...the beginning of another

I am finally picking up where my last post left off. The only way to put the last two and a half months into words is to say they have been life altering. Not only are we trying to pick up the pieces from losing our baby boy and go back to living as a family of four, but for a month and a half  we have been physically isolated as well as emotionally isolated because of the pandemic. In a time when I could use a lot of extra hugs the only people I can hug are my husband and two sons, and they are grieving too...

It has not been all bad, in fact we've had some of the best moments with each other during this time (as well as some of the worst). We've gotten into better routines and habits and made memories and improvements on our house. But going back to "normal" is not easy, in fact it's not even possible. Life will never be the same for any of us.

Yesterday, April 30th, marked three months since Asa was born and it still hurts every day that he's not here. We should be loving on him instead of starting a new house project. If he had made it to full term he would have been at least one month old now. I try to imagine what life would be like with him, but there are so many scenarios...would he be in the NICU for weeks or months? Would we be taking him to lots of doctor's appointments? Would we be learning how to care for a baby with special needs? Or would he be miraculously healed? If he was home with us I know we'd all be busy adoring him. His big brothers might fight over holding him and would be great helpers in taking care of him. His first laugh would probably be at something they did. We would thrill over the first time he reached for something, the first time he cooed, and the first time he smiled. There are so many firsts we won't see and that hurts so much. Instead of looking forward to firsts  I wonder about his "lasts". His last movement, his last breath, the last thing he heard. Honestly I am so thankful I don't know when they took place. I trust that he did not experience pain, and I am so thankful for that.

But now I am watching his six year old brother grieve and I am struggling to know how to help. At times he is fine talking about Asa but other times he doesn't even want his dad and me to talk about him or read the books that are supposed to be helpful for kids who've gone through loss. Going to the cemetery is too much for him and yesterday he didn't want to wear a certain shirt because it was what he wore when he came to see his baby brother in the hospital. I try to be gentle with him and I don't force him to do anything, but I do tell him that talking will actually make things easier in the long run. His three and a half year old brother is fine talking about Asa, he seems to enjoy remembering him. But I wonder how it will affect him as he gets older and understands more. I had a little bit of time to process what it might be like for my husband and me to lose our baby, but I had no idea what it would be like for the big brothers. The first big loss I went through was my Grandma, and I was 11. I can't imagine what it's like at six, let alone three. I just hope and pray it will make their faith strong and give them a maturity, wisdom, and empathy far beyond their years.

So, to sum up the past several weeks: they have been hard. And I mean HARD. But, I am not without hope. And my hope has nothing to do with whether we ever have another biological baby again (still waiting on further genetic testing to see if we could have a baby with the same conditions again), or whether we grow our family another way. My hope is in the promise that this "light momentary affliction [FYI, it does not FEEL light or momentary] is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison" (2 Cor. 4:17) and "the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us." (Rom. 8:18)

I may or may not have been in my bed the past three hours and lost my temper with the person I love the most, but after reading those verses again I can't help but feel better. So I am going to get up and enjoy some time with the only people I can be with right now, after all they are pretty great. They deserve an award for sticking with me through my worst moments and loving me no matter what.

It has been a therapeutic process for me to type this and I sincerely hope that it helps whoever reads it too.