As Peter stepped off the boat into the crashing waves to meet the Savior, I can only imagine the amount of faith he must've had. He walked through the tempest with his eyes on the Lord, believing and trusting Him. It was only when he noticed the winds and the storm that he started to sink and he was afraid. He cried to the Savior to save him. "And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him."
How many storms of life are we asked to step into? It's so hard to not be afraid and stay afloat.
In Isaiah 35:4 it says, "Say to them that are of a fearful heart, Be strong, fear not: behold, your God will come with vengeance, even God with a recompence; he will come and save you."
As I put my feet over the side of this boat, I gaze down at the storm, and I pray I can have the same faith Peter possessed. I know that my Savior will immediately take my hand.
"Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as he has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: The waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.
I will keep my eyes on Him, the One who rules the waves and winds. I trust Him to lead me through this tempest and know that He loves me more that I can even comprehend.
I don't know what the future brings. Only He knows. My tender heart can only shout, "Be Still My Soul," and give Him my complete faith.
I sit here to write this post and the tears start falling.
How can I ever express how grateful I am?
My husband and I recently found out that we are expecting baby #5. While my emotions have been tender, the deep feeling of gratitude I have surpasses all other feelings. I can already sense this sweet spirit that will be joining our family and I am in awe of the blessings my Heavenly Father has given me.
Very early in my pregnancy, we realized we had two choices. We could either be scared, fearful, and nervous for what could happen, or we could be hopeful, happy, and have faith.
Either way, it's in the Lord's hands.
So every time I feel sick, I smile and think of the miracle growing inside of me. Every time I get tired during the day, I remember why I am exhausted and suddenly, it's not so bad.
I cannot tell you all in words how grateful I am to you also. There are many people who have prayed with me and have supported me through these past few years. I know I will receive continual support and that means more to me than I can ever say.
I was chatting with a friend and told her I want to have another baby. She said, "Are you sure you want to do that? What if this type of thing happens again?"
After thinking for a few moments I said, "Just because you get in a horrible car accident, doesn't mean you never get in the car again."
I want another baby.
Am I nervous something bad will happen again? Of course.
Am I just 'replacing' Molly? Never.
At first I was scared of receiving bad judgements from people. Now I realize that it doesn't matter. This is between me, Tyler, and our Heavenly Father.
If and when we are blessed to have another baby, I will cherish every moment I get to spend with with them. I am hopeful that everything will work out the way it's supposed to. And if our next little one is to enjoy only a short time in my arms, I can think of no greater calling to be the mother of yet another choice spirit.
We are so blessed to have not just one, but two children waiting for us on the other side. They are rooting for us and helping us along the way.
My husband and I just returned home from Wisconsin. We attended the funeral of our three month old nephew. Last week, he passed away while taking his afternoon nap. And we're left with the question, Why? Why did this have to happen?
As I quietly sit and take in the scene at Colin's funeral, I am reminded of my still-tender feelings during these last nine months. I glance around at friends and family offering condolences. The flowers are in place, pictures are displayed, and a quiet video loops sweet pictures of Colin and his family. I start to feel the same deep sorrow I felt when we buried my Molly. I look at Erika and Jeremy and try to swallow the lump forming in my throat. Words can't explain the feelings I'm having.
I would do anything to take the coming pain from them.
I give Erika a hug and feel a deep connection, one that only comes from two mothers losing their children. We have always been great friends, but I sense a new bond that will run deep through the years. My heart is breaking for her.
I make my way over to Colin and place a hand on his cheek. Those chubby cheeks. The kind you could just munch on all day. I think about Molly and Colin playing together looking down on us and a feeling of peace washes over me.
Erika and I are blessed to have each other. Molly and Colin will take care of each other until the day they will be reunited with their Mamas. And until then, I will continue on.
Be still, my soul; The hour is hast'ning on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear and gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul; When change and tears are past,
You know how when you have a newborn baby, the poopy diapers are endless? I remember thinking when Lucie was a baby, 'If I have to change another poopy diaper, I'm going to lose it!' The amounts of diapers, laundry, burp cloths, and mess you clean up seems daunting.
I am at the mall and notice a young mother with her baby girl. I gaze at the baby's dark curls on top of her head, and the big flower headband resting on top of those curls. She has long precious eyelashes that touch her rosy cheeks as she blinks up at her mama.
I am getting choked up and start to walk away when suddenly I hear the mother say in a frustrated voice, "Seriously?? Another diaper?" She bustles over to the mother's lounge with a look of anger.
This experience got me thinking about how I was with Lucie. The everyday monotony of taking care of a baby is hard, there's no doubt about it.
But as soon as it's taken away from you, you would give anything to change a diaper. The thought of being up at night with them in their room is inviting, not overwhelming. You find that you want laundry to do, you want spit up on your shoulder, you want binkies, rattles, and toys to pick up off the floor.
When we have our next baby, I'm going to try my hardest to cherish every moment, not just the rosy ones. As soon as I find myself wishing the dirty diapers will stop, I'll remember what it's like when they do.
Two years ago today, I gave birth to my sweet baby boy Sam. Here is his story.
It's June 8th, 2011.
The morning rays travel through my bedroom window and I slowly wake from my sleepy state. I stretch and slowly push myself to a sitting position. Whew. This belly is already bulging. I place a hand there and think of the miracle growing inside me. I'm already in love.
I suddenly miss Tyler. My children and I have been on vacation at my Mom and Dad's house in Utah for five days. Two more to go.
Nature calls and I walk down the hall as quietly as I can. Lucie and Brigham are still sleeping and I intend to keep it that way.
As I finish in the bathroom, I look down and notice blood.
Blood.
My heart skips a beat as I sit staring. My mind can't comprehend what this might mean. Immediately, my mind floods with words of denial. They say this is normal. It's only a little bit. I knew a girl who bled farther along.
I shake myself out of my trance and force my legs up the stairs.
"Mom"! I call out.
She comes down and we sit on the couch. I tell her about the blood. I look at her with a strong face and say, "I'm sure it's nothing, but maybe I should go in just to be sure. You know, peace of mind."
She agrees so we head to the hospital.
My mother-in-law meets us in the parking lot and takes my children for me. She is very sweet and understanding.
We go into labor and delivery and check in. The nurse comes out and leads us to a private room. I lay back and she put warm gel on my round belly. As I wait for her to start, my palms start sweating. I say a quick prayer as she places the doppler. After a few minutes of patiently searching, she can't find a heartbeat.
"Odd," she says.
My heart drops as she exits the room. They decide to do a full ultrasound.
I am led to a different room and the ultrasound technician enters. She is about eight months along and has the "pregnancy glow". My heart drops a little further.
As I lay on my back, my eyes focus on the ceiling. I can't look at the monitor. I can't see what my heart already knows. I glance over at my mom and see devastation written there.
And my heart drops even further.
The next few minutes are a blur and somehow I end up back in the first room. A doctor comes in and says, "Your baby is gone. We can start delivery immediately if you'd like. Take your time deciding."
He exits with a solemn look and says he's sorry.
I continue to sit for what seems like an eternity. How can my baby be gone? I passed the 12 week mark and they told me I was safe. I am 21 weeks. They are delivering and saving babies just a few weeks after mine. What now? How am I going to call Tyler? What do we tell the kids? Do I get an epidural? Do they induce me? Will we bury him?
The questions continue circling my mind and I suddenly break down.
My body shakes as I sob and hold my belly. My mom stands by my side and offers support.
No, no, no. This is all a bad nightmare.
I call Tyler and tell him the news. He takes it pretty good but he can tell I'm struggling. We both decide it would be best for me to fly home to Washington and deliver our baby there, together.
So that's what I do. The next day, I fly home with my mom, visit my doctor, and schedule an induction for Monday morning.
Monday.
I'm going to have to wait all weekend knowing I'll be delivering my sweet baby boy, then go home with empty arms. "Heavenly Father," I pray, "Give me the strength I need. Please help me to feel my Savior's arms around me."
On Saturday, my Dad drives out to Washington, the children in tow.
Sunday night, I start bleeding pretty heavily and the contractions begin. After a few hours, it's just too much. The pain is so great, and the emotional pain is even greater.
I call labor and delivery and explain that I have an induction scheduled for the morning, but that I'm starting to labor. They tell me to come in.
So Tyler and I pack my hospital bag and head out the door. The short drive to the hospital seems like an eternity. I keep one hand in Tyler's, and the other on my contracting belly. Tears stream down my face as I think about what is to come.
We arrive and check in. The nurse at the main desk is abrupt and short. I start crying again as we head down the hall toward my delivery room.
I don't want to do this. I can't do this. I can't push my baby out knowing he's not going to be alive. But I don't have a choice. I take a deep breath and enter.
I change into my hospital gown and get as comfortable as I can on the bed. Tyler holds my hand as they put in the IV and start me on pitocin.
Now for the waiting game.
They tell me to try and rest. Tyler pulls the couch bed next to mine. I need him close. I lay there as the contractions start getting stronger and stronger. I push the button for the nurse and tell her I need something for the pain.
She comes in and puts something into my IV and the pain lessens. She explains that because my baby is already gone, they can put pain medication through the IV because there's no risk to the baby.
She checks me to mark my progess, then exits. I glance over at Tyler and he gives me an encouraging nod. He has tired eyes so I tell him to get some sleep. After all, it is two in the morning.
I lay there for hours. Not asleep, but not awake either. I'm not really aware of much and I feel totally numb. Except for the pain of the coming and going of contractions.
After what feels like an eternity, a nurse comes in and checks me again. Another nurse comes in and repeats the process. They call in the doctor and she checks me for a third time. I'm ready, they say.
But no one can ever be ready for this.
They are very gentle and sympathetic as they give me instructions to push.
I feel myself breaking down and I don't think I can do this. I want so much to be anywhere, ANYWHERE but here in this moment. Tyler grabs hold of my hand and kisses my forehead. And suddenly, I am given a strength that is not my own.
After pushing for several minutes, my tiny precious boy is born. The nurses clean him off, wrap him in a blanket, and gently place him in my waiting arms.
My baby. My tiny little Sam.
We spend a few hours holding him, counting toes, and taking pictures. It is surreal and precious and I don't want to think about tomorrow. Or the next hour.
The nurse comes in and asks if we are ready. She can tell I'm struggling so she quickly says, "He'll be right down the hall in the nursery when you want to hold him again."
Relieved, I place him softly in her arms.
The drugs they've given me finally take over and I fall asleep.
But I don't stay asleep for long.
I wake a few hours later and feel intense pressure in my breasts. I look down and realize my milk in starting to come in.
My milk.
I suddenly feel an overwhelming ache for my baby. I hear other babies crying down the hall, and the ache deepens. Every part of my body and soul longs for him.
Tyler helps me wrap myself with a few ace bandages. They say this helps lessen the milk production. But I can't tell much of a difference from how it was with my other children.
After another hour or so, I ask the nurse to bring Sam back into our room. Once again, she tenderly places him in my arms. We take a few more pictures and say our goodbyes. I cry and lovingly touch his little fingers. After a few more hours, we finally tell the nurse we are ready. She picks him up and I watch as my Sam is taken from the room.
Oh my heart.
I wrap my arms around Tyler and feel an emptiness I've never known. How will I do this? My heart is breaking.
As we pack up and leave the hospital the next day, I fall into a numb state. I continue in this state for a few days.
I'm on survival mode.
I eat, sleep, take care of the kid's needs, change my ace bandages, and sleep some more.
One night, I am in desperate need of comfort. I open my scriptures and read in Doctrine and Covenants 84:88. The last part of the verse hits me:
"And my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up."
I suddenly have a profound impression that my Savior is very aware of me and what I am going through. Not only Him, but His angels, including my little brother, are helping me through this! All at once, my grief is replaced with hope. Hope for the future. Hope that I'll be with my Sam again. Hope that somehow through my faith in the Savior, He will make everything right. I've known these things my whole life.
The peace I feel lasts the rest of the day. And it's just enough.
I know I'll be with my Sam again. Our Savior has made this possible. I can't wait to meet Him, to fall at His feet and thank Him for His love and for everything He does for me.
He is my rock and my redeemer.
Helaman 5:12
And now, my sons, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ,
the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his
mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his might storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and
endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.
How is it anyone gets through something like this?
Someone once said to me, "I could never lose a child. I don't know how you get through it."
The truth? "I" don't get through it. It's impossible. The Savior is the one who carries me to the other side of this fire.
I'm sure you've heard of the "refiner's fire", but what is that exactly?
I came across a wonderful story.
"There was a group of women in a Bible study on the book of Malachi. As they were studying chapter three, they came across verse three which says: "He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver." (Malachi 3:3) This verse puzzled the women and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God.
One of the women offered to find out about the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible study. That week this woman called up a silver smith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn't mention anything about the reason for her interest in silver beyond her curiosity about the process of refining silver. As she watched the silver smith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were hottest as to burn away all the impurities. The woman thought about God holding us in such a hot spot--then she thought again about the verse, that he sits as a refiner and purifier of silver.
She asked the silver smith if it was true that he had to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver was being refined. The man answered that yes, he not only had to sit there holding the silver, but he had to keep his eyes on the silver the entire time it was in the fire. If the silver was left even a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed. The woman was silent for a moment. Then she asked the silver smith, "How do you know when the silver is fully refined?"
He smiled at her and answered, "Oh, that's easy--when I see my image in it."
-Author Unknown
As much as this fire hurts, I do believe it is making me a better person. Some days it burns so deep, I wonder when the Refiner will say, "This is enough." I don't think it will happen for a very long time.
All I can do is continue to have unconditional faith in my Savior and trust Him completely. I think the words, "I surrender" are becoming a daily phrase for me.
And I do surrender, completely. I surrender to my Refiner as He constantly watches and holds me. I trust that only He knows when I can be taken out of this fire.
For those of you who weren't able to see Molly's first and last days, click here. A big thanks to The Piano Guys for being so inspired in making an arrangement of this amazing song. You guys are the BEST!
I was inspired by a very dear friend. The legacy she left is incredible. Click here if you would like to hear a song for Val. Thanks for everything dear friend. You will be missed by many.
As I drive to my first one since Molly's passing, I experience a strange mixture of feelings. Happiness for my dear friend who is expecting. Nervousness at the thought of seeing wrapped packages and ribbons, sealing precious pink clothing.
I pull up and see all the cars and I don't know if I can go in. I sit there for a few minutes gathering enough courage to open the car door.
Then I decide to make a deal with myself. I'll go in, drop off the present, flash a smile, and leave.
Here we go.
Walking through the front door, I am seized with a million emotions. I concentrate on the task at hand and try not to break down and make a scene. This is my friend's big day, after all.
I waltz over with mustered confidence, put my present down on the growing pile, and continue to the dessert table. It's only then that I realize the chatter has died down. I receive a few pity glances and I suddenly want to escape. I don't want the attention to turn to me at my friend's joyous occasion.
The hostess, another dear friend, catches my arm in the kitchen and pulls me into a soft hug. Tears start to form and I accept the inevitable.
Its all I can do to hold back the tears long enough to make it out to my car. I sit in the driver's seat and wonder how it's possible to feel a physical ache in my empty arms.
I need to be by my Molly.
I make the short drive to the cemetery and try to see through my blurred vision. Tears fall freely as I park and make my way to my sweet baby's resting place.
My heart swells at the tender words written on her stone,
Our sweet baby
Molly Faith Shawcroft
Nov 13 2012 - Nov 22 2012
Families are Forever
I stand there weeping and again marvel at my body's capacity to feel physical pain when it should be only emotional. The grass is wet and fresh from recent rainfall, but I drop to the ground anyway. I sit there curled up next to my baby's grave for a long time. I tenderly finger the writing etched on her stone and think about what it was like to touch her skin the same way.
Oh my sweet baby. Oh my heart.
Deep breath.
Getting up, my legs feel numb and shaky. I walk past the other infant graves and get into my car.
It's Christmas Eve. And my Molly has been gone for over a month.
It is a very peaceful evening. We order take-out Chinese food, our new Christmas Eve tradition (thanks Aunt Deb)! As we sit around the fire tonight, I can feel Molly with us. Lucie and Brigham feel it too. I hold them close and they tell me how they miss her.
Then Brigham says, "She's with Jesus right?"
The innocent comment from my 3 year old pierces my heart. Here we are celebrating the birth of our Savior. And our Molly is celebrating in His presence. The thought warms my heart.
Brigham pipes up again, "So if Molly is with Jesus, then why are we sad?"
What a perspective! There is something so good and pure about children. I look at my kids and am again struck by how amazing they are. I need to tell them more often.
After putting the cookies out for Santa, we quiet the giggles and wipe sticky fingers. Shutting the door to their bedroom, I am overcome by a need to go into Molly's room. I open her door and glance inside.
Oh, oh my sweet baby girl.
I enter and close the door behind me. The peace that fills my soul is indescribable. Amazing. I hesitantly move to her crib and look inside. It's amazing how fast feelings can change. As soon as I see her blankets, I feel my knees buckle. I slowly pull out all of her pictures and momentos from the hospital.
Oh my heart.
I go to the floor and the tears start coming. Every tear is filled with the utmost love and longing for my little one. I hold the dress she wore and breathe in her sweet smell. I finger the blanket that wrapped her tiny frame and wonder if my heart will truly burst. I open the little box the nurses put together for me. I take everything out, one by one, from her inked footprints with "Molly Faith" printed on the top, right down to her bum paste. And every emotion hits me in fierce waves.
I walk over to the rocking chair and place myself tenderly in "our" spot. This was supposed to be our place, a place I hoped to nurse, rock, snuggle, read books, and bond, just the two of us.
As I sit there rocking, I let the tears flow. The song "silent night" comes to my head:
Silent night! Holy night!
All is calm all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Oh my heart! Molly is with HIM! And she is sleeping in heavenly peace.
A sweet calm overcomes me just as Tyler comes through the door.
We fall into each other's arms and hold tight. We want our Molly here with us. But if we can't have her here right now, at least she is forever with her Savior.
Molly passed away two weeks ago and I am at church. My kids are dressed, hair combed. I think their shoes even match. :) After Sacrament meeting, I walk over to chat with a few women and almost feel "normal".
But then a woman cheerfully turns to me and says, "Isn't it great this life is so short? You'll be with your Molly in no time!"
The comment, although meant well, hits me like a ton of bricks.
I'm instantly crying and I rush from the building. I go to my car and sit there sobbing. I pound my fists on the steering wheel and let it all out. I'm sure if anyone saw me they would think, 'who is this crazy person?'
I am there for a long time thinking and pondering.
Am I weak? Do I not have an eternal perspective? Do I believe the things I've been taught, or don't I?
I suddenly remember a very dear friend who gave me some advice. She said, "Give yourself permission to be sad." She didn't try to cheer me up. She didn't say, "Don't be sad! You'll see her again!" She simply said, "Be sad." Thinking about this simple comment, I breathe a deep sigh of relief.
Yes, my family is sealed. Yes, I'll be with my Molly again. Yes, this life is short in the eternal scheme of things. But that knowledge doesn't take away the pain I feel right now.
And it's OK to be sad. It's OK to mourn and cry.
I wipe my tears and look in the rearview mirror. Oh dear, splotch city. I do my best to make myself look half-way normal and decide to go back in.
As I sit here and write this post, my dear friend is dying. She will soon be with her Savior. I sat with her last week and we shared many things which I cannot write. I left feeling an immense love for her and for my Savior.
It has been a very emotional few days for me as I wait for the news. Then I started thinking about the road our lives take.
Each road is different. Some end early, a sudden and halting dead end. Some have twists and turns, bumps and bends. Some are so rocky, they are unrecognizable. Some have inclines, others have steep hills. But all are different.
As we take our own separate roads, we come across people who are set in our path. These people come into our lives for different reasons, but there is always a purpose.
This dear friend of mine is one of the travelers on my road of life. She walked beside me for a short time, a time when I needed her as much as she needed me. My life took a drastic detour and she was there for me. We were set in each other's paths for a specific reason. We both learned things from each other that we couldn't possibly have gotten from anywhere else.
It is not by happenstance that we have these "angels" in our lives. Our Heavenly Father works in mysterious ways. He helps us through the hands of another, of that I am sure.
I know that my Molly will be there waiting for my friend. She will give her a big hug and they will love each other even as I do.
Then we will all have an eternity to be together. The plan of happiness is a beautiful thing.
As our Savior takes my friend into His all encompassing arms, she will know that she has arrived at the end of her road, and that it has led to a joyful end.
I worked so hard getting everything just right. Colors, bedding, matching baskets holding her teeny tiny diapers, and those pink polka dots we lovingly painted. From her adorable crib right down to her freshly washed socks, everything was perfect.
But now I can't go in there.
If I walk past her room and the door happens to be open, I quickly shut it without even glancing inside. I can't do it.
I can't bear to see all of her folded clothes. I don't want to see the dress she wore, the blanket she was wrapped in. I don't want to sit in the corner rocking chair. I've had so many dreams with me sitting there, cradling and nursing my baby.
I've tried to talk myself into it. But I can't.
I spoke to a dear friend about this. She also lost a daughter and has been an amazing support to me. I told her I am frustrated. I told her I want to go in Molly's room. I feel weak that I can't do it. She lovingly said, "Take your time. There is no right way to grieve. Don't rush yourself. You'll go in her room when you're ready."
This small comment made a tremendous impact on me. I know it sounds strange, but it was as if an enormous stress was lifted from me. I don't have to go in Molly's room if I'm not ready. And I'm not.
All I want to do is sleep. Exhausted doesn't even describe how I feel.
My sweet mother in law decides to stay for an extra week after the funeral. I literally don't know what I would do if she wasn't here. The whole week, she insists on doing everything. She cleans, cooks, and takes care of the kids.
I am on survival mode.
After she leaves, I find myself alone in my grief for the first time. We had constantly been surrounded by family and loved one.s But now everyone has gone, the flowers and notes have stopped coming. The rest of the world is back to normal, and why shouldn't they be?
I feel like I am frozen in time. I can't go back and change what has happened. And I can't seem to go forward.
The questions and regrets start flooding my mind. What if the infection was caught sooner? What if we had somehow been more aware of what was happening? I wish I had spent more time with her. I wish I had taken more pictures. Why is this happening to us? Aren't we good parents? These discouraging thoughts keep rolling around in my head.
The sky is getting darker. The rain is coming down in sheets. The clouds are so thick I can't breathe. This storm is raging so violently that I wonder, where is the peace I so desire? Where is my sliver of hope? Then I realize that sometimes when you're in a heavy downpour, you have to rise up above the clouds in order to see the bright light of the sun. It was there all along, I just couldn't see it.
Our Savior is always there. Whether we see it or not, He is there! Sometimes He comes to us, and sometimes it is up to us whether we are going to rise above the storm to get to His light.
I jerk awake and realize it's the middle of the night. The tears instantly form as reality comes crashing back. I hold the pillow close to stifle my sobs, but instantly push it away to protect my aching breasts. I slowly sit up, trying to not use my stomach muscles. My incision is still so painful.
It's time to pump. The doctor told me not to because pumping will only cause more milk production. But I can't help it. The pain is too much right now. I'll try stopping in a few days.
As I sit there for the next ten minutes, I try to fight back the tears. I know that if I start crying now, I won't stop. And I don't have the energy right now for a cry-fest. I doze on and off as I pump till I'm finally comfortable enough to lie back down.
But now I can't shut my mind off. The images of the day before keep playing in my mind. It's like a horrible movie. I know the ending but it never changes. And I keep watching it over and over.
I must've fallen asleep at some point because the next time I open my eyes, there is light coming through my windows.
It's Sunday.
I hear movement out in the kitchen but the last thing I want to do is get out of bed. I don't want to go to church. I know I should, but the thought of seeing people right now just about kills me. I don't want to try and act normal when my life is far from it.
Tyler comes through our bedroom door and makes his way to the bed. He sits by me and simply takes me in his arms. Sometimes there are no words.
We both decide to stay home from church together. I'm grateful to have him by my side. We spend the day in bed, listening to music from the production, "The Lamb of God," and sharing thoughts and feelings with each other.
It turns out to be a peaceful day and for that I am grateful. I just want to hold onto this feeling. I want to bottle it up so I can use it when I'm running low.
Is faith conditional? We prayed and prayed for a righteous desire. We are good parents and wanted so badly to have this cherished daughter in our arms. It would've been so easy for our Savior to heal her. But He didn't. So is my faith gone? Because I prayed for something and it didn't happen, do I lose all hope and trust in Heavenly Father's plan? Do I think to myself, prayers don't work? No. Faith is not conditional. I need my Savior now more than ever. Without Him, I am nothing. Without Him, my Molly would not have the opportunity to be resurrected. I still have faith that she could've been saved, if it were part of the plan. All I have is my faith. Faith in my Savior. Faith that He will continue to lift me. Faith in my Heavenly Father's plan for me. Faith that we truly will see Molly again, and eventually be all together as a family.
We arrive at the cemetery. The clouds in the sky threaten to release their built up moisture. I almost wish they would. It would be as if the heavens are crying with me.
We park and get out of the car. Again, Tyler takes Molly in both arms, and we slowly walk to the tent the mortuary has set up.
We all sit together and listen to Tyler dedicate her grave. His emotion is raw.
Afterwards, we go through the motions and thank everyone for coming. We take pictures. We give hugs and send people on their way. And I feel numb.
We aren't burying her today. We couldn't get a permit in time because of the holiday. So the burial is going to be on Tuesday. I wish we could lay her to rest today. I don't want to wait.
Suddenly, I want to go home and sleep.
But we all drive back to the church to enjoy a meal that the sweet Relief Society has put together. After eating and visiting with our dear family and friends, I am exhausted.
We pull into our driveway at home. I don't want to go in, but I don't want to stay in the car. I don't want to see my family, but I want them to envelop me in their love. I sit there and ponder these strange feelings of not knowing what to do.
I think of Molly all alone in her "basket" and my milk comes down. The sorrow hits me again with tremendous force and I don't think I can take it.
With every last ounce of energy, I get out of the car and slowly put one swollen foot in front of the other. Entering the house, I'm shocked to feel a sliver of peace enter my heart. I collapse on the couch and spend the rest of the night visiting with my family. They take turns sitting by me, massaging my swollen feet. I look at my sausage toes and realize they must really love me. Even my 22 year old brother lovingly applies lotion on my puffy feet and rubs away the ache.
Now it's time for bed. After praying with Tyler, I set my alarm for my pain meds and slip in between the sheets.
I ponder everything that has just happened. I'm so exhausted, I can't even cry.
I fall asleep that night holding Tyler's hand, thinking about what it means to have unconditional faith.
When I was young, my mom would always say, "You'll never know how much a parent loves their children until you have your own."
This phrase comes back to me as we drive to the funeral home. Although I know she is no longer here, I realize I'm actually excited to see her little body. It's been two days since we said goodbye at the hospital and I'm anxious to hold her again.
We walk into the funeral home and Lucie instantly runs to Molly and scoops her up. She snuggles her for a few minutes while we greet our family members. When it's time to let others have a turn with Molly, Lucie is reluctant to pass her over. I'm so relieved to see how comfortable she is with Molly. I was concerned about Lucie and Brigham because I didn't know what Molly was going to look like, how much color she was going to have, but she looks perfect.
We take turns holding her before it's time to dress her in the little red dress. When it's my turn, my motherly instincts take over and I find myself wrapping the blanket snugly around her cold frame. I rock her back and forth and kiss her still-soft cheeks. It is so peaceful and I don't want to move to the next step, to dress her for the viewing. Once that step is over, we will place her in her "basket", as the children call it.
So I take my time and we sit as a family and take pictures. The peaceful feeling in the room is tangible.
The funeral director suddenly enters and the spell is broken. It's time to dress her.
I tenderly set Molly down on her baby blankets. Tyler and I carefully take off her clothing and place her tiny red dress over her head, followed by tights and a headband. I cradle her once again and the heartbreak of what is happening almost overwhelms me. But the spirit bouys me for the hundredth time, and I accomplish something I never thought I could. I place her in her "basket" and kiss both of her cheeks.
There is an inexplicable force that helps me step away from my baby.
We all pile into cars and head to the church building for the viewing and funeral. We arrive and I realize I need to pump before the viewing starts. Nobody talks about their milk after their baby passes, but it's a very painful part of losing my Molly.
My sister comes with me to comfort and talk with me. She knows I'm going to need the support today, and I can feel of her intense love and concern for me. I feel so blessed to have her and my other family members here for me.
The viewing starts and friends come into the room to express their sympathy for us. We go through the motions and greet everyone. They all tell us how beautiful Molly looks, and how sorry they are for what has happened. I feel so much love coming from every person I see. Again I feel so blessed to have so many amazing people in my life.
Finally, it is time to close her casket. The doors are closed and Tyler's Dad gives a beautiful prayer. After he ends, it is time for our final goodbyes. I bend down to my Molly for the last time. The grief I feel is so intense, so real. What little strength I had earlier is crumbling. I look at my baby girl and feel a sorrow I never thought possible. The ache is burrowed so deep in my heart, I fear it will never find it's way out.
Tyler has his hand on my back as I kiss Molly and hold her face to mine. The tears fall freely.
I slowly step away and cling to Tyler. With a quiet click, the lid of the casket is closed. I take a deep breath and silently ask Heavenly Father to give me strength to walk into the chapel.
Tyler carries Molly to the front of the chapel and lovingly places her next to the beautiful flowers.
The funeral begins and I feel a small degree of peace as we finish the opening song.
Tyler and I bear our testimonies. It is a surreal experience, to say the least. Tyler talks about his precious daughter in such a loving way and I feel my intense love for him. I've never seen him this emotional as he talks about all the experiences he longs to share with his baby girl. He will never take her swimming, teach her to jump rope, build forts with her on rainy days, or take her camping. But he is equally emotional when he talks about being so blessed to be her Daddy, and being excited to have those opportunities with her later.
After we both finish, it is time for us to sing, "Families Can Be Together Forever". As hard as I knew it was going to be, I wanted to do this for Molly. Lucie starts us out and her pure voice pierces the quiet air. The spirit fills the room and I feel my Molly standing close, singing right along with us. My heart swells as we stand there together as a family, singing about being together forever.
There is not a dry eye.
My Dad speaks next. His words are so comforting and I am suddenly struck with an intense love for him. I feel so blessed in this moment to be his little girl.
The closing song is "Be Still My Soul", my favorite hymn. The words speak to every part of my soul.
Be still, my soul: The Lord is on thy side;
With patience bear thy cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change he faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: Thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Thru thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as he has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: The waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.
Be still, my soul: The hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.
No matter what we go through in this life, He will be there beside us, guiding us to a joyful end. He will guide the future, and nothing brings me more comfort than this knowledge.
As we walk out of the church, Tyler carrying our baby girl, I expect to be falling apart. Instead, I feel a strength that is not my own. I feel my Savior's abiding and unconditional love for me and my family.
And as we drive to the cemetery, the last verse of the closing song plays in my mind. "Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past, all safe and blessed we shall meet at last."
After we leave the hospital, we drive over to a restaurant and meet my family for dinner. We're all starving and it's Thanksgiving. The meals are eaten slowly and we try to act normal. But I just said goodbye to my sweet Molly, and I want to go hide in a hole.
The next day, we start making plans for her funeral.
Her funeral. My daughter is going to have a funeral. We are burying our child. This isn't happening.
But it is happening and we don't have a choice. We have to prepare.
So assignments are made, flowers are arranged, and her plot is ordered. And all the while I feel like I'm in a horrible nightmare and no matter how hard I try, I can't wake up.
Friday evening we go to the mall to find a dress for Molly. This is going to be a surreal experience. It's black Friday so all the stores are packed with happy buyers trying to find that "steal of a deal". I want to stop all of them and scream, "Don't you know what happened? How can you all be acting normal when my whole world is shattered?"
We walk slowly from store to store trying to find the right dress. My c-section incision still aches, so we take our time. As we enter Macy's, a husband and wife bustle around us, bags in arms. The woman suddenly mutters under her breath, "Seriously? Can you walk any slower?" I am startled and totally hurt. The woman scurries off but I turn to the husband and say, "I'm so sorry, I just had a c-section." I didn't add the fact that I was shopping for my daughter's funeral. He was shocked that I was so polite and felt horrible for his wife's comment. He apologized a few times, then went to find his wife.
This got me thinking. How many times are we impatient with people, and have absolutely no idea what they are dealing with? How many times has someone cut us off on the freeway and we immediately think, what a jerk. If anything, this experience makes me want to be more patient with people, and try not to judge so quickly. If I'm not patient with other people, how can I expect this woman to be patient and kind to me?
We eventually find the perfect dress. It's a deep red with roses all over the skirt, and I love it.
But I'm completely exhausted now and I want to go to sleep. I want to fall into a deep sleep so I can forget for a moment what is happening.
We grab something to eat then go home.
Tomorrow we will bury my sweet baby Molly. My heart is heavy and I feel like I'm in a daze as I get ready for bed. I think of her empty crib upstairs, her rocking chair nestled in the corner. My milk suddenly comes down and I long to nurse her. The emptiness and ache I feel is indescribable.
Before I sleep, I kneel down to pray. I ask for comfort, for strength beyond my own. I ask him to bless us as we go through the funeral, that we will be filled with the spirit, and that we'll be able to feel of Molly's presence. I thank my Heavenly Father for the strength he has already given me. Without him, I literally would not have been able to make it through the last two days.
I can't remember falling asleep, but I guess I slept a little because I'm suddenly waking up.
It is so hard to understand.. to accept. The Doctors tell us that Molly got an infection from the tube placed through her belly button, and the bacteria traveled to her bloodstream. At least that's the medical reason why she's not here.
We were so prepared. For months we were ready for her, for the problems we knew she was going to have. But they were all treatable. And now this? It doesn't make sense.
Molly is already gone, but we sit there and cuddle her for another several minutes. The color in her face quickly changes, just like our lives. I keep thinking this can't be real. This can't be happening.
We finally decide to bring her into the hospital room where we had been staying. We slowly walk down the hall through the NICU. I cradle my Molly tightly and the sorrow is almost more than I can bare. This walk feels like an eternity.
We enter the room and my family is there waiting for us. I'm so grateful they are here and I feel how much they love me. They take turns holding her and there is a special feeling in the room.
The nurse comes in to let us know we can take our time and to let her know when we're ready.
Ready? I will never be ready to hand Molly over and walk away.
I ask the nurse about calling a photographer from the company, As I Lay Me Down to Sleep. They have a group of photographers who volunteer their talents taking pictures for terminally ill children, and those that have recently passed. At one time in my life, I thought about volunteering for this company. I never thought I would be on the receiving end.
She calls a photographer and lets us know she will be here in one hour. I will be eternally grateful to this woman, for dropping all of her Thanksgiving Day plans and coming to take photographs that we will cherish forever.
We start the photo session and again I have that intense feeling of gratitude for my precious family. The photographer takes several pictures and I want it to last forever.
But it doesn't last forever. And my family starts to leave. And the sun starts to go down. And I'm feeling completely desperate to spend just a few more moments with my Molly.
Tyler and I sit on the bed for another hour snuggling her. We cry and pray and then cry some more. And finally, it's time to go.
Tyler calls the nurse and tells her we are ready. She comes into our room and I completely lose it. I cling to Molly and I don't think I can let go. The nurse waits patiently as we tell Molly goodbye and kiss her face over and over. Then, together, we slowly hand her over to the nurse.
And my heart breaks all over.
Today is Thanksgiving. It's the day we give thanks for all of our blessings. What do I have to be thankful for right now, you ask? Although my heart is completely shattered, I have a daughter who has made it. She doesn't have to go through this life with all it's trials and hardships. She's done. And now she is rooting for the rest of us.
I know these things, but right now, I just hurt.
I'm still so grateful for the occasional glimpses of the sun.
