Three boys, who I wouldn’t trade for anything, call me mom. I am so grateful to have them, to love them, to have held them in my arms, and to hold them in my heart. Even with my boys, my heart breaks a bit every time I think about the one I never got know.

Tomorrow, October 15, is the day set aside to remember children who were lost due to pregnancy loss or death in early childhood. So today — and everyday — I remember Jessie. And even though we lost our Jessie on March 24, 2000, it is only recently that I have begun to truly grieve this loss.

I lost one child — some women have lost many. In some ways it felt wrong to grieve one small loss when dear people grieve loss after loss after loss. Some families experience numerous losses and never enjoy the privilege of parenting their children, but still they are parents.

In our family, my brother, a cousin, and a niece have all had children who were born and lived mere hours. When I measured their grief against the grief that we experienced from pregnancy loss, I felt guilty for even mentioning our baby. Yet, I felt the loss — deeply, inside, in my broken heart, and in my nightmares where I would hear the baby cry, but as I went to comfort her I could never find her. The grief I experienced at her loss was hidden away — I never told anyone about the nightmares. Only Mr. Gorgeous knows how hard it is for me to face March 24th.

After we lost the baby, John sent an email to our family members to tell them; he also shared the news with our church family when I wasn’t around. Responses to the news varied. Some people thought that having three children was enough and we really didn’t need another one. A few expressed their concern that if I was unable to carry her to term, she must have had a physical abnormality, so losing her was for the best. Very few responded with what I felt was a compassionate heart. Our boys cried with us over the loss of their sister. Nathan said we couldn’t always call her “the baby” and asked if we could call her Jessie. That became her name.

A dear friend sent me a letter that I read numerous times. She said simply, “I hurt with you and for you; and I love you.” I ached to hear that kind of a message. No, we didn’t have a funeral, but we lost a child. There wasn’t a casket or a tombstone, but there were broken hearts. To be honest, everyone seemed to ignore our loss, and as a result, I tried to do the same.

There is something about loss — something about grief — though that refuses to be ignored. Every time I held an infant I would struggle to keep from crying. Nightmares filled my sleep. And finally, two years ago, about the time that Jessie would have been on the volleyball team I coach, I realized it was time to grieve — for real this time.

I began a Bible study about losing a child. I read a book called SCANDALOUS GRACE that encouraged me to grasp God’s grace with both hands and use it overcome this emptiness that filled me every time I thought of Jessie. Finally, through prayer and tears and a willingness to begin talking about her, I have begun to be healed of the incapacitating grief that I’d locked away.

And then God used my beautiful niece to give me permission to speak freely about Jessie. Pam became involved with Unspoken Grief, an outreach on Facebook. She and they have helped me to move forward while reaching back to help others who grieve as I do. Last year, I participated in a photo project called, “Capture Your Grief.” It is sponsored by CarlyMarie on Facebook and encourages parents who’ve lost a child to take and post a picture each day during the month of October. Each day has a special theme for the photo. I did not submit a picture for each day of the month; I did participate on the days that had the most meaning to me. Through that project I remembered, mourned, grieved, celebrated, laughed, and let go.

I still grieve, but I’m moving on. Doing so has not been easy and to be honest, I was only able to do so when I gave myself permission. That meant ignoring people who didn’t or don’t understand that the loss of an infant is as devastating as the loss of anyone else that we love. Thankfully, by speaking up and sharing my loss, I’ve found others around me who’ve experienced their own losses. We encourage, strengthen, and bless each other. I am thankful for them and their willingness to share their heart with me.

So on this day, in memory of Jessie, I want to say a few things that I would have said to her:

Jessie, I love you. Your brothers would have made you crazy, just like Uncle Frank made your mommy crazy. I know, however, that they would have protected you. I am certain that boys who liked you would have looked at your brothers (especially Nate) and only the very worthy would have had the courage to date you. I always dreamed about you having dark curly hair, but red hair like your dad would have been beautiful. You would have laughed — a lot, like the rest of the family. I think you might have been a singer — maybe a piano player like Phillip and Ben. Or perhaps you would have inherited your great grandmother’s artistic ability. Whatever your interests or talents, I know that you would have been amazing. I wish I had known you. Jesus has taken care of you and I know you are safe  — for that I am thankful.  

Finally my friends, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you know of someone who has experienced pregnancy or infant loss? Would you reach out — would you let them grieve? Will you celebrate their child/children with them? Would you please speak their child’s name? It’s important…  Jessie.

#pregnancyloss #infantloss

When our sons were in elementary school, John and I would sit down before school started every year and write a letter to each of their classroom teachers. The boys delivered the letters to their teachers during the first week of classes. It was our way of letting the teacher know that we were going to be involved parents. (Teachers probably thought we would be helicopter parents — I  hope we weren’t that bad!) But more than that, it was an opportunity to introduce our children to their teachers. We knew that these handsome little boys would be faces in a crowd and we wanted to give them the best possible start to their school year.

Nate’s letter usually went something like this:

“Nathan is the oldest of three boys and is a very responsible young man. He hates school, but if he trusts you, he will follow you to the moon and back. He has traveled to many states, seen many amazing things, visited numerous museums, and as a result, is curious about how and why things work. Learning is hard for Nathan. He will ask for help — but only when he’s desperate. He’s hard on himself and thinks that things should come easier than they do. Please be patient with him.”

Phillip’s letter was different:

“Phillip taught himself to read when he was four. Learning comes easily to him. He has a photographic memory, is fascinated by WWII, and can explain how submarines work. When you tell him what you plan to teach, he will come to school the next day knowing more about it than you can imagine. He will challenge you — if you misquote a fact, he will correct you. Most of  the time, he will be right. He is a perfectionist and is very hard on himself. We are trying to help him find balance. Your job will be a tough one, but we believe in you and will pray for you.”

Ben’s letter was different still:

“You will find that Benji is a kind, caring, and gentle young man. His goal in life is to make people around him laugh; and we apologize in advance. He knows how to behave, but may need a gentle reminder or two. When he gets “tickled” he will laugh until he cries — often slapping his leg in the process. He does imitations of adults, movie stars, and cartoon characters. Our favorite is when he imitates Timon from LION KING. He learns fairly easily, reads voraciously (mostly CALVIN AND HOBBES), and cares about the people around him. Honestly, for Benji, relationships are far more important than learning or grades.”

Like all parents, we knew that our boys were different. They still are. One of the fascinating challenges we faced was helping each of our boys to succeed in the areas where he had ability. While growing stronger in areas of strength is important, we also tried to stretch them and help them to challenge themselves — to find new areas of interest, and to determine new abilities. More than anything, however, we wanted our boys to see God as a loving Heavenly Father and to make the decision to love, follow, and serve Him. We still want that.

We are preparing to have family pictures taken again. Whenever we do that, I always look back at pictures from our yesterdays: baby pictures, school pictures, holidays, vacations, and everyday snap shots. I try to “paint a picture” in my mind of the growth of each of these young men. You see, sometimes I wonder if we did enough. Was there sufficient laughter and play balanced by times of hard work? Did we travel and create enough? Was family and time together valued? Did we spend enough time together learning about God and serving others? Naturally, we weren’t perfect, but the pictures remind me that maybe, just maybe, with God’s help we did okay. We see the men they are becoming and we are proud of the choices they are making. Are we disappointed sometimes? Of course, but they are good men — men of character and strength.

These men of character moved from the “little boy stage” to young boys in classrooms of twenty-five or thirty children. Were those letters to the teachers necessary? Maybe not, but they helped us to feel better about trusting someone else with these precious gifts.