A weekend away was so needed in the midst of grieving the loss of our daughter.  It was a last minute decision that my husband and I made to get away and take some time for us.  The excuses came rolling in as we were getting ready to put in our credit card number on Priceline’s website.  Do we really have the funds to do this?  Should we really treat ourselves?  We have so many things going on, can we make the time?  What about work?  Can it wait?  The list goes on and on.  We finally looked at each other and said, “Yes.”  Yes to a break.  Yes to some fun.  Yes to ourselves.  The money will come and the money will go, but time will never return to us.  I believe marriage takes effort and believe me; it is very difficult to lose a child so early on in a marriage. 

This past weekend was the most “fun” my husband and I have had since we lost our daughter.  Let me tell you, it is awkwardly uncomfortable to have fun again after suffering from such deep loss.  There were times we would laugh and suddenly tear up.  There were times I prayed she was with us, even among the good times, and sure enough she never failed me.  We went to Lake Michigan where the waters seem endless and the sunsets take your breath away.  We climbed the Warren Park State Dunes together, and I felt a sense of accomplishment as we made it to the top.  It was 96 degrees that day and the sun was burning our feet.  There were times I wanted to give up while climbing that dune, but I had him alongside me cheering me on.  When we made it to the top I said to my husband, “We just climbed a mountain together.  How ironic that God provided a literal mountain for us to climb to the top together, when figuratively we have been climbing a mountain together for quite some time.”  Maybe that was not irony at all.  Maybe that was God speaking to us.  As we looked out from the top of that dune, the views were absolutely breathtaking.  I knew in that moment that God rewarded us for making it to the top.  With this “mountain” we have been given to climb, there will be days we need a breather.  Days we cannot climb a single step more without falling two steps backwards.  What is important is that we keep going.  I have never felt more assured of that than I did that very moment.   The next day we rested.  With our toes in the sand and a good book in hand, I felt a sense of peace.  A sense peace I have not felt in a long time, nor do I feel it very often.  I was lost in God’s word and the crashing waves.  If only we could stay in that moment for forever.  How beautiful life could be. 

As I was reading my book there was a chapter called “tan feet.”  I thought to myself, ‘this could not be more perfect as I am sitting here basking in the sun.’  What I thought was just a chapter about silly tan lines and living life, ended up going far deeper than that.   It was a reminder to believe in you.  It was reminder that the enemy wants you to doubt yourself and your self-worth.  It was a reminder that as much as we try to cover up with makeup or hair extensions or lash extensions or the cutest designer things, God sees our soul.  He sees the deepest part of us and loves us anyway.  Do we not owe it to ourselves to love our own selves too?  It was funny because the night before I told my husband I think I finally lost some weight.  I have been spending a lot of time beating myself up for carrying so much extra weight after having Emmie, and being unable to get it off no matter what I do.  Sure enough, I have not lost any weight but my perspective changed because I got a sun tan earlier that day.  Reading this chapter the very next afternoon was just incredibly eye opening for me.  If our perspective changes, our life is open to change.  You see, I am still carrying the extra twenty pounds, but I felt good about myself those days.  No one knew me in New Buffalo, Michigan.  Nobody knew us in New Buffalo, Michigan.  It was like we could be our full selves and completely embrace that.  Then, I realized, why do we hide from who we truly are?  If God made us all in His own likeness and image then should we not celebrate that?  Should we not be extremely grateful for that?  Words cannot express what came over me those days, but I felt my daughter was with me.  I felt like as her Mommy and Daddy it is about time we learn to finally accept ourselves and learn to love ourselves again.  God would want that for us and He would want that for all of you too. 

Coming home to more chaos and doctor’s appointments is not exactly what we had in mind.  It is easy to get caught up in life’s busiest times.  I am extremely guilty of being overwhelmed with life.  Driving into Illinois, it was as though this weight immediately came back onto me – like that backpack I have wrote about carrying just got an added brick to it.  This week has seemed long and it is only Tuesday.  I am feeling defeated with our situation and as though I will never get an answer as to why my daughter had to go from this earth far too soon.   I sat down to write tonight to inspire others and to share my story in hopes of helping one of you.  What I did not realize is how badly I needed this myself.  Loving yourself is the greatest revolution.  Learning to forgive yourself is an even greater one. 

Anthony and I said “Yes” to a weekend away.  What we forgot to do in coming home is to continue to say “Yes” to ourselves.  Yes, you are loved.  Yes, you are forgiven.  Yes, you are growing.  And yes, you are beautiful.  We all have a story.  We all have scars.  It is all up to our perspectives on how we are going to let those impact the rest of our lives.  Choose yourself today -entirely and completely how you are in this given moment.  This moment, after all, is exactly where you are supposed to be. 

Nearly six months ago my life was changed forever.  I was driving down a pretty straight road until it took a sharp turn left.  I felt as though I was hanging off a cliff, barely holding on as the doctor managed to tell us, “I am so sorry.  Your daughter has no heartbeat.”  Those words and those days still rattle in my memory every single day.  Time has a funny way of reminding you that your reality is just that, real.  People often say that time heals.  I believe time allows one to get “used” to the pain.  I do not know that I would say time “heals” so to speak.  In fact, time is against you when it comes to the loss of your child.  After the initial shock wore off, reality set in.  I feel as though the real, raw reality is just now setting in come month six.  Nearly half a year has passed and while I am living my life, I am grieving every single day the loss of my daughter.  The cards have slowed, the meal train has stopped, and life begun again.  Some days you do not want to begin.  You want to still hang from the cliff, barely hanging on, because that meant she was still with you.  She still had a chance to live.  The doctors could have been wrong and I could have labored for three days to get my miracle in which she came out alive.  It did not turn out like the movies and fairy-tales are not real.  Sometimes I wish they were. 

As the sun continues to come up every morning and that same sun continues to set every night, I have learned a lot about myself and a lot about the world around me.  I have noticed in death or uncomfortable circumstances that people seem to avoid the inevitable.  It is as if others are afraid they may catch you at the one moment in time you are not thinking about the loss that has affected you so deeply and personally that it is damn near impossible to avoid thinking about.  They beat around the bush or tip toe ever so quietly around it that it actually tends to engulf the pain even more.  A common phrase I have learned is, “I cannot imagine.”  This is a typical phrase I have said myself time and time again before experiencing loss.  Now that I am living it, I wonder how much kinder and more empathetic we all could be if we DID imagine.  Try.  Try to imagine what it is like to hear the words…”There is no heart beat,” on an otherwise typical Thursday night.  Eleven weeks away from your daughter’s highly anticipated due date your entire future becomes all too foggy.  Try to imagine planning a baby shower, a nursery, a life with your child that you will never get to see tomorrow with.  Try and imagine finding out you will have to deliver your perfect child who will never actually take a breath in this world.  Try and grasp that feeling of holding your newborn baby for the first time and falling madly in love with her before having to give her away.  Try memorizing and studying your baby’s every feature because there will not be another day to do so.  Try and imagine hard labor for days and twenty-four short hours with your most perfect person you have ever met while having to watch her leave that hospital room in the smallest suitcase.   Imagine having to bury that perfect baby of yours that you just held in your arms days before, and that you will never get to have in your arms again on this earth.  Try and imagine sobbing into your spouse’s chest while your family surrounds you and mourns the loss of the one person you never saw coming.  The one person meant to outlive you and take care of you someday.  The one person in the entire universe you would do absolutely anything and everything for, yet could not do a single thing to save.  Try and imagine going home from the hospital in complete and utter shock to an empty nursery and a home so quiet you could hear a pin drop.  Try and imagine as time passes how much you see.  You see the world having beautiful, living and breathing children.  You see pregnancy announcement after pregnancy announcement from naïve, soon-to-be mothers every single day.  You hear conversations of motherhood and baby talk day in and day out because your career is one in that you are surrounded around women.  Try and imagine that.  And when you do imagine, please realize that when that little tug at my heart says, “but why did they get their miracle and we didn’t?” does not mean I am bitter or angry or because God forbid I want harm to befall on another person.  It is simply because we are faced with our very real vulnerability to the whims of this world.  It is because I want my daughter here too. Some days it feels as though it is dismissed.  As if suddenly six months hits and you are supposed to be “over it.”  Or “moving on.”  The thing is you never get over it.  You never move on.  It never goes away, nor would you want it to.  You just learn to live with the hole in your heart. 

I bring this to your attention not for sympathy, but because what if we all took the time to try and imagine each other’s heartaches?  What if we stopped comparing grief and horror stories and just accepted each other for our own?  Would it not make us better beings?  After the loss of Emmie, my family has experienced many more deep losses.  My brother-in-law lost his father shortly after my husband and I lost our daughter.  My heart still breaks for him and his family.  I do not have to experience the loss of my father to empathize with his grief.  I can imagine.  I can imagine the hole his family feels without their rock and their shield.  I can imagine living one day in which everything seems fine and waking up the next to extreme pain.  The only difference between those that have experienced loss and those that have not is a matter of time.  Maybe not everyone will experience the loss of a child, but all of us will experience the pain of losing someone we love.  If you really think about it we are all just a car crash, a diagnosis, an unexpected phone call, a newfound love, a broken heart, or a deep loss away from becoming a completely different person.  How beautifully fragile are we that so many things can take but a moment to alter who we are for forever? 

When things change inside of you, things change around you.  You see and you hear everything.  I look at the sky and I see Emmie.  I hear a conversation and I think of Emmie.  I see a baby and I wonder about Emmie.  Purple and pink cascaded the sky over her grave the other night, and I thought about her favorite colors.  What would they be?  I bet she would love purple and pink.  A song, a scent, a moment in time that brings me back to the day she was still here in my arms.  What a blissful, innocent, and perfect time that was.  Six months ago changed my life forever.  It changed my life on this Earth and in the next.  And I would never want to go back to a moment in time before that.  Not because I do not miss the innocence, but because it would mean I would not have her.  What screws us up the most in life is the picture in our head of how it is supposed to be.  I may not have gotten the “happily ever after” I imagined, but I have hope that it will be even greater someday.

To the man who raised me:

Thank you.  Thank you for being the standing model of what it means to be a father.  From keeping the “bad guys” away night after night by sleeping on my bedroom floor – to lugging around softball bags, bats, and my teammates weekend after weekend – to today giving me away to the man I now call my husband.  You have shown me what it means to be selfless by putting your daughter’s needs above your own.  Thank you for working long, hard hours so that I could have the things I had.  Thank you for giving me the opportunities to grow, achieve, and dream.  Thank you for taking me fishing, painting my nails, and being there anytime I needed a ride.  Thank you for instilling faith in me and good values.  I watched you model that by how you treat Mom and attending church every Sunday.  You have always been a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, and a good father. Thank you for loving me when it has been difficult, believing in me when I did not, and being there for me whenever I need a bug killed or a home project done. I am the person I am today because of the man I call, Dad. 

To the man who raised him:

Thank you.  Thank you for helping raise the man of my dreams.  Thank you for guiding him to be a hard worker, dedicated, and passionate.  Thank you for setting an example of what it means to be a family and a good husband.  You model that by the love you have shown for your family and wife.  I believe he is the persistent man he is because of you.  I find that quality to be extremely important when it comes to a husband and a father.  He never gives up on me and I owe that to you.  Thank you for instilling faith in your son and teaching him what it means to pray.  He is a devoted Catholic because of you raising him in Church and teaching him about God.  Thank you for the hard work you have done over all of the years that contribute to his hard working demeanor.  He never gives up on a task and I am confident he gets that from you.  My husband is the person he is today because of the man he calls, Dad. 

To the man who will never get to raise her:

Thank you.  Thank you for being the absolute best father to our daughter, Emmie.  I think it takes the strongest kind of man to have to give their child away, and you made the ultimate sacrifice.  From the moment we found out her little heart stopped beating you were my rock.  I am sure you just wanted to crumble.  You held my hand and insisted on being with me all of those long hours of labor.  You encouraged me and did not leave my side.  When you met your daughter I have never seen such beautiful tears and love from a man in my life.  I fell more in love with you in those days than I have in the six years I have been fortunate enough to spend with you.  As you caressed her little hands and counted her little toes, my eyes swelled with tears.  I witnessed you becoming a daddy for the first time.  In those twenty-four hours our daughter got to spend with us, you made sure she was spoiled rotten and so well cared for.  Although she never took a breath in this world, you did not dismiss that she was ours and she was real.  As you wiped away the blood that would dribble from her button nose and kiss her little cheeks my heart was a skipping a beat.  The grieving father often gets overlooked, but I see you.  I see you as we prayed over her bassinet and had to watch her go away without us.  I see you as tears streamed down your cheeks when you rocked her in that chair.  I see you as you made sure I had everything I needed in the days to follow, from icepacks – to cabbage – to all of the Kleenex boxes and love.  So much love.  I am sure you wanted to crawl into a hole just as much as I did but instead you stayed strong…for me and for Emmie.  You helped plan all of the readings for her funeral and organized all of the things so I did not have to.  You were and continue to be the best daddy to our sweet baby girl and you are the best husband to me.  It has not been easy and this year is not what you had anticipated when it came to Father’s Day, but I hope that you know that Emmie is who she was because of you.  We made the most perfect angel.  Emmie loves her Daddy.

To all of those missing their fathers or their children this Father’s Day, I see you too.  I see you and our God sees you.  Revelation 21:4 says, “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”  You see, whether we are fortunate enough to have our fathers and children here on earth with us or whether we have had to  watch them go before it’s our time, we all still have our Father.  “But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”  – Romans 5:8.  Repeat that verse over and over to yourself if you are feeling alone, neglected, or sad this Father’s Day.  Our entire being is because of our Father and He loves us so much that He sent His son to die for all of us.  The people we do have and the memories we create on this earth are because we were blessed enough to live and we will live in eternity with Him if we accept Him as our God and Savior.  So this Father’s Day let’s thank our Father for creating us, especially for creating all of the children that turn boys into men and men into fathers. 

Close your eyes.  What do you see?  Darkness.  Black.  Despair.   Now, open your eyes.  What do you see?  Light.  Color.  Hope.  If you only choose to see the darkness you will never be able to appreciate the light.  Some days in grief look dark…terribly dark.  It is in the darkness you must open your heart to see the purpose in the pain.  Today was full of God’s winks I like to call them.  You know, one of those days few and far between where everything seemed to make sense.  They began from the moment I crawled out of bed this morning.  The sun shined brightly into my bedroom window and I felt a sense of relief.  Anyone who lives in the Midwest knows that sunshine has not been a very common weather forecast recently.  I got ready for the day and went to work just like all the days before.  Today there was one very shared theme amongst my conversations with clients.  It was that of God.  Every single conversation had His name intertwined with it.  His name was constantly on my mind, in my words, and in the words of those around me.  I drove into my driveway as the sun was setting to a lovely surprise in my landscape.  An old neighbor and friend surprised Anthony and I with two beautiful flowers.  She had remembered me talking about needing plants and was thoughtful enough to act upon it.  The night continued to bless me with messages from other angel mommy’s and others who just happened to think of me today.  As time goes on after loss, people seem to move on.  Some days it feels like you are forgotten, like the entire story has no more chapters.  Some days it feels like nothing even really mattered to anyone and you are left on the floor all alone, just trying to make it to your knees.  Today, I was reminded that those thoughts are entirely untrue.  Those thoughts are the enemy and the enemy never stops.  I was reminded that I am a daughter of God and that fulfilling God’s will is the most important thing in this life.  I was reminded of all the good in this world and that if we keep our eyes closed we may just miss it. 

Disappointed but not surprised has been a common emotion for me this year.  Time has a funny way of showing people’s true character.  I believe you do not need to go through a tragedy to show empathy.  I believe if your heart is centered on Christ then your soul knows to be sensitive to those in deep grief.  I believe there are few that ask how you are doing and truly want to hear the answer.  It is those few you must hold onto.  It is those few you can trust with your heart.  It is those few that will lead you to the same God you believe in only to make you dive deeper in your faith.  I am thankful to know a few.  Those people have taught me more about God than perhaps I have learned in my entire life thus far.  I also believe that I am more open to hearing about it now than ever before.  When you let God into your heart you begin to see the entire world differently than you once did.  Going through a loss so close to your heart forces you into one of two directions – 1. Away from God or 2. Towards Him.  I chose to go towards Him.  There are many nights that I lie awake at night and I ask God why He cannot stop the pain.  Why He allowed all of this to happen.  It was when I was reading a book the other night that talked about pain when it all seemed to come together for me.  The author, Lysa TerKeurst, wrote about a near death experience she had.  She spent days in the hospital in excruciating pain.  She pleaded to God to take away her pain knowing that He had the power to do so.  She felt like being a follower of Christ means that He should come through and listen to her plea.  After several days of testing due to the severity of the pain, they decided surgery would be the only option.  The surgeon described it as a miracle.  She should not have survived.  Later, when reflecting on her experience she began to see that her deep, agonizing pain was the same pain that led the doctors to do further testing.  It was what led them to eventually do surgery that essentially saved her life.  It was the physical pain that saved her life.  I repeated that over and over again in my mind.  This pain, the severity of losing my daughter, may someday be the exact same pain that saves my soul. While my pain is emotional, it is the same in that God is using it as an instrument. I am realizing that there is a difference in believing in God and actually allowing Him to come into your heart and save you.  To live life for yourself wishing to get to Heaven is vastly different than living life for God.  It may be unpopular and looked down upon among others, but it was never between me and them anyway.  This very pain could someday bless me in more ways than I could ever fathom.  What a powerful way to look at the hurt and pain in this life. 

Keep your eyes open and you will find yourself again.  Maybe you will find a part of yourself that never existed before.  Someone near and dear to my heart once told me that through all of her trials in life and unexplained losses she experienced, she would do it all again.  All of the pain and suffering brought her to God and He has and He will always take care of her.  That same God is taking care of me and Anthony, my family and my friends, and every single one of you too.  If we let Him carry us when we can no longer stand, He will.  And if we let Him into our hearts, He just may lead us all – the blind to truly see. 

Time.  It is a funny concept really.  Our entire system of life is based upon this “time” factor.  We are given 24 hours in a day, where typically 8 of those 24 hours are spent at work and another 6 to 8 of those 24 hours are on sleep.  That leaves us merely 8 hours leftover for ourselves.  Of those short 8 hours we have agendas, tasks to be accomplished, sporting events to attend and life to do.  It does not allow much time for anything else.  Life is composed of 24 hour days, 7 days a week, 52 weeks in the year. 

Emmie Renee was born exactly 4 months, 19 days, 10 hours, and 3 minutes ago.  When you look at life in perspective you realize that in fact that was just a short while ago.  Some days I feel like I was just in that crowded hospital room with nurses, midwives, family and volunteers surrounding me.  I can still feel the tears streaming down my face and breathe in the smell of her skin.  Other days I feel like it has been an eternity since I have been able to hold her in my arms.  Grief is funny like that.  Life is funny like that.  Time is funny like that. Does it not seem like childhood was not that long ago?  Do you ever hear a melody or smell the scent of something and it takes you back to a place and a time where life was so much simpler?  You smile because the memories do that to you.  Or you may cry because that person that the melody or scent remind you of are no longer here.  Time seems to be against us when we want it to be for us, and for us when we are wishing for time to go by.  The one thing about time is that it is a currency you can only spend once.  No moment in time will ever repeat itself again.  When the phrase, “Enjoy every minute,” is used it literally means to appreciate the very given moment you are in.  I have thought about this a lot ever since losing Emmie.  If you would have told me throughout my pregnancy that it was going to end the horrific way that it did, I probably would have valued every single day with her so much more.  How many of you would love a little extra and hold on a little longer if you knew it would be the last time?  I often think of the quote from Alice and Wonderland – Alice:  “How long is forever?”  White Rabbit:  “Sometimes, just one second.”  My entire world changed in one second.  One split second when the words, “I am sorry, there is no heartbeat” were muffled from some doctor I may never see again. 

When the pregnancy test showed a pink plus sign on that July day in 2018, I anticipated my world would change in a far different way than it actually has present day.  Instead of spending sleepless nights with a crying baby, I have spent an endless amount of sleepless nights with a wet pillow full of my own tears.  Beyond all of the tears and heartache comes a strength that I never knew I had before.  A deep appreciation for life and those that I love in this life resurfaced.  Lying in my bed those dark January days, I would have never expected to be functioning in society ever again.  Not just functioning, but contributing to society.  I could have never dreamt of “Emmie’s Easter Baskets” and the lives that a simple basket would impact.  I could have never guessed I would meet so many other angel mommy’s and be inspired by their strength.  I would have never encountered God the way that I have.  I know many people are grieving not only Emmie, but the old Kelsey too.  The thing is, a part of me truly died the day my daughter did, but a whole lot more has emerged.  What is life if we never blossom?  If we never transcend into something greater than we were yesterday and the day before that then what is our purpose?  Are we not sent here on earth to serve the Lord?  I have been diving so much deeper into the meaning of this whole time thing – the one concept of why we are here and how short that time on earth really is.  Emmie taught me to truly value the moment you are in.  Someday we will all look back to this very minute in our lives and wish we could return.  The thing I am realizing is that someday every single one of us will lose those that we love.  There will be no getting them back in this lifetime and reversing time.  I feel like we need to purposely start valuing God’s timing for our lives.  I may never understand why God took Emmie.  Just like I do not understand why people suffer from cancers just to have it return again, or why natural disasters destroy homes and people.  I will never understand pain, suffering, and death.  I do not think we are truly meant to be able to grasp these concepts in our earthly minds.  It is evident that the world is full of suffering. Physical, emotional and spiritual pain has been and always will be an intrinsic part of the human experience.  I do know that God says there is good from suffering.   “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” – John 16:33.  He never promised this life to be easy.  That is because we are sinners and this life is so temporary.  God loved us so much that He came to us through Jesus Christ.  He was made human so that He could feel the earthly pains that we all do.  He suffered.  He carried a heavy cross for all of us.  When I feel like I deserve more, or I can do it better than His plan, I am reminded that even Jesus was ridiculed, spit on, and ultimately persecuted.  Romans 8:18 states, “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” 

Let’s imagine for just a moment if we took time in our daily lives to thank God for all that we do have.  Those 24 hours broken down into 86,400 seconds may become just a little more enjoyable if we spend even a few of those seconds in conversation with Him.  I do not know the day or the hour that I will get to meet my baby girl again, but what I do know is that we are asked to live for Him in the meantime.  It is in those seconds, minutes and hours that we can be made new if we let Him.  This whole life thing is not so much about us anyway.  Trust the wait.  Embrace the uncertainty.  And enjoy the beauty that is coming.  After all, those 24 hours come and go in a blink of an eye.

^{What does it mean to be a mother?  According to Webster’s Dictionary a mother is:  (noun) – A woman in relation to her children, (verb) – To bring up a child with care and affection/ to give birth to.  I believe that being a mother is far more than these generic definitions.  At least being a good mother constitutes as far more than this.} 

^{I was adopted on May 9, 1990 to the absolute most loving parents in the entire world.  My mother did not have to give birth to me in order to love me unconditionally.  Being a good mother means that at the second you meet your child you realize that you are never alone in your thoughts ever again.  A good mother puts her child (or children) always above her own needs.  To describe my mother would be to write about the most beautiful sunset you have ever witnessed, or to fully feel the warmth of the biggest embrace.  She is selfless, all together loving, patient, kind, and so very generous.  She has given up so many things in her life to be able to provide for my sister and me.  Both of my parents spent summers on the road attending softball games and every winter in the stands to watch us cheer.  She never gave up on me as I yelled at her through my teenage years and promised I would run away.  Here’s the thing:  I always came back, and she was always there to forgive me.  That is what good mothers do.  They love…unconditionally.  It does not matter what you have done or where you have wandered, they are always there to love you in the end.  I believe God made mothers to love as Mary loved Him.} 

^{Growing up, I always wanted to be a mother like mine was to me.  More than any career or any dream I could have chased, being a mother was always the heart of it all.  I imagined marrying the love of my life and then having children like anyone else.  My story has proven to be very different than that of most.  On January 5, 2019 I gave birth to my daughter, Emmie Renee.  The thing is, she died and then she was born.  I am crying in my bed at night, instead of her crying out for me from her crib.  I am putting flowers on her grave, rather than her putting flowers on mine.  I am holding her photo instead of her in my arms.  This does not feel right.  This should have been a birth certificate not death.  The pain of losing her is indescribable because the love I have as her mother is so deep.  As a mother, you would do absolutely anything for your child.  Anything.  The hardest thing in the entire world is that I could not save her.  This first Mother’s Day feels strange and helpless all at once.  Instead of changing poopy diapers, dressing her up in the cutest clothes, and parading her around to family and friends, I am left empty handed.  I have photos of her memory which I will cherish for the rest of my life, but I can no longer smell her skin or feel her touch.  I do not know what she would have grown into, but I imagine she would have been a good mix of her daddy and me.  I memorized her every wrinkle, dimple, and hair on her head.  I rocked her and I sang to her.  I did every single thing I could think of to do with my newborn baby in the twenty four hours that we had with her because I knew that would be the first and the last time I would ever have her here.  I am learning that although I cannot mother her like normal mothers can, I still need to parent my daughter in heaven.  While I may not be able to kiss boo boos, hang up spelling tests, or attend every dance recital, I can continue to love her through how I live my life.  My responsibility as an angel mommy has changed.  I owe it to Emmie to share her name and her story.  I have the responsibility to show the world that through the deepest grief can come undying love.  I can continue to give to other children in need in my daughter’s memory because I am confident that is what she would want.  Sacred moments when I think about what she is doing up there, I literally get the chills.  I would love to make her proud of me down here.  I know she did not choose to leave her mommy, nor did I choose to let her go.  I am learning that really all of our children and loved ones are on “loan” to us.  I firmly believe we belong to Him all along.  I think being a good mother and a follower of Christ means to take our suffering to Him so that He can make all things good.} 

^{I will never understand why my daughter came and went so quickly.  And I do not have to.  What I do know is that God chose me to be her mother.  What a beautiful blessing that is.  As desperately as I want to be a mommy to Emmie on earth, He had other plans.  I am learning to accept the things I cannot change and I pray for the wisdom to know the difference.  This Mother’s Day, let’s pray and honor all of the mothers.  The mothers who give birth to their beautiful children and have the privilege to raise them here on earth; the mothers who adopt babies and sacrifice everything to give them the world; the mothers who give up their babies for adoption in order for their babies to have the world; the mothers who are grieving their own mothers; the mothers who hold a place dear in their heart for a child they are trying to conceive; and for the mothers whose child is held in their hearts instead of their hands.  You are not alone.  I am not alone.  Just a reminder to myself: All of this grief, pain, and heartache is just all of the love I have for my daughter…unconditional love.  I guess that does make me a good mother, and just as deserving as all of the rest.} 

^{Oh sweet Emmie…thank you for making me a mommy.}

Distraction:  A thing that prevents someone from giving full attention to something else.  Since Emmie’s passing, there have been many welcomed distractions.  Music, work, phone calls, and company have all been good distractions.  Bills, home repairs, yard work, and my cats vet appointments have been not so good distractions, but distractions none the less.  Emmie’s Easter Baskets was the best positive distraction of it all.  It was the one thing I have taken pride in throughout this grief journey.  It opened my eyes to see that our sweet Emmie impacted so many sick children that Easter weekend.  My fear was falling off the wagon so to speak after the busyness of the event slowed.  I am feeling like not only did I fall off of the wagon, but in doing so I lost a limb on the way down. A very unwelcomed circumstance was about to take place – one that would change another whom my family and I love.

Three days ago I got a phone call from my mother, clearly distraught.  We had just returned home from a craft fair and had a very intense heart to heart conversation earlier that evening.  This phone call was definitely not going to be good.  I took a deep breath as she continued to tell me that Blake’s dad suddenly passed away.  Blake is my brother-in-law and is married to my sister, Lyndsay.  I was in shock.  “WHAT!”  I screamed through the phone and instantly started sobbing.  She cried along with me and I could hear her despair and disbelief.  I could not believe what I had just heard.  How does a young father just suddenly pass away?  I cannot explain the intense pain I felt on the other line, but it shot through my soul.  I hurt because such an amazing man is gone too soon.  I hurt because death hurts and unless it comes knocking at your door, you cannot grasp the pain.  I hurt because I know how hard it is to lose someone you love so dearly within seconds.  It is like I feel others pain on this deep level that I never could truly feel before losing my daughter.  I hung up the phone and I sobbed into my husband’s shoulder.  Why would someone I know and love have to grieve their father at such a young age?  Blake is one of four children and the youngest is still in high school.  It absolutely breaks my heart knowing all of the events they are going to miss their dad being at.  Why do others not feel this intense pain with all of us?  Then I remembered what my therapist taught me:  Grief is like losing a limb.  If someone tells you it gets better with time, they have not experienced loss before.  Yes, cuts and wounds may heal, but when losing a limb it is foolish to await the day it “gets better.”  You simply have to learn to live with one less limb. 

Growing up I felt always felt invincible.  I knew everything and could be anything I wanted to be.  I was in this naïve bubble of what I thought life would be like.  I would move out at eighteen years of age.  I would meet my Prince Charming and get married by age twenty-three.  My first child would be born at age twenty-five and my second would be by age twenty-seven.  I would live in a yellow house, with green shutters, and a white picket fence.  We would all live happily-ever-after.  Death was not going to affect anyone I know and love, and the people I took for granted would just always be there.  Funny, right?  In that period of time, that was truly my mindset.  Oh how I long to be naïve like that again.  Death has approached our family multiple times over the years. I lost my great grandparents in middle school. I lost one of my grandfathers in the seventh grade.  I lost my other grandfather, whom I loved dearly, at age nineteen.  I lost my Uncle Greg at age twenty-four and my Uncle Steve has recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. In our very small family, every single one of these circumstances created an immense void. None of these deaths or cancers were on my agenda in life.  I did assume, however, I would lose my elders at some point in my lifetime.  Who I never planned on losing was my daughter.  I never dreamt in a million years I would lose a child.  How do you just move on from that?  And how does another sudden death affecting others that you love not hurt you to your core?  The answer is – you do not “move on” and of course it will affect you.  It feels this way because we love.  We connect to others.  We are so connected to the children we create and the parents that molded us that there is no way for death not to hurt.  No “new child” can just be born and take away the pain that came with losing my daughter.  No “new father” can just emerge and take over the role of a father figure for this dear family.  It does not work that way, nor would we want to.  Here is where I am going with all of this…

There will come a day when “distractions” are not the only way to fill the emptiness in our hearts.  There will come a day when we find ourselves talking about our lost loved ones and smile instead of cry.  There will come a day when God sends a sign letting us know that our loved ones are okay.  So if you have not experienced a deep, personal loss consider yourself lucky because the only difference between this situation happening to us and not others is just that of luck.  I drew a very unlucky hand and I am trying to handle the life that has been dealt to me and to this beautiful family enduring such an emotional loss.  It is all so hard.  The life that we have been given is hard.  The uphill battle is hard, especially with one less limb.  This deep pain is hard too, but the gift that we were given through this incredibly difficult loss is that of love.  A love greater than death.  A sacred love.  Yes, I may not look the same when you look at me.  I may not act the same or find it easy to be happy all of the time, but I can assure you that I will empathize on a level I never did before.  I will prioritize the things that really matter in this life.  I will make my daughter so very proud because I am determined to get where she is at someday.

John 3:16 –  For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.

I long for His promise.  For one day we will meet our loved ones again.  I like to remind myself that this journey here on earth will be well worth the uphill climb.

Today has been a cloudy, gloomy day until it wasn’t anymore. Recently, the sun decided to peer through the clouds and I can only imagine a beautiful sunset will appear this evening. As I was driving on the open road, I glanced out to the endless field and I thought to myself, “Wow, this sky describes grief and life and everything.” What I mean by that is this – the sun has always been there, it was just hiding behind the clouds.

This past week was Holy Week. It was also a week of enormous strides for both my husband and myself on our grief journey. Ever since Easter basket shopping in Walmart’s aisle for Emmie’s grave, I was broken. It seemed entirely unfair to be buying an Easter basket for a graveside, when so many other mothers get to enjoy the holiday with their children here on Earth. It was because of that moment, some dear friends and I came up with the idea to give Easter baskets to children in need. It all made perfect sense for the first time in a very long time. We would call it Emmie’s Easter Baskets. Easter was the first holiday I had anticipated my daughter being here. With her adorable Easter dress hanging on a lone hanger in her closet, I knew this would help ease the intense pain. This would ultimately benefit all of the children at the hospital whose parents are grieving their child’s health, happiness and life. Suddenly, my mood changed and I honed in on how we were going to pull this off. After speaking to the director of the Children’s Hospital, I had fallen so in love with the idea. She was extremely grateful because she explained that many families tend to think of Christmas, but Easter is often overlooked. The word spread like wildfire and in less than fourteen days we gathered over 255 Easter baskets as a community in my daughter’s name. I can not describe in words how healing and beautiful that was to witness. Emmie, in less than twenty-four hours here on this earth, had impacted all of these people that decided to donate. Emmie, in less than twenty-four hours here on this earth, will impact hundreds of sick children over the years because of this amazing foundation that came about in her name. Holy Thursday was spent in the company of our family and friends wrapping 255 Easter Baskets. Good Friday we had the privilege to deliver those baskets among all kinds of children. The impact that made on my family and me will last a lifetime. Those children and their families, even during the most trying times in their lives, were so very grateful to receive a basket. It was an eye opening opportunity and it really put life into perspective. What a bittersweet experience this last week has been. If Emmie had survived, I would have never thought to do something like this. I never would have dreamed of impacting so many children. One child stood out to me significantly. It was a little boy around nine months of age. He was the happiest little guy you could ever meet. I found out later that he was diagnosed with kidney cancer. His mother found me on social media and told me that because of our Emmie, he now has a guardian angel watching over him. Those words are so impactful. My baby girl is watching over all of these sweet, sweet children. I firmly believe that. She is the strongest little girl I have ever met. And she is mine. God blessed me with an angel that will change lives in this world. What an amazing gift that is.

The days have been dark and oh so very clouded, but the sun has remained all along. The sun is His light shining through us. It is up to us to let His light shine or to be dulled by the clouds.

Imagine being separated from your child for the rest of your life. Imagine never being able to see her, touch her, kiss her, hear her voice, or see her smile in this lifetime. Imagine a violent period permanently placed where there should be an endless amount of run-on sentences. Imagine knowing it would be your first and last time with your child before having to give her away. Imagine never being able to watch your child grow up. Imagine living every parent’s worst fear. Imagine. I truly believe child loss hurts at any age and under any circumstance. This is why grief hurts. This is why grief lasts a lifetime.

If imagining losing your child does not seem to stick, imagine life piling on top of the messiest of grief. Bills piling in, medical expenses showing up repeatably in your mailbox, home repairs taking a toll on your life. I do not know that everyone will experience child loss, but I would like to assume that others can relate to life’s expenses. Here is the thing about expenses after child loss – it stings. It stings getting a bill for your daughter you will never have in your arms again on this earth. It stings getting another bill based on lab work that came back normal in such a heart wrenching situation. It stings when your house seems to be falling apart like the rest of your life and absolutely everything is out of your control. The thing is, of all of these bills, there is not one that will bring her back. I am going broke over here and I do not mean just financially.

To be completely honest, I am just broken. Heartbroken. I have found that some days are easier than others, but the weight of reality hits me night after night. I can make it through Walmart now without leaving in the middle of shopping, but I cannot make it out without crying yet. I can make it through a work day, some without tears, but I cannot make it without breaking down every night. I can say I enjoyed my husband’s birthday, but I cannot say that when he blew out his candles I did not desperately wish for my daughter back. I asked him what he wished for that night. He said “Kels, I wished we could catch a break. That this would all make sense someday…”
I long for his wish to come true.

My previous blog post talked about not having to swim, but rather just trying to tread water. Shortly after I posted that blog, this quote showed up on my Instagram feed:

With hardships upon hardships piling up in our life, this really sank in for me. This whole experience, this whole trauma, this whole life maybe is not about swimming, floating, or treading water in the midst of despair after all. Storms are going to come. It is inevitable. Some are going to remain longer than others, and absolutely every single one of those storms is brought on without our consent. Do we have Jesus in our boat? I had to ask myself that when this quote showed up on my news feed the day after my post. What is more important? Not being in a storm? Or having Jesus in your boat during the storm? This verse was brought to my attention – Matthew 14:31-33.

“Immediately Jesus reached out His hand and took hold of Peter. “You of little faith,” He said, “why did you doubt?” And when they had climbed back into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped Him, saying, “Truly You are the Son of God!”

God does not promise we will not have obstacles in our life. He does not promise sunshine and butterflies every single day. I have known this for a very long time, but I just did not realize just how cruel this world could really be until now. It is like I grew up overnight and now am thrown out to sea on the stormiest of days with no land in sight. I think God is trying to get onto my boat. He wants me to truly let Him into my heart. I think He is probably trying to enter all of yours too. The difference between letting Him in or not outlines the hope for our future. I do not have to tread water alone. I do not have to tread water even at all. Maybe I just really need to let God onto my boat. We are not alone. On the darkest of days, I need this reminder just as much as any of you. Believe me when I say how lonely grief feels. Letting God truly in and handing Him over the sails is so much easier said than done. I do believe that this post was meant for me to see. It was meant to be heard.

I am having a very difficult time imagining a future without my daughter in it. But then I remember that she will be. She will live on in her daddy and me for the rest of our lives. She will live on through her community and family that absolutely love her. God brought me the greatest gift I could ever receive on January 5, 2019. That is why imagining her gone so soon seems completely unimaginable. Then I imagine God’s promise to see her again someday. How beautiful that reunion will be.