We know the WHO

Sometimes as a blogger, a thought will hit me that I feel I should share on my blog, but often times I don't because I don't feel I have enough other "stuff" to share to make the blog entry worthwhile. I am going to try, with this blog, to get out of that trap. This journey of grief is so winding and unpredictable, that often times the thoughts and insights come in tiny chunks, itty-bitty but impactful, you might say very much like our precious baby girl Abbie who weighed less than one pound, but whose impact has been weighty.

So, for tonight, here is my thought:

I do not even begin to understand the WHY of what happened, but I am comforted even in my gripping pain, because I know the WHO that is holding Abbie even now. My Savior, Jesus Christ, saved my life so completely, when I was 19 years old, and in so doing, He saved my life once again as I journey through the tragic and unexpected loss of my daughter. I do not know how I would handle this without having Him to lean on. His power is made known in my weakness. Come Lord Jesus. Engulf me in your arms, along with every other grieving mother on this planet. Only You will someday make sense of all this mess, and make it right and whole.

My daughter grieving for my daughter

This evening around 9:30, I was passing through the hallway upstairs and heard Isabel crying very quietly in her room. Her door was open, but she was crying so quietly that I could barely hear her. I stopped in her doorway as my eyes adjusted to the darkness and focused on her small frame in the bed across the room.  She was lying very still on her back, with small sobs escaping her every few seconds. Isabel is a spirited and dramatic young girl, and usually when she cries, it is pretty loud and attention-getting in a way. But tonight, it was as if she didn't even realize anyone could hear her, and was trying to stay as quiet as possible.

So, of course, I padded quietly into her bedroom, knelt by her bed, and placed my hands on her gently. Her eyes were closed, so I was not certain at first if she was even awake. But after a few seconds passed, she opened her eyes partway. She had not yet uttered a word to me, and was still crying. I whispered, "What's wrong, sweetie?" To which she replied, in the sweetest little girl voice, "I miss baby Abbie," and continued to cry quietly.  I had no words, and leaned down and gathered her into an embrace, wishing I could take her pain away, wishing I could give her the sister she so desperately wants to have back. We had a quiet conversation after that, and a short while later I tucked her back into bed and wished her sweet dreams and a peaceful night's sleep.

Oh my. Talk about melting my heart and breaking my heart in two, all at the same time. I am watching my oldest child grieve for my youngest child. I want to take away Isabel's sadness, and it is just one more reason, among so many, that I wish more than anything that I could bring Abbie back to this world. But I can't, and so for now, I will dry my child's tears and hug her tightly every chance that I get. But even while I dry her tears and hold her close, I look forward to the day when I will watch my daughters embrace one another, on streets of gold, and there will be no more tears of sadness in any of our eyes, and no quiet sobs escaping any of our lips.