When that little baby moved to Heaven, only one heart beating on the big ultrasound screen, declaring my two was now one, I grabbed my husband’s hand, stared at that big screen in heartbroken terror. I could see both babies.
One big with heart beating.
One small with only stillness.
I miss my Daddy. And my Grandma. And being pregnant with twins.
Dad was always there.
Even when I flew across the world, he was at every airport drop off, every airport pick up, counted down the days until he saw me again. At home, every morning he was there, making coffee and giving me his genuine interest in my day. Every evening, telling stories and playing with grandkids and loving us. Every day, throughout the day, calling each of his daughters, just to chat.
He was always there.
Now he’s not.
Grandma was my constant rock who lived two miles west of town. She didn’t waver. Her love was constant, steady, full of the best food ever made, birthday cards, Christmas presents, fresh flowers, phone calls, stories, life lessons, hope.
But she’s not there now either.
Those three family members who’ve died in the last seven months; I miss them awful. Sometimes the hole where they were seems so huge, I’m sure I’ll fall into it.
God’s never once admonished me to hurry up and get over it. He doesn’t say words like, “Stop crying.” He makes space for grieving. Big broad space. And He stays with me here. In the pain. There’s fellowship with Him in the suffering.
He’s with us in our pits.
Looking at photos of 7 months ago, I look older now. Not 7 months older, but years older. These months have aged me.
When you lose people who were big foundation stones of your life, and then you lose a little baby; what are the next months supposed to look like? I don’t have a formula.
But I keep painting sunrises.
My husband’s been going to work with the admonition;
“Stay here. Do whatever you want.”
And the sun keeps rising.
As I sob for baby, Dad, and Grandma, heart broken in pieces all over the living room floor, God manages to wedge hope in.
God’s always wedging hope in.
I started painting again on Dad’s birthday. Grieving him and celebrating him and sobbing for him, I picked up a paintbrush and was soon face-to-face with a sunrise.
Now husband keeps coming from work to find me perched in front of a canvas; “Another sunrise?” Yeah. Because I don’t want to paint anything else. I think I’m currently working on sunrise number nine. It’s messy and bright and dark and lighting up a nighttime woods.
An authentic love relationship that’s made of our honest hearts staring at each other—it’s what God wants. So here we sit.
There's this strange tight tension between celebration and mourning and I don't know how to live in it but God's with me so we're getting through. This new depth of grief I'm trying not to drown in, with its lack of everyday phone calls from the man who raised me and the missing excitement he and the lady two miles west of town would be sharing with me about this pregnancy and that I'm no longer pregnant with twins, all mixed in with this new marriage with the man of my dreams and this new son growing in my womb and today I felt him move for the first time.
Life gets hard for all of us. It’s inevitable. But but but God is good. And with us. We can trust Him.
I trust Him that He’s taking care of my baby, Dad, and Grandma. Trust Him that the end is going to be good. Trust Him that the sun is going to keep rising. Trust Him that together wins.
