...a PAIL full of tears

October 15th is the Pregnancy And Infant Loss (PAIL) Remembrance day.

As if it could be forgotten.

Pregnancy loss has touched four different families I know so far this year... and it never stops being heartbreaking.

There is no grief that can compare to losing a baby.

One day you're holding your rounded belly and laughing at each nudge and kick. Then before you know it, your belly is ominously silent. What was once full of hope and dreams is terrifyingly empty.

There's a hollow place there that's more than an empty womb.

It's an empty life.

It's empty arms... an empty cradle... and an empty heart.

It's the first bath, first smile, first laugh, first crawl, first tooth, first birthday, first step, first day of school, first report card, first crush, first date, first dance, first kiss, first love, first grandchild.... all those firsts that never come.

It's the hollow under the Christmas tree where presents should have been.
It's the birthdays you can't celebrate or even acknowledge because people forget.
It's the closet you clean out, the toys you box up, the furniture you pack away and the gifts you return.
It's the memories you don't have, because you never had the chance to make any.
It's the faith that seems irreparably shaken by a God who takes away what He's given.
It's the dreams that died and the hopes you mourn.

Ten and a half years ago I sat in the front pew of my church as a little white casket was carried to the front and the pastor said something I'm sure was poignant and meaningful - I didn't hear a word he said. I shook hands and accepted hugs and flowers and food from well-meaning people - I didn't see a single face. I stood in a cemetery next to a tiny grave on a February afternoon - I didn't feel the cold.

I stood there as my mom patted me on the back and said, "It's ok. It's ok" All the while, I wanted to scream,

"IT IS NOT OK!!!"

Because it isn't ok. It is never ok to bury a child.

Sure, the grief gets lighter and the days stop blurring and one morning you will wake up and you won't immediately be reminded of your loss. Eventually you'll get through a whole day without weeping... then a week... a month. I haven't yet made it a whole year, but maybe some people get there eventually.

Though I doubt it. I think the tears will always come back.

I never held or touched my stillborn son. I never saw him. No pictures, no footprints, no lock of hair. I had nothing of him except a blurry, fading sonogram photo and a jar full of dried flowers from his funeral.

Tiny daffodils, purple status, little blue mums, yellow and white rose petals, daisies, baby's breath... I kept some of everything

I looked at those flowers in that jar every day. It sat on my dresser, then on my bookshelf, then in the kitchen and I would touch it - sometimes with purpose, sometimes absent-mindedly - just a quick acknowledgment that I still remembered I have three sons. I'd softly whisper his name, "Joshua," and that was enough

Until one day a couple of years ago... I came out of the bathroom to a trail of what looked like fishfood flakes leading from one end of the house to the other and the sound of my children playing in the water in their bathroom sink.

"We're making perfume mommy!"

It took me a few moments to realize what they were using to pour water into a dozen little dixie cups sitting on the counter. Joshua's jar. Tiny flakes of color floated in the water. Crumbled up bits of my precious flowers swirled down the drain.

And then I lost it.

I was beyond reason. I cried, I screamed, I said things I wish I could take back. Because it felt like it was my Joshua crumbled up and strewn carelessly around the house. It felt like my Joshua was being swirled down the drain.

It felt like my Joshua was leaving me again.

And the emptiness that four children couldn't fill came sweeping over me again in waves of grief I have no words to express. I laid down on the floor and I cried deep, wrenching sobs while tiny hands patted my hair, cupped my face and wrapped around me. They stayed there with me until I cried myself dry.

"It's ok mommy," a little voice said. No baby, it's not ok.

But I am.

You see, the grief never really goes away, but whether we like it or not, life goes on. There's always a new day and another step to take. We keep doing what we have to do, no matter how hard, until it becomes easy again.

If you've recently lost a baby, I am so sorry. But I promise you, the day will come when you can breathe again. The day will come when you can dream and laugh and hope again.

Until that day... cry my friend, my sister. Weep and mourn and rage at the terrible unfairness of life in a fallen world. Sob alone into your pillow or in a crowd of people. Beat your fists against the wall and cry out your anger and pain to the God you wish had spared your baby.

He can take it.
He understands.
He lost a son too.

Mourn beloved. Because there will be a morning.
I promise.

"Crying may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning." Psalm 30:5.