Dearest Isaiah,


Tomorrow is April 13th.  It will officially be two years since you died.


This morning I called my mom and I just cried.  I cried because of all the memories, the memories that sear, I cried because of all the regrets (why didn't I call the doctor sooner? why did I attempt the vbac? why didn't I pray for you more?), I cried because I never got to meet you, I cried because a lot of people simply don't understand why I still feel sad, and that, well, that just really really hurts. 


My mom is the best and she listened as only a mom can.  And more importantly she spoke truth:
~Isaiah, your life was not in vain.  God had a purpose for it.
~God is sovereign.  He, and He alone, holds the keys to life and death.  I did not kill you.  I could not have saved you.  I've got to let the guilt go.
~I will see you again.  You are in Heaven.  Period.
~Yes, there are people who don't understand, people who think I should be done grieving. But, that's ok.  This is my journey and until they are forced to walk a similar path, they really wont be able to understand. And, that is ok.
~Jesus.  Jesus knows suffering.  Jesus knows grief.  And He is near to the broken hearted.  He is near to me.


Oh Isaiah, what do we do over the next two days? How do we walk through them? They will be so tough.
AnnaGrace burst into tears at bed time.  She is still grieving as well.  She wants to have presents for you and a party for you.  But I don't know if that is what is best.  Do I let her have a little party and presents? Do we sing happy birthday? Is that weird? Is it making her sorrow worse? I guess there is no instruction manual for how to grieve.


Tomorrow we are going to do a little picnic.  Some friends and some family will meet us there and we will have a picnic.  It will be a time for us to focus on the blessings that we do have, to force us to get out of the house, to stop (at least for an hour or two) the constant and at times overwhelming memories.  And, like last year, I will include the anchor symbol to help me focus on hope... Hope that is real.  Hope that has been, and is, an anchor for my soul. 


And then, on the 14th (your birthday)... I don't know what we will do.  It is supposed to be rainy.  Maybe we should have a little party for you.  I think your sister is right-- Who cares if it seems weird?


Oh Isaiah--wishing I could hold you. Wishing I could hear your laugh and see your eyes dance.  Wishing I could hold your hand and feel your little fingers intertwined with mine.  Wishing I could count your toes and sing to you and read you a book.  Wishing I could walk upstairs and peek in your room and see you sleeping.

I love you, precious son.  And I really, really miss you.


Love,
Momma