The Emotions of Loss: Revisiting Grief

Today our daughter would have been three years old. Three. How has the time gone by so quickly? And yet so slow. It feels like that part of my life is so far in the past, and yet there is this very real sense that this was just yesterday. And all of the sudden, that three becomes four. Years that slowly pass, ebbing and flowing with joy and sadness, constantly intermingling the two.

I know the few years will become many. And it makes me sad to think about. The memories feel more blurred, the sounds and smells seem more distant. But still, it feels like yesterday. Like every moment just happened.

I can still remember the moment I first saw her tiny little face.

The tears streamed down my face, my hair was braided back, so I had nowhere to hide them. I felt so vulnerable in that moment. After crossing the hospital wing, I was sitting in a wheelchair, unable to move because of my recent c-section, pushed into that tiny NICU room to see my darling little baby. There she was, perfectly developed but small. Just a small little human that was mine. In that moment, I didn’t see anyone else, I only could see her, it was as if everything in the room faded and she came into focus. Like a beautiful flower in a photograph, she was so alive and clear to me. And suddenly, I felt so much fear. I felt afraid to touch my own daughter. There was a piece of me that wanted to run and hide. To come out when it was all better.

But I sat, with tears blocking my vision, I looked at her closely. I saw my eyes in hers. I saw features that looked like a mini version of our oldest daughter. I reached out with shaking hands to cradle her in a hand hug as she lay in her isolette. Then I backed away quickly, and asked to be taken back to my room.

As I rolled back to the other side of the hospital, I felt the waves of guilt crash over me. I felt like such a terrible mother to not have the strength to stand by my baby. To endlessly hold her and care for her. Instead, all I could feel was overwhelming fear that she was going to die. That I wouldn’t be able to care for her. That I had somehow caused this.

So much guilt.

As I look back on the days that followed, I slowly mustered up the courage to go again to visit. And again, and again. Every visit took more courage than the last. Even when we had so much faith that she would live. It took courage to walk down those long white halls, wondering what today would bring. Then, every time I left, feeling so much guilt and shame that I wasn’t doing enough.

It was this perpetual cycle that left you feeling tired and worn out. Even waking up in the night, and feeling the need to check on our little girl, but asking my husband to go instead of me–not because of tiredness, but the overwhelming fear of what I would find upon arriving.

In her final days with us, months later, as we were making our dinner we heard the sound of the code being called over the intercom for respiratory distress. The code in our daughter’s room. Our eyes met, and my husband ran out the door like his life depended on it. I stayed to clean up our food. Was that important? Not really at all. But the thought of what I would find was unbearable.

After taking a moment to collect myself, I rapidly walked down the hall and into her little room. The neonatologist sat us down for a serious conversation. She told us that our daughter was not going to make it for much longer. After months of seeing progress and dreaming of the day when we could finally leave the hospital with her in our arms--the doctor's words came crashing down on us.

This is the type of conversation that no parent would ever dream of having. But here we were. And all I wanted to do was run. It was the first time in our journey where I suddenly felt I could not breathe. I again felt so much fear–fear that was unexplainable. Fear that everything we had hoped against was right there confronting us.

As I fell onto the couch in the room, I wondered how I would make it. I have never felt so much pain in my chest–it was literally the pain of a breaking heart.

My heart felt like it could stop.

But suddenly, in the midst of that terrible pain, I felt God. I felt him walking alongside me. It was as if he picked up my broken heart and just held it. I cried and I shook. My husband and I cried together. And I wondered how I would ever get up. But all that while, I felt the presence of God like no other time in my life. And I felt the depth of my Father’s love for me.

I suddenly realized that he also knew what it was like to lose his child. It became so real. So tangible. God loved me so much that he gave his son to die for me. He gave his son so that I could have eternal life (John 3:16).

All the guilt. All the fear that I had been feeling this entire journey, suddenly seemed to evaporate. In the depth of our darkest night, Jesus walked in and took everything I was carrying on him.

In that moment when my strength was gone, I felt the Holy Spirit cushion me. He held space where I couldn’t. He took the pain that I could no longer bear. He took my shame, guilt, fear and anger. And he filled me with his beautiful presence of peace.

And I can honestly say, even later through my daughter’s death, the funeral and the grieving process, I was able to carry her story because of the Father's strength. I still had to process (and still am!) many things, but there was an undergirding of strength that the Lord gave.

I want to end this story with an invitation. If you have walked through a loss of some kind and have never had the opportunity to give it to Jesus, I would ask you to consider this. It’s important to grieve, to really feel the pain of what happened, but there is a step that often gets missed–giving that pain to Jesus. Giving him the hurt, the guilt, the shame, the anger….and allowing him to carry it.

Allowing Jesus to bear your burden gives him access to your life. And access is an entryway into allowing the Holy Spirit to heal your hurting heart. God wants nothing but good for you and he is inviting you into his goodness. He is extending his hand to you, saying “come to me, all you who are tired from carrying heavy loads and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28).

So won’t you come?

**Practical note: If you feel like this is too much to bear, or just need to walk this out in community, ask a trusted person/people to walk alongside you in this. Ask them to sit with you in your tears as you give your pain to Jesus.

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* This blog post was written a few years ago on our daughter's birthday. The purpose of this website is to help others in their grieving journey, but on that day, I was a grieving mom. I wasn't able to share with others yet what was happening inside of me. I want to encourage you in your journey, if you just don't feel ready for a certain step, that's okay. Just start with where you are at and take the next step when you are there. Grief has no rules, just waves--sometimes gentle and sometimes like a churning storm. I would recommend this grief guide to use in your journey of grief: https://www.reimaginehope.com/it-is-not-well-with-my-soul