As our family prepares to move and moves to Quito, Ecuador, I would like to invite you to follow us on our new blog.
Here's the link: http://henryfamilyinlatinamerica.blogspot.com/.
In some ways, it is going to be difficult to leave this area knowing that we will not be able to visit David's grave. Though we don't often visit, it is a comfort to know that his body lies there and that we can go there whenever we wish. As the sadness of this creeps to the surface, I am reminded that it is only his body that lies there and his being is with God. That will never change. One day, we will all be reunited. He will get to meet all of us, including his little brother Will.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Bryan here. It's been about 5 months since our last posting. The cloud of the whole ordeal continues to slowly lift. We so much miss our David and are anxious to see him again someday. As time passes, the acuteness of the pain lessens. We are saddened that for now all we have of him are just memories from Heather's previous pregnancy. For those of you going through something similar, know that the sun will rise again some day. It may not seem like it will, but it will.
We look out the window at the valley where we live and are encouraged to see that it, like the figurative valley that we just crossed in our journey with David, is surrounded by mountains. Life is a lot like this. Some mountains are pretty high, and some valleys are pretty low. We are grateful to be heading up hill as we climb the next mountain...which evidently involves a new baby coming to our family in the near future.
We look out the window at the valley where we live and are encouraged to see that it, like the figurative valley that we just crossed in our journey with David, is surrounded by mountains. Life is a lot like this. Some mountains are pretty high, and some valleys are pretty low. We are grateful to be heading up hill as we climb the next mountain...which evidently involves a new baby coming to our family in the near future.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
It has been three months and 8 days since you flew away. Your basinette still sits empty of you, but full of all of your big sister's baby blankets that she wanted to wrap you in. How I wish I could hold you again. I don't know why you had to go, but know that I miss you so. I loved you from the moment I knew you were inside me. I will never stop loving you. You are irreplaceable. You are loved and missed, achingly so.
The moment I packed you in the little blue infant carrier and handed your earthly body over, never to see you again in this life, was the most painful and sorrowful thing I have ever experienced...I never knew life could be full of such unending pain. I am glad you will never know such pain. You must have asked Jesus to send me an angel to hold me up.
Love,
Mommy
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
through Rebecca's eyes
A childhood friend had a baby this week. A beautiful, healthy baby girl. I was showing Rebecca pictures of the baby, genuinely rejoicing over my friend's newest addition with joy from across the miles.
I asked, "Isn't she pretty?"
Rebecca quietly looked at the photos of the baby for a moment. Then her words came unexpectedly and stung: "Is she dead?"
It was like a punch to the gut. I was taking in all the perfectness that was this living, breathing, healthy baby girl. And because of our own family's loss(es), Rebecca saw the baby through the lens of her own experience. From her experience, babies don't live, at least the two that we have hoped to welcome and lost.
I answered her without thinking, not meaning to be cynical and sarcastic, but from that raw, painful place that I thought had recently softened.
"No, honey, that baby isn't dead. She's alive. Only our babies die..."
And then as soon as I said it, I knew that it wasn't true. I didn't lose Jonathan. I didn't "lose" Rebecca, whom God moved Heaven and earth to save. The handful of other mothers who have shared their stories of baby loss with me--their babies died, too, not just mine.
So I backpedaled, and fumbled through some softer, more honest response and then went and made dinner.
I'm looking forward to Easter this weekend, and the promise of new life, eternal life. It is real and its meaning is very personal this year. My son is alive and is whole, and one day, I will go to him. I wonder if he has touched the nail marks in Jesus' hands? I wonder if Jesus has told him that because of those nail marks, one day, we will hold him again? Is every day in Heaven an Easter celebration? Probably so.
We're planting a tree in honor of David in the next couple weeks--either a cherry or peach tree. And in the years ahead, beautiful but short-lived blossoms will emerge from David's tree, flourish for a time, and then vanish to bear fruit. I will always remember that the loss of the blossoms means that something better is coming.
So glad that spring is coming...
I asked, "Isn't she pretty?"
Rebecca quietly looked at the photos of the baby for a moment. Then her words came unexpectedly and stung: "Is she dead?"
It was like a punch to the gut. I was taking in all the perfectness that was this living, breathing, healthy baby girl. And because of our own family's loss(es), Rebecca saw the baby through the lens of her own experience. From her experience, babies don't live, at least the two that we have hoped to welcome and lost.
I answered her without thinking, not meaning to be cynical and sarcastic, but from that raw, painful place that I thought had recently softened.
"No, honey, that baby isn't dead. She's alive. Only our babies die..."
And then as soon as I said it, I knew that it wasn't true. I didn't lose Jonathan. I didn't "lose" Rebecca, whom God moved Heaven and earth to save. The handful of other mothers who have shared their stories of baby loss with me--their babies died, too, not just mine.
So I backpedaled, and fumbled through some softer, more honest response and then went and made dinner.
I'm looking forward to Easter this weekend, and the promise of new life, eternal life. It is real and its meaning is very personal this year. My son is alive and is whole, and one day, I will go to him. I wonder if he has touched the nail marks in Jesus' hands? I wonder if Jesus has told him that because of those nail marks, one day, we will hold him again? Is every day in Heaven an Easter celebration? Probably so.
We're planting a tree in honor of David in the next couple weeks--either a cherry or peach tree. And in the years ahead, beautiful but short-lived blossoms will emerge from David's tree, flourish for a time, and then vanish to bear fruit. I will always remember that the loss of the blossoms means that something better is coming.
So glad that spring is coming...
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
tears
It
hurts
so
badly
to
grieve
the loss of David...
No, "hurts" is too soft a word.
It feels like what I imagine a soldier would look like after being hit by a round
of mortar,
leaving a gaping whole in his abdomen...
like walking
around
with a whole piece of you missing.
I push away the grief, shove it away because it wears me out, wears me down, drains me.
Yet, like a geyser, it comes suddenly spewing with all the ferocity and power from having been pent up. I cannot fight it. Like the ocean, I must not fight the waves that pound me, but roll with them.
And
the
tears
roll
too..
I like what Nancy Guthrie, a woman who buried two of her children at the age of six months due to Zellweger Syndrome said in her book, Holding Onto Hope:
"The day after we buried Hope, my husband said to me, '...Our faith gave us an incredible amount of strength and encouragement while we had Hope, and we are comforted by the knowledge that she is in heaven. Our faith keeps us from being swallowed by despair. But I don't think it makes our less hurt any less.'" She goes on to say, "...I lost someone I loved dearly, and I'm sad. Ours is not a culture that is comfortable with sadness. Sadness is awkward. It is unsettling. It ebbs and flows and takes its own shape. It beckons to be shared. It comes out in tears, and we don't quite know what to do with those. So many people are afraid to bring up my loss. They don't want to upset me. But my tears are the only way I have to release the deep sorrow I feel."
So don't be afraid to bring up David for fear of making me cry. Thoughts of him are always just under the surface anyway. In fact, it hurts more to ignore that he ever existed. My tears show, as Nancy Guthrie describes, "that you've touched me in a place that is meaningful to me--and I will never forget your willingness to share my grief."
hurts
so
badly
to
grieve
the loss of David...
No, "hurts" is too soft a word.
It feels like what I imagine a soldier would look like after being hit by a round
of mortar,
leaving a gaping whole in his abdomen...
like walking
around
with a whole piece of you missing.
I push away the grief, shove it away because it wears me out, wears me down, drains me.
Yet, like a geyser, it comes suddenly spewing with all the ferocity and power from having been pent up. I cannot fight it. Like the ocean, I must not fight the waves that pound me, but roll with them.
And
the
tears
roll
too..
I like what Nancy Guthrie, a woman who buried two of her children at the age of six months due to Zellweger Syndrome said in her book, Holding Onto Hope:
"The day after we buried Hope, my husband said to me, '...Our faith gave us an incredible amount of strength and encouragement while we had Hope, and we are comforted by the knowledge that she is in heaven. Our faith keeps us from being swallowed by despair. But I don't think it makes our less hurt any less.'" She goes on to say, "...I lost someone I loved dearly, and I'm sad. Ours is not a culture that is comfortable with sadness. Sadness is awkward. It is unsettling. It ebbs and flows and takes its own shape. It beckons to be shared. It comes out in tears, and we don't quite know what to do with those. So many people are afraid to bring up my loss. They don't want to upset me. But my tears are the only way I have to release the deep sorrow I feel."
So don't be afraid to bring up David for fear of making me cry. Thoughts of him are always just under the surface anyway. In fact, it hurts more to ignore that he ever existed. My tears show, as Nancy Guthrie describes, "that you've touched me in a place that is meaningful to me--and I will never forget your willingness to share my grief."
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