An Angel's Birthday

I watched someone I know approach her angel's birthday in fear and trepidation and then have that day fulfill every fear and every expectation for a terrible day.  I saw her pain, her celebration of that child's life through pictures, and above all, the inclusion of others through an invitation to celebrate her little girl's birthday through a joint birthday party.  It was a beautiful, heart-rending thing.  Few things bring back the pain more than birthdays and angelversaries, the day on which the angel got his/her wings. 

I saw all of this from a distance, but my heart ached as I knew at least a part of the pain that family was undergoing.  Each person's loss is unique, and each person's grief hurts in a unique way.  At the same time, there's a unity in grief.  Those who have been through it know what it is to be in the empty arms club, to feel those empty arms and long for one person alone to fill them. 

It warmed my heart to join in the outpouring of love and support for this family.  I know nothing will make that pain any less except time and the healing touch of Jesus Christ.  But I also know few things help more than love, support, and prayers when days like this come with their accompanying sense of pain and renewed loss.  It brings me peace knowing they're getting that support they need.  I wish there was anything any of us could do to make that pain go away.  But it helps to know there are people supporting for you, pulling for you, standing by when these painful days come.  And that's what makes these days survivable. 

Emotional Landmines

When I hadn't been through serious, heart-shattering loss, the world was just a world.  The blanket was a blanket.  I mostly saw things at face value.  Now, I'm often startled at how things have changed meaning and how often I have to dodge emotional trip wires I find everywhere.  I look at our wall of recent family photos and see the glaring hole where Alli should be.  I look at the older photos and see an easy smile, an innocent smile of one who didn't yet understand what loss was.  I see the baby who would disappear from later photos. 

The same is true all over.  There was a time it was no big deal watching a tv episode about an unwanted baby or hearing a news story of a child murder or commentators talking about how easily people terminate unborn life.  These things seemed distantly sad, like they happened a world away and in no way touched mine.  Now, they're a very personal punch to the gut.  I hear them with pain on a very real level.  I tried for years to have a child, only to meet with fresh miscarriage.  Fifteen or more fresh miscarriages in a row, seventeen child losses if you count Alli and the miscarriage before.  The idea of someone not wanting a child or taking the life of a child for granted causes me physical pain. 

There was a time women could announce they were pregnant in a way that implied they were actually expecting to give live birth or that I could see a huge family with as many children as a family could want or even a pregnant woman and not feel a twinge deep within, that inevitable twinge of jealousy.  If I get pregnant, the only thing I'm expecting is fresh loss, fresh death.  Another angel statue for my shelf.  Pregnancy is all about fear. 

I remember life without an emotional landmine just beneath the surface.  I can't say I truly appreciated it then because I didn't understand there was anything else.  I didn't have that empathy to understand the perspective of those who had had this kind of loss.  I can wish the empathy on others, but I would never wish them this kind of loss.  And that's the fastest way to gain empathy.  I can hope families will appreciate and love their children as the treasures sent by God that they are.  But the world is what it is.  Loss will still happen.  Children will still go unappreciated and neglected. 

I just have to accept what is rather than cause myself more pain with unrealistic expectations.  I have to know the landmine is there and continue to seek healing.  I've come a long way.  The mines used to be closer together, more fragile, more explosive.  I'm thankful that the pain has lessened.  I'm thankful for the perspective I've gained.  I just wish there had been a way to gain this perspective without the landmine.  But I know it is what it is, and I'm thankful God his here, walking me through, protecting me from the worst of it.