My little one,
I spoke to you the day I discovered you were alive. I laid my hand on my belly and knew that my touch was within inches of your little forming body, dreaming of the day that the inches would no longer separate us. I told you I loved you every day, hoping that, even though your little ears hadn’t been able to hear my voice yet, maybe somehow the words of my heart could transmit to you in some other way and that you would know how loved you were.
Once again I knew your father and I were blessed. You were no accident. Even through the tough days, when the sickness had me in tears, when I couldn’t see the end of it, knowing that it was going to produce for us something wonderful kept me going. The thought of you gave me a hope and a joy that far outweighed the worst of my symptoms.
Seeing your heartbeat was such a tender moment for us. There you were, although smaller than expected, safely tucked away in my womb, with that strong, steady heartbeat. Your father and I had many changes and preparations to make for you, and we excitedly talked about all the details. We couldn’t wait to find out if you were a boy or a girl. We couldn’t wait to see what you would look like and what your personality would be like.
We talked about your arrival all the way up to that moment we learned we’d already lost you. How long ago had your heart failed? We couldn’t even be sure of that. All we knew was that at some point in the previous month your little body had stopped growing and you had ceased to exist in this world, even as my words of affection had continued.
And even afterwards, I kept speaking to you, knowing your little body was lifeless. I continued to rest my hand on my belly, talking to you, on a wish that my words would still somehow transmit, telling you how much I loved and missed you, and how sorry I was. I knew deep down that the inches that separated us had grown exponentially and that your heart was now still. I knew that what I now spoke to was a dream that would never come true. I know that this is the same dream I write to now.
Sweetheart, I am so sorry you never got to experience all the beautiful things of life after birth. I am so sorry I couldn’t protect you. I am so sorry your body was not strong enough to live. But to loosely quote another grieving mother’s words, I know that you are the winner in this. You are now in the arms of the one who foresaw and planned your short life before you were ever conceived, and I know you now know how loved you are. Your father and I are the losers in this…but only for now. In this life, you may be light years away as opposed to the inches I once was from you. But I know that one day nothing will separate us.
My heart will always ache when I think about how I will never hold you as long as I live here on this earth. There will always be a hole in my heart where it once made room for you. I will always shed tears for you. And we will always remember you. We will give you a name. We will know how old you would be on every due date that comes around…we will mourn your absence on every holiday, in all those quiet moments, in those little reminders when you unexpectedly surface in our thoughts, in so many moments of our lives. I miss you so much, and I always will.
But know this: You changed our lives. You changed the lives of others. You paved a way for the Lord to do some mighty works. No, you were no accident. The sickness I felt even as your life was waning inside of me was not for nothing. Your life was filled with purpose, and for that, we will not just remember you by grieving your passing. We will celebrate you. God made you, a perfect soul in an imperfect body, to demonstrate a glory that no words can describe.
I thank him for the opportunity I had to carry you, my little one. Your perfect soul was my blessing to bear. One day I will know you like I never could. I will hold you like I never could. I will be with you in the arms of Jesus for all of eternity, and he will dry my tears once and for all.
I love you, my little one.
My Blessing To Bear 