Sunrise

For the month of May, I am choosing to take part in a project called “May We All Heal.” This project is a way to share your grief through sharing your story. For more information visit: http://grievingparents.net/may-we-all-heal/mwah2018/

The first picture I took is from the bed in our spare bedroom. It’s affectionately known as Sarah’s Room (my sister). One little habit that Ron and I have always had in our marriage is that if one of us is sick, the non-sickie moves to the spare bedroom so that the sickie can rest also not share their germs.

Early in my pregnancy, I was in a car accident. For the first few days, my back could not handle our bed, so I moved to Sarah’s room to sleep. Then, I got sick and I was comfortable in her bed that I stayed there for a bit longer. Then, Ron got sick, so I continued to stay in her room. Finally, I got sick again and I stayed there where I was comfortable. Notice a pattern? I should disclaim that Ron and I adore one another, but we had this ongoing period of illness and we were trying to get healthy. I should also share the fact that I am the world’s WORST when it comes to mattresses and pillows. In our ALMOST six years of marriage, we have had at least 10 mattresses and too many pillows to count. The mattress that we had during my pregnancy was awful – I hated it. I was comfortable where I was so I was staying until we got it sorted or so I thought.

In January, we learned of our daughter London’s diagnosis. The bottom fell out. We were devastated. We were both a wreck and sleep was the only escape. I would stay up most nights sobbing and cry out to God for healing, for understanding, for a miracle, for anything. The only response was silence so I would cry myself to sleep. 

Every morning around 5:30 am the pipes would rattle and I knew Ron was awake and getting ready for work. I would lay in bed and stare out the window as the sun began to rise. London Joy was a sleepy riser just like her mama. I would rub my belly and sing to her, sometimes I would read scripture over her. Mostly, I would hold her in my womb and silently weep, “Lord heal my baby.” I cherish those little love nudges and belly rolls she would give me. I miss them.

Around 6:30 am Ron would shuffle into the room. He would kneel by the bed, uncover my belly and have a conversation with London Joy. This was nothing new, we had done it our entire pregnancy. Now it meant so much more; every sunrise with her was a gift.  We didn’t know how many we would have. We would sing our good morning songs over her, some mornings through tears, and he would kiss us both before heading off to work.

We’ve since bought yet another mattress and for the most part, I’m satisfied. I now sleep next to my sweet husband. I often curl myself around him to feel his nearness and rest in the familiar rhythm of his breathing. There is no space between us anymore; my swollen belly no longer separates us and no little kicks demand room to groove. I miss that.

This morning, I climbed into Sarah’s bed. I looked out the window, watched the familiar shadows dance across the wall. Enveloped in the comforting smell of the sheets, I ran my hand over my belly that is soft and empty. I stretched out and took the first picture. Sunrise.

The second picture is from my front yard this morning, May 1st, 2018. Almost a whole year since we said hello and goodbye, almost in the same breath. The air was spring-like this morning. It was not yet as humid as it is going to get, but not quite as crisp as it has been. The colors were a soft peach with deep blues. Wispy clouds were blowing lazily across the dawn. It was beautiful. The sun hadn’t quite peeked over the horizon, but it was just at the tipping point.

It so reminded me of the day London Joy was born. So very similar. So distant now, but ever so close. It was like the last moments of a dream from which you don’t want to wake-up because it is so lovely. Then you sense reality creeping in ever so softly. Sometimes, the most familiar things, like a sunrise, can bring such comfort. Other times, they can serve as a reminder of what is missing. This morning it was a bit of both.

As I watched the sky embracing the sun as color danced across the horizon, I thought about the morning the women went to the tomb to anoint Jesus body. I wondered if they felt like I did this morning. Broken-hearted. Confused. Purposeful. Determined. I don’t know if they felt hopeful yet, probably not. I am beginning to feel hopeful again. I am beginning to see beauty in sunrises again.

Then my favor will shine on you like the morning sun, and your wounds will be quickly healed. I will always be with you to save you; my presence will protect you on every side.  – Isaiah 58:8 (The Good News Translation)