A very brief visit a few days ago with a dear aunt has left my heart very hopeful. She spoke with such certainty about my future that it took my breath away. I believe with all of my heart that she hears God's messages with such purity compared to what my heavy soul could ever imagine.
A bit later I was alone at the cemetery. Tears fell bitterly as I watched bright red leaves blowing across the graves. I couldn't pray. My mind couldn't even string together the words to talk to my son like I usually do. I just stood there numb. Crying. And simply wanting to hold my son.
Then I noticed something that made me smile. A small granite slab. There is a little girl just a few spots over that passed away several years ago, yet does not have a headstone. Her grave is visited often by the decorations that appear. When I was there last, I prayed to God for that family to be gifted with whatever help they needed to mark that angel's resting place. And just a few days later, there was a base! The stone must be ordered for a base to be placed. Such a small thing, but at that moment I wish I knew that angel's mom so I could call her and let her tell me about the perfect memorial they chose.
Parenting an angel leaves you with very few moments that you have something to share with others. When I talk to other angel moms, we exchange hospital/funeral stories. Or maybe memorial items we have for our babies. Sometimes on the darker days we relive what went wrong. Those that have the answers of why their baby died share. Those of us who don't, ponder. Choosing that stone is the last choice those of us who bury our child will even make for them. Ever. It's more final than any other experience you can ever have. Signing that order was terrifying and comforting all in the same moment.
Thinking back to those words our aunt shared today brought tears over and over all evening. She didn't try to get me to believe "God needed an angel" as so many others have. She validated my pain. She understood the lethal nature of the weight on our hearts that we carry every single day. Her empathy for the intensity was something I was so thankful for. But most of all, she encouraged me to remember there is still so much more for us.
It's a very odd existence to live knowing your child is dead. Nothing is ever really the same. You fight the balance of existing vs living . Moments of hope pop up often during my greatest despair. But I have faith that more good days will continue to seep into the cracks. In the meantime, I'll just keep trying to #doitforcj.
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