I remember feeling breathless.
Breathless as I held onto your daddy’s arm. Breathless as my body fought to hold onto you. Breathless as the doctor begged for me to stay awake.
I remember feeling empty.
Empty because I knew you were Home. Empty because no one else knew. Empty because our story was not supposed to end this way.
With me in an ER fighting for breath six years ago today.
I remember feeling like I shouldn’t remember.
The pain. The hard. The trauma.
Of going to bed one night, grieving a baby I would never meet only to wake up in a world of breathing tubes and central lines and whispers of “It doesn’t look good.”
But beyond breathless, beyond infection spilling into every corner of my body, beyond the reality that six years ago today, I was dying comes a mercy like none other.
Because in every twist and every turn and every place I have gone since that day, you have been teaching me to trust the Father I only thought I knew…
The One who catches my tears and holds my heart and gives me breath when I can’t breathe. The One who shows up when the world fades away and my soul is weary and my mind, overwhelmed. The One who bears my doubt, my anger, my darkest places with a grace and love unimaginable.
This is why you came and lived within me, if only for just a little while.
To teach me that when it all falls down and my heart can’t reconcile the pain of this world, my God will be all who He says He is and more.
Every minute. Every hour. Every year.
Bringing me closer and closer to the day I can finally say to you,
“I’m Home, my love. I’m Home.”