A Letter to My Daughter.

**TRIGGER ALERT** This post refers to the loss of a child and may upset those who have experienced a similar loss. I am not trying to hurt you so this is your warning. Stop reading if you are still too raw. This is also your warning that, if you are planning to comment with a nasty comment, I will delete your comment without warning. This is a sensitive topic for me and I will not tolerate those comments.Inline image 1

To my sweet baby girl Evelyn Joy,

Yesterday was three months. Three months ago, you came into the world sleeping. I had prayed for God to have mercy and save you. I admit that I did. I begged for your life because I knew God was able to perform miracles if it was His will. When we went back for the 2nd ultrasound, He hadn’t performed a miracle and saved your life. Your little body was still there. Lifeless. And, my body was in the process of ending your pregnancy. I asked my doctor to allow me to avoid surgery. I wanted to meet you. I wanted to feel the pain of delivering you. I wanted the privilege of honoring my child and, perhaps, burying you.

You should know that your daddy is the strong one of the two of us. Yes, I endured the waves of contractions. I felt my water break and I rushed to the bathroom to deliver you. But, your daddy. He’s the strong one. He’s the one who cared for you. He’s the one who cleaned you up and loved on you first. He’s the daddy who loved you (and me) enough to carefully place your tiny body in your coffin. Your final resting place. He’s the husband who lovingly urged me to see you and hold you. He’s the man who sat on the floor of the bathroom and wept as I wailed while holding you. He’s the one who photographed you, his 6th child and 2nd daughter. You see, he’s the strong one.

I’m not so strong. I cry a lot. I miss you more than I can ever explain. I have Our Milestones etched in my mind. I know when we would’ve had the sonogram to find out whether you were a girl or a boy. We had invited all of your grandparents to a sonogram while we visited Florida. When that date passed, I grieved. I know that we should be approaching the home stretch. We should be preparing for our 3rd trimester. I try to balance my huge love for your siblings with my huge love and grief for you. There are days when my body feels so empty. I miss you. I never felt you kick and that hurts. I never felt your hiccups. I will never change your poopy diapers. I will never help you learn to walk. I will never teach you to read. I will never comfort you when you are sick. I will never see you complete high school. I will never straighten your veil on your wedding day. I mourn these moments.

I ache for normal. I deeply desire to return to normal. But, Evelyn, when I think of normal, you are here. It’s end of January and we are anxiously awaiting your birth. If I’m honest, I don’t know how to be normal anymore. I’m desperately trying to trust Jesus. I’m trying to understand His plan. Mama believes that God is good and He is sovereign. He knows all things and plans all things. Mama isn’t going to lie to you or wear a mask. This is a hard thing to accept because, if He knows all things and plans all things, He knew we would love you and lose you. That is hard for Mama to understand. I’m trying. I don’t know how to understand it and search for a new normal. I know the new normal includes a greater trust in God. How do I not trust Him more?

A few things that I do know. I know, for certain, you were fearfully and wonderfully made. I know you looked like your brother, DS#3. I know you had tiny fingers and toes. I know you were sent for a purpose. Your short life had purpose. When I think of you and your name, I’m reminded of the need to find JOY even in the hardest of times. (The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him and He helps me. My heart leaps for joy and with my song I praise Him. Psalm 28:7 is the inspiration for your middle name.) I also am tremendously proud of you. You are my beautiful girl. I know I am thankful that God allowed me to be your mama. For the short time that He allowed me to carry you. For allowing me to see and hear your heart beating in an ultrasound at 6 weeks. For the grace He gave in allowing your daddy and me to see you and hold you when you were born. I’m thankful that He allowed me to see that you were sick and He does have our best in mind. I’m thankful for a GOOD God who gives us strength when we are weak and can’t understand.

Since I am proud of being your mama and I know God has a plan for your life, I am sharing your picture with whoever reads this post. This is your picture on your birthday. July 14, 2015. You were 9 weeks 4 days gestation when you passed.

evelyn

Mama, Daddy and all of The Crazies love you.

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7 thoughts on “A Letter to My Daughter.

  1. Theresa says:

    I know how you feel. I lost a baby at 6 weeks gestation, a son at 3 months after birth. It is hard either way-don’t know which is harder. You and your family were blessed to have her and thank you for sharing

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