She Brings Joy

Sometime all we can give someone is our presence.



“Friendship is not to be sought, not to be dreamed, not to be desired; it is to be exercised (it is a virtue).” ~ Simone Weill.

I know this sounds nuts, but it seems to be that every year about this time a significant loss occurs in our family.

But it’s not nuts because this year has proven no different.

For the last twenty years our family has been close friends with a retired, local, bachelor doctor who never had children. For the last ten years we’ve taken care of our “doctor neighbor” — assuring he was tucked in at night, bringing him daily hot meals, etc. He’s been the only grandfather our younger children have ever known. Caring for him was a labor of love: he was family.

Our dear friend passed away last night, quietly slipping from this world to the next.

Over the last few weeks he had become less lucid as his disease came to its climax, but there were many small moments of clarity.

Yesterday when I visited him, his speech was unintelligible when I arrived. He was trying so hard to communicate his thoughts- I looked at him and said, “It’s ok Bill, I know you’re still in there”.

He winked at me.

Bill often winked at me when we were speaking. Most of the time it was because something he said had unsettled me, and he was trying to smooth over a rough patch in the conversation.

Yesterday we were going through a rough patch, as we both knew he was dying. His body was already showing the signs of shutting down, and his eyes were fixed on something I couldn’t see.

I sat with him yesterday, reading him poems from Sor Juana Inés De La Cruz, and selections from Simone Weill, knowing (because of that wink) whilst he was quiet, he was there.

At one point, when he was able to communicate with clarity, he reached his hand out and grabbed mine, looked me straight in the eye and said, “time is infinite, and there is just so much of it”. I must admit it was a bit of a startling pronouncement due to his demeanor, and the human mystic in me is probably lending too much meaning to this action. I’d like to think in those final hours he was already seeing the place he would go to, when his body stopped working here.

For the last few months, much of Bill’s conversation with me revolved around the nature of (the Judeo-Christian) God, and the lack of religion in his life: he would repeat that he’d been a greedy man, and had not helped people as much as he could. He would weep over this.

He asked me if God would still welcome him, knowing that he’d spurned Him for most of his life. He asked me the same about Christ, focusing on the plastic cross a priest had brought him earlier in his hospitalization.

I can’t know whether these conversations were the result of fear regarding his death, the slow depleting of oxygen to his brain as his body went through the process of dying, or a real reconversion.

I always treated them seriously, in hopes that they were genuine conversations. I know they were some of the only conversations he was having, and felt that if this was what he wanted to speak of during the short occasions he had for non-medical interaction, it must be of some importance.

Bill had no family, and the end of his life could have been so different: he would have been alone in his suffering if it hadn’t been for a small group of friends who wanted to assure he knew he was loved during his final days here.

This is just a reminder there are lonely people out there right now, dying in solitude- they may not be “worthy” of our affection and time, but once they’re gone, the opportunity to love them unconditionally is lost. Being there for someone isn’t about “us” or “them”, it’s about the symbiotic relationship humans need to develop in a society. Caring for someone in their bitter suffering transcends personal differences.

Bill and I disagreed on almost everything. In a heated discussion about abortion he once called Beatrix “defective”.

But loving people isn’t always about agreeing with them. Loving people isn’t even always about liking them. It’s about understanding everyone is made in the image of God, and in each human being there’s a longing for redemption. We fill the places left by the longing with television and sex and books and politics and mind-altering substances, but in the end, when we’re left without these stop-gaps, we must acknowledge the void. This is why deathbed conversions happen: not because people are deficient of reason, but because all of the other things we use to fill empty spaces are useless when you’re at death’s door.

Yesterday, when I was holding Bill’s hand, and unknowingly saying goodbye, he told me I would meet God (today). I conceded and told him I thought it was a very real possibility and when I told him I anticipated the meeting he was perturbed. He saw the prospect as a negative, I did not.

In the end I was given one last opportunity to share the “reason for my hope”.

When he again told me he was fearful of what was to come, I was able to hold his hand and remind him there was nothing to worry about. God doesn’t take account of how greedy we are in this life as long as we have faith in the Resurrection. 

He fell to sleep shortly after this.

I am hopeful he didn’t awaken, and his last human interaction was having his fears comforted, and the last words spoken to him were of reconciliation.

May we all have such an end.

The idea of the angel baby, in terms of child loss, is one of the most pervasive myths we have to contend with. In addition, most of what must be said regarding angels has been addressed in the two previous posts. Are we able to communicate with our dead children, and have they gone to heaven or are they here?


One of the most ubiquitous characterizations of our babies, after death, is that of "angel baby". We have tattoos of cherubs sleeping in the curve of angel wings, memorial stones which say "our angel", and at least three dozen Facebook support groups which have the words "angel mom" in their title.

The only problem with this is that no major religion believes that humans turn into angels after death. {The closest approximation I found was the Catholic concept of sainthood -- and saints are not angels.}

Last week I wrote a post about the afterlife. Today I'm continuing the conversation, and I wanted to focus on psychics. This is part of a series, so will not be exhaustive regarding Christianity and loss. 

Again -- heavy topic. Not for everyone. If you aren't Christian, this is going to be a bunch of crazy talk to you. If you aren't ready, this may seem cruel to you. Choose wisely.

It may seem innocent to allow ourselves to believe our children are communicating with us through others who claim to have "gifts" which allow them to communicate with "the other side".

Mediums who make this type of claim have become commonplace. They have their own television shows, write bestsellers, etc. We think of them as a fun diversion. We don't often consciously connect them to the occult, however, they definitely fall into that realm. The Bible clearly speaks about the occult in both the OT and NT-- and they are always spoken of negatively.

Do not turn to mediums or seek out spiritists, for you will be defiled by them."   Leviticus 19:31

That's a bold statement. You will be "defiled". It doesn’t really fit in with our modern attitudes either – who thinks of their fellow humans as “defiled”? Do we even use that word anymore? It's so negative... 

This theme continues into the New Testament:

"Now the works of the flesh are evident: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God."   Galatians 5: 19-21


While this seems cliché: when we dip our toes into the stream of mysticism (which communicating with the dead certainly is) the chances of being swept away are much greater than if we had not wandered near the water at all.

We are talking about a presumed relationship with the children we lost, after all. How could we not get swept away when we believe we are communicating with them? 

There is nothing we hunger more deeply for than a connection to our children, but any effort at connection which runs counter to God's promises will always fall short of the connection we receive through the redemptive love of Christ.

We make the decision to pursue after-death theories contrary to His promise because we are attempting to turn the promise into something we have control over. We want to turn our children's absence into something we can manage. We have a difficult time accepting "no" from anyone -- especially a God who has "taken" our child from us.

But does this type of communication make them any less gone?

And how is God's promise honored when we refuse to acknowledge the reality of death?

Death is part of the Christian redemption story. Our entire belief system rests on the truth of the resurrection. The resurrection is meaningless without death. Without it, our religion crumbles and becomes myth. Without death there is no resurrection of the body.

We are all tempted to look away from the cross. This life seems so long, and the grief is just so deep. 

Just hold on momma. What He's got planned for us is so much better than anything we could imagine ourselves.

Next {and last} portion of this small series will be "All About Angels", about the nature of angels. I'd love to hear what you have to say about this, or any other subject related to grief, child loss, and Christianity.

Family: 

While I have a rather large family, these two are the ones I am most responsible for. The big one mopes whenever a camera is nearby, so getting a real photo of him is a rarity these days. The little one can't get enough of a camera nearby, so getting a candid shot of her is a rarity. 

I hate the whole selfie thing. When I do selfie, I have to filter and cover and all sorts of stuff, so this is what you get.

When I look at photos of myself, now, I see the difference in my eyes. I see wariness and age. In this photo I can also see that bit of me which has become hard to hearing other people.

It's difficult to separate her from the nip in the evening air. 

Waiting for winter was so easy before she came, but

Today we were asked to tell others what our "mantra" was, and I shared mine:

"This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it." (Ps. 118:24)

Every morning I say this to myself before I roll out of bed. When I have a disagreement with my children or my husband, I repeat it in my head. I say it to myself when the money is gone before the bills are, and I whisper it out as I lay down to sleep.

It was what I posted on my Facebook profile when my water broke, at 34 weeks, the night that my sweet Beatrix was born.

"This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it." (Ps. 118:24)




One recurring theme throughout my post-loss life has been the concept that God always has a handle on things. I have a difficult time comprehending this, at times -- but I still have faith that it's true.

In Christian faith circles today we have a trend of calling people to "claim God's power" over their life, or to "believe in the power of prayer" to fix their problems.

The problem is that within this mind-set there is a tendency to begin believing that we have some sort of control over every situation we may face. We just need to claim God's blessings or pray harder. When faced with baby-loss this becomes a terrible weight -- is it my fault my baby died?

Didn't I pray hard enough?

I claimed that blessing over my life, why didn't I receive it?

Was my faith too weak?

Working in the context that we have some type of power through prayer isn't just defeating -- it's not Biblical. All power resides in God. As difficult as that is to swallow, it's the truth. We can't believe ourselves into controlling God's will. No matter how long our prayer chain is, it will never be capable of outpacing God and his plans.

When we  say, "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it" (Ps. 118:24), what we are stating is that we understand that while we have free-will, this doesn't give us control over the ultimate outcome of the story. We are saying that we comprehend that God has it all under control, and we trust that his outcomes are part of the work of salvation.

I would not claim to know what God was thinking, but I know that my daughter's death was not part of His plan. His plan did not include death and disease. His plan did not include sorrow.

Could He have changed things and given her life?

Yes.

But He didn't, and the declaration in Psalm 118:24, the declaration which I make daily, is that I have put my trust in Him as the creator of days. I have made the decision to trust His plan. It is not ever easy. I don't always choose trust joyfully, but I always choose to trust completely. My trust delivers a promise for me, as well:

 "In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety." (Ps. 4:8)

We search so diligently for peace, especially in this post-loss world. We all want to find some answer, some reasoning for such tragic circumstances. Really, this side of heaven, we will never be satisfied with the answers we are given. 

But this trust, this rejoicing in each day with its triumphs and sorrows is a beginning. This accepting our powerlessness is the first step in healing. 

This day is the day the Lord has made -- and thank goodness for that. Because of that promise, I know I will eventually see my daughter again, and I rejoice without ceasing at the thought of that reunion.


{For more information regarding Power of Prayer here's an excellent post about the subject.

For more information about the "name it, claim it" philosophy, here's an excellent article about the subject.}

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As always when writing on a religious subject which may hurt some baby loss mom's feelings, I am disclaiming this post -- it may not appeal to everyone. It is only going to appeal to Christian moms. Please remember, we are all just sojourners here and the individual experience of one of us may be vastly different than another's. This is part of my journey, a story of me as a Christian being inadvertently shut out from the huge baby loss support system, and it is something which I believe I may not be alone in struggling with.

During my pregnancy with Beatrix there were very few online resources for the loss mom, presented in an organized fashion. The Facebook group explosion, which happened shortly after her birth, helped to connect parents in a new way.

In the four years since I lost my Beatrix I have seen a remarkable shift in the baby loss community.

We have become a force to be reckoned with. Women are using the powers of this collective to change the conversation about baby loss. We are connecting over this shared experience. Legislation is being created based on our experience, as is a shift in best-practices for caring for the post loss mother, particularly the mother whose loss occurs in her first few days post-partum.

We are seeing a movement towards acknowledgement of the pain of child loss in even its earliest stages. As a pro-life advocate I find this especially gratifying. Life at all stages should be honored and babies lost at any gestation and for whatever reason, are worth grieving over.

Very early on in the movement there were a number of brave mothers who put their hearts on the line, creating safe places for mothers to remember their babies. They carved out beautiful, comforting spaces for us to mourn together. They set the gold standard for how to interact with one another. They pushed other moms into activism. They helped me immensely with my growth into this terrible reality.

But --


Tonight I read a query from a mom in one of the loss groups that I belong to. She asked if anyone "felt" their baby near. She expressed distress due to the fact that she had not, since she understood so many other moms do sense their baby's presence.

She was saddened by the distance she felt between her and her sweet son.

I wanted to respond because I too had wondered about that in the beginning. My husband once had a dream of my sweet Bea. It was very upsetting to me because of how casually he mentioned it. I hungered so deeply to just be in the space where my daughter was. It seemed unfair -- he was given the gift I'd prayed for since she had died.

I heard loss friends talk about how their children sent them messages from heaven. I hadn't received messages. I wanted to. I willed myself into believing that it could/would eventually happen.

I looked for signs in the clouds.
They never came.

Eventually I began to grow into this skin. The shock of loss began to wear off. I began to meditate deeply on the nature of death, the nature of my daughter's death and the inevitable fact that death always separates us from those we love, no matter how much we love them.

As I ruminated upon these things I came to the realization that just like our society in general, there is a pervasive mysticism in the baby loss community. This is partly because some of the most vocal moms, those who helped to create the parameters of this community,  themselves seem to have enthusiastically embraced mysticism.

For anyone who's a mystic -- that's great.

But for those of us, including the mom who wondered why she wasn't feeling her baby, who are Christian -- mysticism just isn't part of the story. We don't feel our babies nearby because they aren't here. We don't see signs and psychic messages from beyond the grave.

This narrative can inadvertently cause some moms pain. Moms who wonder why they don't get these signs and wonders. Moms who have a visceral knowledge that their babies are gone but who are having a difficult time working that knowledge into the fabric of their faith.  It can rob them of peace

King David said, "I shall go to him, but he will not return to me.” (2 Samuel 12:23)

To the newly bereaved mother this is such a heart breaking and terribly inadequate response to her suffering. We will go to them, but they will not come to us.

The God who chose to gift her with this cross also chooses to hold her baby beyond her reach. On those days that she has exhausted herself with need to touch that skin again, that God isn't the one she wants to hear about. She wants to hear about the God of miracles, who can surely turn back time and fix her baby. She wants to hear about Lazarus rising from the dead.

She wants to believe that God would not be so cruel as to deny her those small communications. But any belief that the dead reach beyond the grave is based on nothing more than feeling.

It's a harsh reality.

Our babies don't feel close to us because they are not here.

They will not come to us.

We will, however, go to them.

It's a long walk though. And the temptation of trying to shorten that walk is sometimes too overwhelming to resist.

I read a quote recently. It summarizes this concept succinctly.

"The longest walk home that a parent will ever take home is the one after their child has run ahead of them."

We have a difficult time with conceptualizing the span between now and then. We are a "now" people. We are able to have overnight packages shipped from halfway around the world. Family members who live across the country are available 24/7 via our computer screens. Most of us can drive ten miles from our home, in any direction, and find a hot meal ready to eat within minutes of ordering it.

We are addicted to immediate gratification. We want things done yesterday.

I want my daughter now.

But Death doesn't do demands. It doesn't answer to our "I just want" statements. It is permanent and unforgiving.... In the context of a life without God.

We have a difficult time with that knowledge, with the waiting. So we try to grab a little bit of eternity occasionally.

Unfortunately even when we grasp as tightly as we can, eternity isn't really what we are holding onto.

(Even more unfortunately, there are people who will take advantage of that. They tell you that they can connect you with the people you love. They can't. They just know that there is nothing more desperate than a grieving mom. They know that if they can pull you in, you'll be hooked on that feeling of togetherness. In one sense, mysticism will always end up becoming an addiction. You will always be left wanting more because it can't deliver on the promise it makes. Permanent connection with the one you love. )

In my own grieving process I very quickly came to understand that the lack communication from my Beatrix, who is living her supernatural afterlife, is not about me.

It is about the Easter promise- "It is finished". It is about the promise that when our physical bodies fail, we will leave this world. It's about reality versus a feeling that we may have.

I cannot feel my daughter because God's truth is a real thing.

She didn't fade away into an amorphous cloud of energy.  

She is in paradise.

She is waiting for the resurrection.

She is singing with all of the saints who went before her, about the glory of a God who redeemed all of us. The broken, weak, and wanting.

And I am glad for that. My feelings are fickle things. An eternal outlook based on my feelings would be a terrible thing -- I am not nearly as trustworthy as God is.

Do I want her here? Of course. Is that desire normal? Of course. Does it make me less faithful? No.

But the reality of the situation is that I would not trade the knowledge of her security, and the fulfillment of that promise for even the smallest cosmic communication from her. Because I can't have it both ways. I can't claim to believe in the resurrection of the life to come and then make attempts to pull her out of a spiritual energy cloud. It doesn't work that way.

The promise of our reunion is enough to keep me satisfied that the silence from my daughter is part of the plan. (Most of the time...)

It's enough for me to accept that the plan is something bigger than me and my grief.

I hope that more Christian loss moms will come forward to share their stories of healing without utilizing mysticism so that no mom ever feels that something has gone wrong, because she cannot feel her baby close. We have enough room in this community to say, "I don't agree with you but I validate your grief and I will support your grief process, as long as you support mine."

I hope that if you are reading this, you are moved to understand that your baby is in a place where there is no more pain, sorrow, or suffering. That you will see her or him again, and when the time comes you will understand and be so grateful for the truth of the Gospel and the reality of what the resurrection means.

If you are a Christian baby loss blogger and you have written about grief, mysticism, and/or Christianity, I would love to hear from you. I am interested in creating a collective of supportive women who can help navigate this post-loss terrain for the Christian mom, by basing that support on consistent, orthodox, Christian teachings.

Please contact me at:

Sarah@shebringsjoy.com