Two months is too little
They let him go
They had no sudden healing
To think that Providence
Would take a child from his mother
While she prays, is appalling
Who told us we'd be rescued
What has changed and
Why should we be saved from nightmares
We're asking why this happens to us
Who have died to live, it's unfair
This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was when everything fell
We'd be held
These lyrics by Natalie Grant have spoken volumes to my heart during my pregnancy with Isaac and in the months since,. They speak truth on so many levels.
Lately, I've been doing a lot of holding. I am sure this comes as no surprise, being the mother of a 6 1/2 week old. After feeding Eliana, Spencer or I hold her upright for a bit to help her tummy settle so that she doesn't spit up as much. I have come to love that time in the middle of the night; while tired, I love sitting up in bed, holding her close, listening to her breathe, and just taking her in. Ellie is just so cuddly and snuggly. She loves to be held.
This past week I received an email from a friend... another mom who knows what the pain of losing your child is like. She lost twin boys who would have turned 2 this past March. In addition to the beautiful little girl she had before her twin boys, she has since had another beautiful baby girl after them. She of course asks about Eliana; but in her email, she asked me something I have truthfully failed to ask myself recently.
How's the grief?
I was so thankful she asked, and at first I wasn't sure how to answer. I have been so preoccupied caring for Eliana, holding things together at home, trying to figure out my job situation... I hadn't really slowed down enough to really think about it, or to really let it in.
Her email caused me to reflect. As I did, it occurred to me that the grief has been intensifying. Perhaps it's because it was around this time two years ago that we were floored with Isaac's prognosis when I was only 12 weeks pregnant; hearing the words, "There's only a very slim chance that your baby will live" is absolutely numbing. Or, perhaps it's the fact that I am now walking through all of the things that I have missed out on with Isaac. It's no longer theoretical. I thought about what a gift it is to be able to hold Eliana whenever I want. She's here... and at any time I can pick her up, snuggle her, and love on her. It seems obvious, I know. And as glaringly obvious as that is, it is also equally as obvious to me that I don't have a toddler here to snuggle, too.
As I was holding Ellie while she slept this morning, my thoughts turned back to October 7, 2008. I remember sitting in my hospital bed, feeling my time with Isaac ticking away. I remember holding his body, even though he had already gone to be with Jesus, and feeling like I just didn't have enough time. And I remember so clearly the last time I held him... the last time I kissed his little face, the physical pain my chest as Spencer and I handed him to the nurse, and the sob that came out of me when the nurse walked out of our room. It was the most painful experience of my life... knowing I would never get to hold my son again.
And so the tears came, like they do; and in the midst of them I am just grateful for the chance to hold my daughter... and for a faithful Father who is not only holding me in my tears, but who is also safely holding my son.
What a beautiful thing... to be held.
