April 24, 2009

It is April 24, 2009, the 7th anniversary of our first daughter, Hannah's birth. I set aside this morning to reflect and write, and yet, I have a rather strange compulsion to either launch a mass Spring cleaning, or take a nap. In a draw, I believe the later would win.

I’m sitting here slowly eating a whole bag of skittles. Because I’m an adult, and I can do that. And because they are bright and colorful. And because we going to the dentist today, so it doesn’t matter. It’s cold today. High of 50 and rainy. I just went to the drawer to find some socks, and there are no matching socks. One blue stripe, one green stripe, one mitten sock, one plain white one, and a snowman sock. Grief is a little bit like that. Lots of pieces that don’t match up.

I can’t think of anything to write that is worthy of this day; something that says, “Hannah, mommy has been thinking about you all year long!” But that’s ok; I think she understands. Yet, as I think back to how we have commemorated Hannah’s life over the last 7 years, these come to mind.

Deep friendships that have developed through loss…Simon & Tiffany, Jeff & Heather, Marc & Amy, Will & Tina …conversations of memories, grief, and hope.

I remember planting flowers 'with' Kathryn when she was 1 in Dallas, planting an apple tree in Singapore, and thinking about planting something in China... Receiving tons of plants after her funeral, all of which eventually died and made me cry over again each time. I remember the joy of sending flowers to others, a comfort to another grieving friend in her name. Christmas Poinsettias, Easter Lilies… There’s something redemptive about flowers. They are bright and alive, at least for awhile. ‘Hannah’s Picket’ in Altus, and making her scrapbook.

I remember multiple writings… letters from friends; writing down memories so I won’t forget details as time passes; writing reflections about how her life has changed me; writing about making sense of suffering; writing about fascinating conversations I’ve shared with Kathryn; suggestions about 'How NOT to help your grieving friend'; A Psalm of Lament & A Psalm of Praise, paralleling Hannah’s and Kathryn’s births; writing various articles-- In My Experience, Redemption and an Apple Tree, My Story, Her Story, His Story, Bring Me to Jesus.

I have followed blogs processing the grief of loss with great interest, in many ways continuing to process my own. Knox Memories, As I Journey Home, Bring the Rain… I have read several books about loss, only two of which I found profoundly helpful-- Lament for a Son by Nicholas Wolterstorff and A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser.

Ironically, I just stopped to open my email to write a note to friends who were expecting their daughter to be born stillborn soon…Jim had just forwarded a message from him asking if we could pass along our funeral service program and the letter we sent out after Hannah died. In this vein, there are little ways her life has been 'helpful' to others, but nothing that feels worthy of her death.

Hannah, mommy remembers you. Your dark blonde hair and your deep blue eyes; Your button nose and your tiny fingers curled around mine. Your soft rosy cheeks and your perfect toes. I remember.

Though you cannot see Him in the night, trust Him with joy for the morning light
As He enables, spend your grieving energies on His wonder.
For He will greet you not with answers, but with showers of His goodness
He will cradle your longing in His own bosom,
And cause the yearning of your heart to bubble forth as a spring of new birth.

I am still awaiting that day!

You know the one thing I’ve yet to write? Her story. Memories, reflections, dialogue, snippets—yes. But I’ve never written out her story. It would write much different at 7 years than at 1 year… I’m not committing to it, I’m just chewing on the idea. You can ask me about it next year:) But for today, I’m simply reflecting on her life, this day, April 24, 2009.