I Never Did Give Up

These are the moments that have made up the last two months of our lives. As the Lord has taught us, I have been writing. It does me so much good to put into words what the Lord is teaching me or what I am feeling as we go. If at times it sounds like I'm preaching to you, it's more than likely not the case; but I had to write it to preach to myself. To have something to read and remind me of what this was like, when I feel as if I've made no progress at all, it helps me to read about the past. When I forget the goodness of the Lord, it helps me to read of his blessings.

If you'd like to read more about the story of our Hannah Grace click here.

January 7, 2014

We have the boxes ready to store away our baby things. We have diapers and toys and the cutest little outfits. We have stuffed animals and blankets and sheets for days. The boxes are in the nursery, just waiting.

They wait like the toys have been waiting to be played with, like the crib has been waiting to be slept in, like the little onesies are waiting to be worn. Like my arms still wait to hold our sweet baby girl.

But the waiting is in vain, because my arms won't hold her again on this earth. 'The nursery' is what I try to call it now, because 'her nursery' or most of all 'Hannah's room' is just too hard. I try to remember what Kyle whispered in my ear when we first returned to our vacant nursery, "it was never her nursery.' And it helps, it helps to know know that the Lord knew this entire I time that I was decorating the room for something or someone else. But it still hurts.

We've talked about packing up the room. At least the closet full of clothes, the basket full of toys, the shelves of diapers, and the drawers of blankets and sheets and cute little hooded baby towels. They need somewhere to live. Not because I need them out of my sight, but because they'll only collect dust on the shelves. They'll only take up room that could be used to host other hearts, friends, family, guests.

But it's so hard. Because I go in her room and I think about trying to pack something away and it feels so very real. It feels just like handing my sweet little baby girl's body to the nurse knowing I'd never see her again. I know that she's gone, just like her soul was long gone from that body. But somehow it feels like I'm giving up on her. That by packing away her things I'm no longer waiting for my baby, for my Hannah to arrive, to come home to us.

I know we can pack things away nicely, to keep them ready for someday another little baby Hess. Oh we pray for more babies. But the reality is that even another baby won't be my sweet, sweet Hannah. By putting her things in boxes, they are no longer hers, we are passing them down for someone else. And so it feels like I'm giving up on her.

But the reality is I never did, I never did give up. I believed she would be okay until the very last moment. And then I had them check again. And even then I thought maybe just maybe she'd still be born okay. I fought hard for her every day, I took care of her before myself, I rested, I did no heavy lifting, I put my feet up, I ate all the right things, I avoided all the wrong things, I wore a crazy mask when I painted even with the super-safe paint. Every piece of lunch meat I ate was 'steaming hot.' I prayed for her constantly, I told her stories, I made sure she knew how much in this family we love her daddy, my husband Kyle. I made sure she knew how much we love Jesus and that he loves her even more than we do. And I never gave up on her.

And so packing is hard. I know it will be good. But every piece, every item of blessing is painful, but good. I'm not ready to pack away my tears yet, to pack away my grief, or to pack away my love for her. It's like I'm still waiting for her, my heart does not yet know, even though my mind knows the crib will remain empty.