Christmas without Her

When a child has died, Christmas feels like empty arms. It feels like a big black hole, a missing puzzle piece.

I have had a similar feeling at holidays in the past, during the nearly two years when we were trying to get pregnant and nothing happened. There was emptiness and a longing for children then, too.

Friends on Facebook post about their holiday woes as they try to juggle caring for young children with all the work of getting ready for the big day. And I am glad they share, because I want to be connected with them and be a part of their families' lives.

However, for we who have struggled with infertility, or miscarriages, or the death of a child, we long to experience those holiday issues. Or at least I do. Days before Christmas, I sit with all the presents wrapped, the house decorated, the baking done, and wish that I was behind. I wish that there was a little one bugging me so that I couldn't quite get the cookies made, couldn't quite wrap all the presents, couldn't get the floor cleaned on time for company to arrive. I long to have the happy chaos of a little one making messes that interrupt my day.

Without Liza Jane, though, all I have is stillness and quiet. I have done every Christmas task I can possibly think of to keep my arms busy, and still they ache with longing to hold her again.

I try to find warm spots to fill the void. I have learned that a person has to come up for air sometimes while grieving. Make that a lot of the time. So Luke and I find things to do that bring happiness, like making a favorite meal together or enjoying a new movie.

As often as I can, I try to turn to our God for comfort during this time. Sometimes, though, that is not as easy as it sounds. Putting my trust in God often feels like putting my trust in a paper shredder. There seems to be only pain in a place where there was once blessing and comfort. Other times, I am able to sense the comfort of God's presence.

And in between those brief moments of solace, I find reasons to keep living. Because surviving the death of a child is just that... a fight for survival. So here we are, surviving the day after Christmas, hanging on to any shred of hope that we can find.

We remember her by putting ornaments on the tree that remind us of her. We remember her by visiting her grave and placing flowers on the place where her ashes are buried in the little wooden box her daddy made. And we remember her with our tears as we cry with aching and longing to see her again, to have her close to us.

Nothing will feel quite right as long as she is gone. Which means... the rest of our lives.