a premise on promise

“A Premise on Promise”

Thanksgiving 2018

Dear Sophia,

While driving around the other day, you asked me why all the leaves were falling off the trees with a hint of sadness in your voice, and I paused briefly to figure out a way to describe autumn to you.  It was one of those trademark fall days – the crispness that was nearly tangible in the air, the breeze sweeping through the branches like rolling waves and courting the leaves in a dance, the vibrance of the colors warm and bright from the sun.  It was enough to make me exhale for a moment and relish in the amazing beauty of my favorite season.

So I told you that the leaves fall in autumn, and then the snow would come in winter, and springtime would bring regrowth and leaves again.  I explained how the seasons recycle and repeat, but amidst the change and transition we can count on the leaves coming back… and eventually falling again, like a promise.

It made me reflect upon this past year of growth (mostly for you) and change (with the additions of your cousin Bjorn and baby Alora, who you call a cousin), and hibernation (though not for me as I’m wrapping up my Masters, but one day soon!).  I marveled at how a year ago we claimed that you couldn’t stop talking, and yet these days the sentences flow out of you in stories and songs, or as a noteworthy “sophism,” and yes, even by way of disagreements and challenges.  I think of how we quickly realized that you’ve become a reflection of us – a mixture of mischief and heart, thoughtfulness and adventure – yet you have retained your unique mind and spirit.  A few short months ago you’d say, “I can’t” to potty training and we turned it around affirming that you could, and you would, until you were cheering us on whenever we felt unsteady and unsure.  I vividly remember the day you tamped down your innate fear of dogs and managed to pet one, a little shaky but so proud afterwards.  We are in awe of the little lady you are becoming – strong (holding your own in a class full of boys) yet gentle (as an expert snuggler to family and “Danca”), perceptive (incredibly in tune to our feelings and not missing a thing) and diligent (your negotiating skills are virtually unmatched for a 3-year-old!), inclusive (always including and asking about Lily and Lucas) while free (like your interpretive dances).

Not long ago we talked about promises and you’ve come to grasp the significance of them (and I know this because you’ve refused to promise when you know you can’t keep it 😉), a sacred oath that can bind people together.  This Thanksgiving, I’m reiterating an unspoken promise – that no matter the season and despite the inevitability of change, there is a single constant – us.  Your family.  Hold on to that when the days seem dark and bleak, or when you feel misunderstood or mistreated.  We’ll be here, in some shape or form, without judgement or scrutiny.  You’ll always be heard and have a seat at the table. 

Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart.  No matter where life takes you, you will have a forever home.  I promise.

Love,
Mommy

shine on

Whenever this time of year rolls around, the constant ache in my chest expands, like an oddly shaped balloon, the pressure building, threatening to burst.  I realize it's another year without the twins, and undoubtedly wake up crying on their birthdays.  Five. years.  It has been nearly five whole years since we met and lost them, five whole years since we held them in our arms.  It's an indescribable feeling to stare at your daughter's angelic face, realizing it mirrors your own; or hear your son's first and last cry, watching the rise and fall of his tiny chest until it becomes utterly still.

I think of our babies often, every day, in fact -- but late August always feels a bit more raw.

I read today that it's National Rainbow Baby Day.  It wasn't until after Sophia was born that I was first introduced to the term, "rainbow baby," and couldn't imagine a more fitting name.  After weathering a loss, it's a beacon of hope -- like a rainbow after a rainstorm.  And our Sophia, she is nothing short of a miracle.  She's not a replacement for our angel babies, but she has healed us somehow, teaching us to carry our darlings with us in heart and in mind.

To my rainbow baby, shine on.  Shine on as a symbol of hope, and strength, and perseverance, and courage, and love.  Shine on as we remember your siblings and what can come after -- beauty, and grace, and life.

no words

On Friday evening, I attended the viewing of a coworker's husband.  Upon arrival to the funeral home, I immediately spotted the line of mourners wrapped around the great room almost right up to the door -- and was struck by how eerily familiar it was to the receiving line at a wedding, though obviously somber in mood.  My coworkers and I huddled closely together, admiring the photos and personal belongings of the deceased, inching our way toward the family.  As we grew nearer, I found myself nervous and awkward, never one at ease with small talk and social niceties.

When it was my turn, I hugged my coworker, hoping that I could show, rather than say, how terribly sorry I was.  They had been married for 46 years, and I couldn't find a way to express that I wasn't equipped to understand the tiniest bit of how she must feel.  She introduced me to her daughter and we shook hands.  When I reached her son-in-law, I found myself babbling absentmindedly with a reflexive, "Nice to meet you..." before realizing and following up with an uncomfortable, "Well, under the circumstances."  By the time I reached her son, I told him how sorry I was, but he wouldn't make eye contact, so I was just left with a feeling of utter inadequacy.

The thing is, it pains me when words fail me in times that I want them to matter.  I struggle to vocalize what I want to say, when I want to say it, because words... They’ve always been meaningful to me somehow.

I drove home thinking about what I would have said if I had a second chance.  Maybe I would have repeated my name to the family, for starters.  Talked about how I knew my coworker, how much she's taught and helped me over the years.  Maybe I would have said I would pray for them or keep them in my thoughts.  And maybe none of it would have mattered anyway.

When I came home, I found my daughter and husband snuggled on the couch together, and thanked God that He gave us another day.  I hugged her, relieved, that I didn't need any words to show her how much I love her.  I read her a bedtime story, stroked her face and her hair, marveled for probably the thousandth time how she was here, warm and soft, and was comforted thinking of her musical laugh and the sound of her sweet words: "I love you, Mommy.  I love you, too."