The Eve of Five

 Dear Abigail, 

I sit here at your resurrection site on the eve of your fifth birthday. Albeit some days it feels more like a grave. Five! My sweet girl, writing that has triggered a gushing of tears. How is it five years hold such joy and anguish of heart? It's cold; it's brown and gray. All seem fitting, even the biting wind. Wind rustles the delicate pale pink flowers someone lovingly left beside a stone that holds both our names but only one of our bodies. I've never brought flowers, nor balloons here.

 I can count on one hand the number of times I've "visited you" these past twenty months. Perhaps it's because I know you're not here, but there's still a part of my heart buried here-here in this cold ground sunken in where your precious body lies and grass has yet to fully grow. Some days I need to be in this isolated place with nothing but trees, stone, water, and God to hear my guttural cries. 

I brought coffee. I smile remembering how you'd always sneak my coffee in the early morning hours of just you and I. Then I think of the last day you did that- the last time you did anything. This triggers an onslaught of excruciating memories. This happens a lot with some of the most seemingly benign things, sounds, places, smells, words, etc. Something which should be so benign or neutral at worse, pleasant at best, leaves me groping and reeling. It reminds me of being at the beach and enjoying the beautiful sunsets, the sound of waves, and the smell of salty air. Then, out of nowhere a terribly fierce wind comes and pelts sand into every part of me. It hurts; it stings. There's no escape but to wait it out. It's invaded something good without invitation. 

Last night was the children's Christmas program at church; now the second one without you. Last year I spent the time afterwards crying in the car, while Daddy hung out with your brothers and sister having cookies and hot chocolate. This year I managed to be physically present afterwards. I've realized this event will likely fall the weekend before your birthday every year. It hurts. As all the children gather at the front of the church, I find myself averting my gaze from all your precious little friends. There's a place for them, but not for you. All the little ones were wearing the same costumes you wore your last Christmas here: the little sheep. All I see is you. I pick a seat where all the heads in front of me will block out the precious little ones yet still allow me to see your brothers and sister. I feel like a terrible person. This year the kids sang This Little Light of Mine, and my heart crumbled a little more. All I see is the video, the moment, Papa was playing this song for you. You were doing your quirky little dance. I want to return to that moment. Instead, I force myself to focus on your brothers and sister. They deserve my attention too. 

You would have giggled at M last night. In an effort to conceal himself he donned a generous fake beard which actually only served to make him stand out. My smile mingled with my tears. Later, we laughed how you would have likely given it a good tug or perhaps demanded to wear it yourself. G is playing the guitar now, and he's so good. I know you would love listening to him practice as you dance along. I suspect playing the guitar is a way his tears and emotions make their way out his fingers. Your sister loves to sing. She has such courage. There must be a recessive gene in her somewhere! You would have clapped so earnestly for them. We all miss you, our little cheerleader. 

Your birthday is tomorrow, but you aren't here. There won't be any streamers on the door nor any cake or happy birthday choruses. It's not "happy," at least not to us. There's something uniquely painful about holding your child the day they enter the world and then the day they leave. Hence the pain is unlike any other and one few can understand. Last year someone said to me, "maybe it won't be as bad as you expect it". It was a precious friend who meant well, and I appreciated the heart behind it. I even half hoped it was true at the time. Obviously, your first birthday after you left us proved it's fallacy. It's terrible. I wish you were here. 

I admit I've often imagined myself lying beside you on the little plot of ground. I then imagine the day our Jesus returns and our bodies are called out of that cold and tiny space, and we arise hand in hand. I picture what it will be like to look at your glowing smile, to feel your hand in mine again. Come, Jesus. Perhaps that's why O Come, O Come Emmanual is a favorite of mine. It speaks of hope, yet with mournful tunes. The wait is hard. 

O come, Thou Day-Spring
Come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, o Israel
O come, Thou Key of David, come
And open wide our heavenly home
Make safe the way that leads on high
And close the path to misery
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, o Israel

Selfishly I wish you were here, sweet girl. A part of me died with you that day. Another part of me lives with your brothers and sister. Although, it is neither for you nor them I really live. It’s hard for my mommy heart to say such, but it also a relief. If it was for them or you I lived or died, I’d be doing a poor job on both accounts. I’m jealous of you, sweet girl. You have escaped this fractured world TO our Savior. What must it be like to dance and sing to Heaven’s songs? To nestle into the chest of Christ? To hold his hand and hear his voice? Yet, I miss yours. What purity there must be in Heaven’s laughter. Does it blend to song?

I’ve had to ask myself if I long for you more than I long for Jesus. The answer is so layered. I trust the One who holds you also knows the longing of my heart is for the purest of affections even when my flesh is tempted elsewhere. 

I know you lack nothing, yet I miss all the things a mommy would do with and for you. I miss being able to tuck you into bed tonight for what would be your last night as a four-year-old. I miss singing “Bless You” (AKA The Blessing) as I lay beside you. I miss your precious kisses. I miss you. 

So I weep. 

The One who holds you also holds me, but in a way which leaves me longing for more. 

The world has swallowed up the sound of this weeping mommy today- a grief so loud swallowed in silence. When I finally quiet long enough to catch my breath all I hear is silence, stillness. The water dare not move. The bare trees and cold stones are my silent witnesses. Yet I am comforted knowing the One who smiles at you weeps with me. I love Him for it. 

I love you, sweet Abi G. 

“Forever and ever my baby you’ll be.”