I celebrated the feast of Christ's birth anticipating the birth of my own baby. But on the Feast of the Epiphany, Jan. 6, I delivered our son, after learning the day before that he had died.
I was 21 weeks pregnant the day I delivered Benedict Pio. I have since heard of babies being born at 24 weeks and surviving. I have a friend currently struggling through the challenges of having a micro-preemie (26 weeks, 1 pound). I am not saying I wish those challenges had been mine; I am not saying I am glad they weren't. All I know is that, while I realize there was no chance of my son surviving, whenever I hear about those 24-week babies, my heart fills with a strange ache and my mind fills with the words, "So close!"
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| I took the pictures with today's post at the Angelus Memorial for miscarried babies, where Benedict was laid to rest. These pictures were taken for a story I wrote in August for a local Catholic newspaper. |
I knew the first Christmas after losing our son would be hard. I prepared with prayers and talks with my husband, and mentally mapped-out how I would make an exit when the heartbreak got to be too much (which it did).
I even asked God, ahead of time, to help me forgive and understand why no one would mention our loss. Although for them, Benedict's death was something from the past, best left alone on such a joyous day, he was in every one of my thoughts. It is very hard to be surrounded by people you love, and to realize they either don't know, or don't know what to do with, something that consumes your own heart so very much.
Last Christmas, I had a fairly new baby, but I still grieved Benedict. And this year, he is a curious toddler who gets into everything, and who has completely stolen all of out hearts.
So I thought the pain might not still be there. Not quite so much.
But, as the Bible says, "The Lord answered, 'Could a mother forget a child who nurses at her breast? Could she fail to love an infant who came from her own body? Even if a mother could forget, I will never forget you. A picture of your city is drawn on my hand. You are always in my thoughts!" (Isaiah 49:15-16)
I want to remember my son. I need to remember him. It is so important to me to value the lives of each of my children.
I held Benedict, and kissed his sweet head. I saw the way his features resembled my other two, by now three, boys. And a week ago, I found myself looking through an album of pictures we took just for ourselves (really, just for me), after his birth.
The way his arms were bent, with his hands pressed together under his face, like he was simply taking a nap ....
My heart still aches.
But at Christmas, I am starting to think, if I do not slow down and remember the baby I carried for too short a time -- the baby whose absence literally left my arms aching, feeling like they'd lost their purpose when I delivered a child and yet there was no one to hold -- my body remembers for me.
It starts with nothing seeming quite right. And then, when I remember that there is a reason for that feeling, when I acknowledge my son's life in some way, it seems a bit easier to move forward again.
The other day, we made a donation to our Church's Christmas flower display in Benedict's memory. I always feel a bit embarrassed about the idea of putting his name out in public, but it brought me so much peace to think of remembering him in a way that will make the celebration of Christ's birth more beautiful for so many people.
My other children, on their own, have been asking lately to visit the Angelus Memorial where Benedict is buried. So we chose a time on Christmas Eve when we will do just that. Together.
And here I am in Adoration, the Sunday before Christmas, writing this. Because maybe someone else finds their skin also no longer fits just right at Christmastime. And maybe it will help to know they're not alone. Maybe I can encourage them to find their own way of remembering their child, or children, no longer with them.
My prayer throughout Advent has been that Jesus would be born into our hearts. And I've tried to slow down, to make time for quiet, for God, for my family, for listening. Sometimes I have succeeded. But I feel right now that mostly, I haven't.
My heart fills with emotions I don't really know how to face, and I find myself shopping for more gifts, losing my temper, or just losing my focus on the True Gift Christmas brings. The gift of Hope. The gift of Joy. The gift of Peace. The gift of Love.
The gift of a Child.
I have noticed there are a lot of babies in need on my prayer list right now. I recently attended the funeral of a 10-month-old girl. And I have my own loss that clearly still weighs on my heart.
But maybe all of this, in the light of Christmas, can help us see life -- all life -- for the miracle it truly is.
A friend of mine, who has lost multiple babies at late stages of pregnancy, said she finally concluded her four living children must be miracles. In her case, they were the exception to the rule. And somehow, God helped her see through her pain, to find gratitude!
Yes, the children and the family around us are such gifts. Despite all of the struggles that so often accompany these relationships, may God open our eyes and our hearts to help us see them for the blessings they are this Christmas.
And for those we love, who have gone on ahead of us -- some of whom we never held in our arms alive, and some of whom we never held at all ... may God help us give thanks for their too-brief lives as well. May He open our eyes to see the ways their lives have helped us grow, and maybe, therefore, the ways their lives have touched others.
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