leaving her there, and the thought of that left a pit in my stomach. I held tightly to the pink bunny I had gotten for her at the hospital gift shop when I had my amnio the day before. I didn't let go of that bunny for weeks.

We checked into the maternity triage. They must have told the receptionist I was coming. She gave us sympathetic looks and spoke in a very soft voice. I remember giving her my insurance card and thinking how awful it was going to be to get the hospital bill in the mail months later. I was right.

After waiting for awhile in the small waiting area and praying to God that no healthy pregnant women came in, we were called back. I had been telling all my family and friends to pray that I would have kind nurses. For some reason I was terrified that my nurses wouldn't be nice. It seems silly now, but my feelings and nerves were so fragile that I couldn't bear the thought of having a nurse who was rude or unsympathetic. The nurse who helped me into my room was so kind, but I remember telling myself not to get attached to her because I would only have her for three hours before shift change.

She took me to a room far away from the other labor and delivery rooms, off in a back corner of the unit where the nurses station was unmanned except for my nurse and one or two other people. She told me they didn't want me to have to hear any babies crying or mothers laboring with healthy infants, and it would be more peaceful back there. She showed me the special hospital heart they taped to my door, so that everyone who entered would know I was delivering a stillborn, I guess so they wouldn't try something awful like smiling.

I got settled in the room and they started my IV. The nurse asked me all the questions she needed for my chart, and if I wanted the epidural right away or in a few hours. I told her I didn't want any drugs. I was so scared that if I got an epidural, I wouldn't feel Lily come out. I thought because she was so tiny that she'd slip out and I wouldn't notice, and the thought terrified me. I thought if I got any pain medication that I would be too groggy to remember my incredibly short time with Lily, and I wanted to be completely lucid since I knew I had only hours, maybe minutes with my baby girl.

They began the induction by giving me some medication that would start labor. They anticipated I would only need one or two doses before Lily would be born. I was hopeful we would have her by lunch that day.

Jake and Eisley were going to come visit before things really got started, and I remember trying to make myself look nice and comfortable for them, so they wouldn't be scared. When Josh's parents arrived with the kids, we had some time together for them to see me and also say goodbye to Lily. The kids had drawn pictures for her and brought her stuffed animals. Seeing them and holding them lifted my spirits immensely. I was so thankful I would have them to go home to, and wondered how any woman could go through something like this without children at home to fill the void. After two losses, and later three, I have come to realize what an incredible miracle Jake and Eisley are. I had taken for granted so much how easily my twins came to me, how healthy they were. I knew I never, ever would take that for granted again.

Showing me their drawings

Eisley drew both Lily and Gracie in Heaven...now she draws three babies up there. :)

Jake drew a two headed dragon. :)

Telling him how very much mommy loved him and explaining why he couldn't stay

Eisley was begging to stay and hold Lily.  I promised to sing Lily Eisley's  special song for her and give her a kiss from her sister

No one can make me smile like Jakey can. :)

Robin agreed to stay with Jake and Eisley instead of meeting her grand-daughter, and I appreciated  it more than I can ever tell her. It gave me such peace knowing they were with their Nana.

Even in our darkest hour, our babies can make us laugh! They have the joy of the Lord in them and He knew we would need it in those moments.

Dropping their toys for Lily in her empty bassinet. This was such a tough moment for me...

Kissing her sister goodbye "until Heaven".

One last family picture with Lily

As much joy as seeing my kids brought me, it had taken absolutely every ounce of my strength to hold it together while they were there. We had been visiting with them and our family for awhile and I hadn't realized what kind of emotional strength it was taking to not fall apart. The moment the door shut after everyone walked out, and I mean the very moment that door closed, I completely lost it. I broke down into gasping sobs and Josh had to climb into the bed with me to calm me down. This was real. It was happening. I was here, Lily had to come out, and there was no turning back now.

The pain of labor with Lily was sharp and unyielding. With every contraction, I knew I was closer to losing her forever. Yet it seemed to go on and on without progress. Hours would go by, and I would be so sure that I had progressed enough to start pushing, but the nurse would check me and shake her head every time. It was just not moving along.

I had a new nurse by now, and I loved her. I prayed I would have Lily before shift change because I wanted her to be the one to deliver Lily. They upped the dosage of the induction meds and the nurse calmly and gently tried to convince me to get an epidural, or at least take some pain medication. I vehemently denied it, and told her my fears of not being able to feel Lily come out, as well as my fear of being too groggy to remember my only time with her. She told me she understood, but that the dosage of meds they were giving me were going to cause an intense amount of pain, and I should not have to deal with that on top of everything else. I could tell how badly Josh and my nurse wanted me to give in, but the fear was too great, and the pain seemed manageable compared to what I was experiencing emotionally.

I remember writing emails back and forth to my sister, updating her on my lack of progress. I had texts coming in from friends who knew I was in labor telling me they were praying, and Josh and I were so thankful for the support of our loved ones.

Josh was amazing. He had been incredible for the past few days, but during my labor with Lily I realized how very, very much I loved him. He took such good care of me. I remember the nurse telling Josh to go get something to eat, and him refusing to leave me. She told him she would take care of me, and it would be a long time before Lily was born, so he should go. He very reluctantly agreed, and when he kissed me goodbye and walked out, the nurse leaned over and said, "That man loves you so much." It meant the world to me, and I was overcome realizing the grace God has shown Josh and me in our marriage, that after everything we have been through, a stranger could still see our love for each other.

We would go back and forth between having strong, peaceful moments, and dark, terrifying ones. I remember one particular time when I was in so much pain, and the grief of what I was being asked to do hit me like a ton of bricks. My parents happened to be in the room at the time, and I remember just falling apart at the seams. I was sobbing and repeating over and over again "I cannot give birth to a dead baby, I cannot give birth to a dead baby." I was out of my mind with sadness, and I was so scared about what was happening. I was scared that Lily would look awful, that I wouldn't be able to hold her, that they would discover she had some genetic defect that would prevent us from wanting to try again. I was scared that I didn't have what it took to do this, that I would be too weak. I was scared of the sadness, because I knew it would be bigger than any sadness I had ever felt.

Josh held me together while I was falling apart. God granted him supernatural strength to deal with me in those moments and not lose it himself. It was late in the evening, I had been in painful labor for over 15 hours, and there was no end in sight. We hadn't slept properly in days. We were physically and emotionally exhausted, and at the end of our rope.

At midnight, I got a new nurse. I dreaded saying goodbye to the one I had bonded with in the past 12 hours, and prayed so hard the next nurse would be kind to me. She was an angel. She told me she had been where I was right then, that all my nurses I had so far had been. I suddenly understood why they were all so wonderful...they got it. They too had faced what I was facing, and God knew I needed them.

She saw how hungry, exhausted, and hurting I was, and she went about fixing it. Though women in labor are not supposed to eat, she "turned her head" while I ate some tater tots and a cherry limeade that Josh snuck in from Sonic. She sat on my bed and asked me to explain my fears about the epidural. I cried when I told her, and she put her hand on my face and promised me that she would not let me miss my time with Lily. She assured me they would turn the epidural down so I would be able to feel when Lily was ready to come out. She told me firmly but gently that I needed sleep, or I would not have the emotional or physical strength that I needed to deliver my daughter. She promised me she would check me every two hours to make sure that when it got close to time to push, that we would know and I could turn off the epidural.

Perhaps it was her kindness, perhaps it was that I had absolutely no strength left to argue, but I agreed. They called the anesthesiologist and he came very quickly to give me the epidural. I remember how very quiet and somber he was. He told me very curtly that he was very sorry, but he was going to make it so at least I wasn't hurting physically anymore. As epidurals do, it hurt going it. I remember staring at Lily's empty bassinet and having a flashback of my epidural with the twins, how when I got it then, I stared at their bassinet and thought about how if I could just get through this, soon I would have my babies crying right there in that bassinet. I realized I had nothing to look forward to, and suddenly that needle hurt even more.

I had no tears left, though. I stared blankly while it went in, and waited for the relief. Minutes later, I finally felt it. The pain was gone. It is amazing the high you get when you have been in incredible pain for hours on end and suddenly the pain is gone. I think Josh was even more relieved than I was, and you could tell that relieving me of my pain had taken a huge load of off his shoulders. The nurse got me comfortable, turned off all the lights, and ordered us to get some sleep. I remember being so tired. I let her give me something to make me doze off and being so comfortable that I was afraid I'd miss the birth. She assured me I wouldn't, and Josh and I finally slept.

Two hours later it was time to be checked again. It was early morning, and I had been in labor for nearly 24 hours. I prayed this was it. I was so disappointed when the nurse told me I still had a ways to go, but she was hopeful we would deliver before the end of her shift in two hours.

When she walked out, I hit a wall. Josh got into bed with me and we realized how close we were to all of this being over. We were so scared, and all we could do is hold each other and pray. We prayed for peace, we prayed that Lily would be whole and beautiful. We told God we were ready, and to please let her come soon. We asked for strength, we asked for time to hold her, we asked that this nurse would be the one to deliver Lily, as I loved her most of all and knew she would be so gentle with our Lily.

Josh said Amen, and we talked. We felt such a peace, such a calm, we knew it was the Lord. Right then, I felt it. I knew she was coming. Even though the nurse had just checked me only minutes before, I could feel it. I knew. I told Josh to get her right now, right right now, that Lily was coming. He didn't quite believe me at first, but I was so adamant that he sat up and ran to the door. He said, "She thinks it's time, right now." The nurses came in and asked what I was feeling. I said, "Lily. She's coming now."

The nurse checked me and I saw the surprise on her face as she gently said, "Okay. She's coming right now. I will get the doctor, but she might not make it in time." The doctor came in minutes though, and the nurses hurried to get things ready. Suddenly I was so excited to see Lily. It wasn't the same kind of excitement as with the twins, obviously, but I still was so excited to see her and hold her. Josh held my hand and kissed my head.

It was so bright in that room. I told the nurses to dim the lights, I wanted it dark and quiet. They did, and then they told me to push. I pushed, once, and that was it. At 5:36 a.m., Lily was born. She came out with her amniotic sac completely in tact, and it look like a giant water balloon. It was amazing. They took her to her bassinet and broke the water. The nurse told me she wanted to clean Lily up before we saw her, and I was fine with that. I was so scared at how she would look, and told Josh to make sure she was okay before they brought her to me.

After a few minutes, the doctor came over. She told me that Lily's cord had been wrapped tightly around her neck three times, and she was confident that this was the cause of death. An autopsy wouldn't be necessary. She told me Lily looked perfectly healthy, and had this accident not occurred, she was sure Lily would have been born a perfectly healthy baby girl. I felt relief and sadness at the same time. Was this good news, or bad? I couldn't decide.

The nurse came over and quietly told us what to expect. She said that Lily was extremely small and fragile. She told us there was swelling in her neck because of the cord, and that her skin was so delicate that we needed to limit touching it. She asked if we were ready, and we both nodded.

I remember them handing her to me in what suddenly seemed like a giant baby blanket, though they had always seemed so small to me. Lily swam in it. I held my breath as I looked down at her.

She was beautiful.

She looked so pitiful, like she had been hurting. I cried. Her lips were so familiar. They were Jake's lips. We unwrapped her and inspected the long, beautiful legs we had seen on her ultrasounds so many times. We commented that her calves looked so muscular, she had Harrison calves.

Her feet were so incredibly small, yet completely perfect. Her tiny hands had tiny, perfect fingers the size of rice. She was so delicate, and I was so scared of breaking her.

The nurse came back with a teeny, tiny pink blanket that velcroed together in the front. She put Lily in it and it made her so much easier to hold. It held her together, literally, because she was so incredibly delicate.

We marveled over her. We sang her Eisley's special song and told her about her brother and sister. We told her how sorry we were.

After awhile we told the nurse to let our family in. We told her to warn them about how small she was, how her skin looked, to explain how she had died so I wouldn't have to. I remember feeling scared that everyone might think she looked too upsetting, that maybe they wouldn't want to see her after all.

When they walked in, I held Lily in my hands and told them, "She's so tiny. Her skin is really shiny and her neck is swollen. But she's beautiful."

I was proud of her. I wanted to show her off. She was my daughter, and I wanted everyone else to love her as much as I did.

I'm so thankful they came. They supported us, they held her, and they were so strong. I know how hard that was for them. She was scary to look at, it was a scary situation, and they did it for us. They showed so much love for us and their granddaughter, and we were so grateful.

We took time with our family to pray and read Scripture over Lily together. Josh and I took turns holding her and reading out loud from the Bible. We read Psalm 139.

You have searched me, Lord,
    and you know me.
 You know when I sit and when I rise; 
    you perceive my thoughts from afar.
 You discern my going out and my lying down;
    you are familiar with all my ways. 
 Before a word is on my tongue
    you, Lord, know it completely. 
 You hem me in behind and before,
    and you lay your hand upon me.
 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, 
    too lofty for me to attain.

 Where can I go from your Spirit?
    Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
    if I settle on the far side of the sea,
 even there your hand will guide me, 
    your right hand will hold me fast.
 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
    and the light become night around me,”
 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
    the night will shine like the day,
    for darkness is as light to you.

 For you created my inmost being; 
    you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 
 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful, 
    I know that full well.
 My frame was not hidden from you
    when I was made in the secret place,
    when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. 
 Your eyes saw my unformed body;
    all the days ordained for me were written in your book
    before one of them came to be.
 How precious to me are your thoughts,^[a] God! 
    How vast is the sum of them!
 Were I to count them, 
    they would outnumber the grains of sand —
    when I awake, I am still with you.

And then we prayed over her.

We asked our families to step out so we could have our last moments with her. Josh and I knew it was coming to an end. We felt at peace with letting her go. We spent a few minutes holding her, kissing her feet, and trying to imprint mental pictures of her in our minds, so we would not ever forget.

I always sing my babies lullabies at bedtime. I let them choose one of many, and I sing it to them, every night, no matter what. I wanted to sing to Lily, but I couldn't think of the right lullaby. Then an old George Straight song popped into my head, and it was perfect for my sweet baby who I would only get to sing to once...

Goodnight, Sweetheart, sleep tight
Wherever you are

God holds you in His arms

While we're apart

Though your're far away

Your love will stay

Tucked away here in my heart

Goodnight, Sweetheart, sleep tight

Wherever you are

And then we knew. It was time. Josh and I whispered to her that it was time to go. We told her we would see her again very soon, and we let go. Josh called the nurse in, and we told her we were ready. She asked if we were sure, and we said yes. I had pictured that moment for days, thinking it would be traumatic, heart wrenching and impossible. But as I handed Lily back to the nurse, I felt only peace. I was so thankful for my time with her, that I got to hold her at all, and I knew our time was up. She was gone, and I was ready to let her go.

It was a very odd feeling, confusing almost, after we let Lily go. What next? The nurse told me I needed to eat breakfast, and then I could go home. I ordered bacon and eggs. When I finished, Josh helped me get dressed, and it was time to go. Just like that.

The nurse who delivered Lily had stayed an extra two hours to see me out. She gave me two bracelets she had made while I was in labor, they were pink and they had "Lily Grace" on them. One for me, and one for Eisley. The nurses had taken Lily's footprints and made me a beautiful card with her height, weight, and time of birth. They even made Jake and Eisley their own special memory pages with Lily's footprints and the date. A blue one for Jake, and pink one for Eisley. They said, "In memory of our baby sister, Lily". They were so beautiful. I thanked the nurse and gave her a huge hug. I told her how important it was to me that she had been there, and that she had treated me with such love. I am still convinced to this day that those nurses were angels sent by God to get me through those hours! 

I remember them wheeling me out of the hospital, my pink bunny in hand, and seeing a new daddy with his brand new baby car seat coming in the front door, smiling with excitement as he got ready to take his little one home. It was a punch in the gut. We had no one to take home. 

I panicked. How could I leave Lily in that hospital? Where was she? Was she alone? What did they do with babies like her? How could I desert her like this? I felt like a horrible, terrible, awful mother. I felt empty, so empty. And I held that pink bunny as if my very life depended on it.

And we got in the car.

And we drove home.

Lily's birthday was one year ago today. I have spent the past week thinking of very little but her, of those few days in June where our world turned upside down, looking back at the incredible strength God granted us to get through something like that, and how far we have come in the past twelve months. 

We met our new baby's birthmother today. We talked about how it was Lily's birthday, and we were all so amazed at God's perfect timing. I promise to get back to our adoption journey in the next post, but this week belonged to Lily. I have actually enjoyed sharing her birth story with the world, because it is healing for me. It is painful, but I am proud of our story. I hope that it offers insight to those who don't understand the grief of pregnancy and infant loss. I hope it offers encouragement to those who have suffered it, knowing they are not alone. And I hope if offers hope to anyone going through a time of grief, hope that the Lord can offer peace and comfort that you cannot get anywhere else. We are proof of that.

I'm so thankful that you have taken the time to read about our loss and how the Lord brought us through it. I have been told so many times that my posts never cease to make people cry, but I promise that's not my intention! I heal through my writing, through sharing our story. I believe that experiencing crippling grief and sadness makes our joyful experiences so much more amazing. Having walked through such dark times, I appreciate the bright ones that much more! I want to share all the aspects of our journey, not just the happy ones, because that just wouldn't be accurate. When we do finally hold this new baby in our arms, and I post pictures of our family complete, I know you will all cry tears of joy with us because you have learned how far God has brought us! 

We sometimes wish things had been different. That Lily could have been born healthy and perfect, and we never would have had to walk this road. But we cannot deny the lessons God has taught us through our experience losing Lily, lessons about faith, provision, the true nature of the Lord, friendship, family, and love. I am changed because of her. I would not want to go back to the person I was before I had Lily. The Karen I am now is stronger, more sensitive, less petty, and closer to my Lord. I am a better mother and a better friend, though both my children and my friends have had to be patient with me this year while I learned those lessons. I am a better wife to my better husband. I am wiser, and I am so much more appreciative of my joys in life. 

Thank you, my sweet Lily, for growing your mommy so much! Happy birthday my love! We will see you very, very soon.