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.

This isn't a political post, and it's not meant to disparage anyone whose family may be currently serving, or who has lost a loved one in armed conflict. We have both current and past military members, in addition to war dead -- who are still mourned every day -- in our own family.

This also isn't an anti-war screed. My feelings about my country's history of conflict is deeply nuanced, but even I comprehend the need for armed intervention in some situations. Contrary to popular belief, pacifism includes a wide range of belief about warfare. You can object to war in most cases, yet still believe a nation has a natural right to protect itself. 

But I digress.

This is about loss, the after affects of grieving your child, and how that experience can change your worldview in a split second.

I became a pacifist the day my daughter died. I was never a war hawk before this event, but the fall-out from her death left me with stronger feelings about casualties of war.

Today I've watched a number of videos honoring the sacrifices of our armed service members.... I think about all of the far-off places our young men and women have died, and it makes me weak. Seeing their faces, I can imagine too well the pain their death caused their mothers. They are all devastatingly gorgeous, of course. I'm sure they were good children, who were necessary to the inner workings of their family life and community. I'm sure their households are less joyful because of their absence. I'm also sure their mothers don't recall their boys just as the valiant young men they became, but as little boys jumping in puddles, the infant they held in the hospital, and the baby they felt moving in their body during pregnancy. I'm sure they don't just see their resilient, proud daughters, they see girls in christening dresses, and curly-headed toddlers handing them bouquets of dandelions and clomping around in their high heels.

{Disclaimer— what I am writing comes after a lot of soul-searching and going through the worst part of the bereavement process.

It's been five years since my daughter died. I have not always felt this way, and in the early stages of my bereavement I was very antagonistic to information like this. Please note that I am not attempting to guilt or push anyone into a premature reconciliation with God when they don’t feel open to this yet. See HERE and HERE for some early (poorly written) posts regarding the anger and mistrust I felt in my initial grieving period. Do not read this if you aren't ready for a conversation about deep theology. Don't read this if you are in a sensitive stage where every comment stings. You may not want to read if you're having a bad day, depending on where you are in your grief and how you practice your faith -- some may find this initially harsh but ultimately very comforting. Some may not.

This is a brutal honesty post. Last warning. }

I've been trying to work out some thoughts about the nature of death for the believer. This is what I've come to understand in the five years since my Beatrix left.

There is a big difference between Christians and others when it comes to the disposition of a soul after death.

While there are different Christian teachings regarding some of what happens immediately after someone dies (purgatory, resting state, etc.), we all believe that our faithful dead eventually end up in Heaven.

Because of this, finding comfort in some of the common themes shared by baby loss writers and artists can be difficult for devout loss moms. Our belief system doesn’t allow us to imagine our child as a butterfly landing on our shoulder, a feather on our doorstep, or a favorite song played at the moment we needed it most. Some Christian faith practices allow for a concept commonly referred to as “God-winks”, the claim being that God is sending these small messages to you. However, that concept is suspect and debatable – and even if your faith practice accepts this concept, the claim is still that God is sending the messages, not our babies.

We also can’t imagine stars opening holes in the heavens so our loved ones shine down on us, we have no belief that our babies become angels (this is actually a belief unheard of by virtually every world religion – angels are separate beings from human in almost all faith practices, Christian and non-Christian alike), and babies aren’t coming back in future pregnancies.

Once our babies are gone they are gone.

So what does Christianity have to offer the grieving mom?

In the immediacy of our initial grief it seems as if we would be left bereft of comfort. Christianity and God seem like heartless realities to those who don't understand them. Often, we are so blinded by our emotions that even welose sight of the big picture – the picture which gives us a {perfect} antidote to our sadness.

Sometimes we forget that true comfort only comes at the foot of the cross.

The cross promises us tomorrow – eternity – unlike the here and now centered beliefs elucidated above.

The cross promises:

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." {Rev. 21:4}






I read a quote long ago by Pope John Paul II which even non-Catholics could identify with:

"Do not abandon yourselves to despair. We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.”

Would we give up the forever of Easter, for temporal comfort here?

This is a harsh truth, and it doesn't promise to get any easier over our time on this earth. We may rationalize this love of Christ, but the human part of us just wants our babies.

I know I want my baby back.

But I want her back. I want her back forever. I want her back the way I was promised her -- perfect and alive.

"For our citizenship is in heaven, from which also we eagerly wait for a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ; who will transform the body of our humble state into conformity with the body of His glory, by the exertion of the power that He has even to subject all things to Himself." {Phillipians 3:20}


"So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body." {1 Corinthians 42-44}

While no one must believe this {truth} who chooses not to, for those who do believe it holds more promise for the one thing which every single one of us loss moms want -- time.

While I could believe my daughter to be reincarnated in another pregnancy, doing so binds her in a finite life-cycle. It means she will die again, and this could be during the course of my lifespan, because we aren't promised a limit on suffering.

Reincarnation {her being born in a subsequent pregnancy} means I could lose her all over again.

In this dynamic we could both also be reincarnated into other families, or as a fox, or a fish, or a supernatural spirit, never to see one another again.

It also means I am not promised eternity with God, and in turn, with her.

If she becomes part of the natural world -- a butterfly or a symbol we see in rocks and trees -- she can be destroyed by wind and rains. Something as simple as a bird landing could disrupt whatever form she was in. If she were a star she would eventually burn out; her light would be permanently extinguished, and eventually her absence would be detectable to this world.

Being born into Heaven, even though I must wait to see her, holds the most promise. The promise of Heaven only seems cruel because we must wait to reap the rewards for our faithfulness. We want immediate gratification, but the promise offers eternal gratification.
In 2 Samuel 12: 23, after King David’s son died he stopped his weeping saying, “I will go to him, but he will not return to me”. This is a rough story, but it brings to point the reality of what our God promises. He promises those who have faith in Him an eternity in Heaven. Long after the world stops turning we will be with Him. I do not want my daughter to come to me in this world, because that means the promise is a lie. My daughter in this world means eternity does not exist. It means the Bible promises, the love of Christ, is just another fairy tale.

Because we can’t have it both ways.

God promises us heaven after death, not an amorphous existence hanging around the earth. If this promise is a lie, so is everything else He says.

Our loved ones will not return to us in this world. We will go to them…. and more importantly, to Him. That promise is better than anything this temporal world could ever offer me.




In my next post I will be talking about “Psychics and signs in baby loss”. I hope you join me in that discussion too!

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

(Originally posted 9/8/15. Updated 5/12/19)



So-- I got to thinking about what I was feeling from this post. My protest being love, I mean. It took over my entire week.

I started something I believe will be interesting. In hopes of connecting a like-minded collective of people who will decide to make love be their protest.... beginning next month, I’ll be sending out a newsletter with two to three opportunities to help families in need.

I'd like to begin making commitments to vulnerable families, either via financial donations to established pro-life charities which deal with helping those who choose to continue their pregnancies in less than optimal circumstances, or in tangible goods for the families who I know. I’d also like to begin supporting less visible ProLife organizations which may be helping a segment of the population we may not even be aware of.

If you're moved to do the same, please do so... and then email me images of your Love Protest at sarah@shebringsjoy.com.

This post is for a writing challenge on the phrase "If I could change anything I would." Every Tuesday there's a new challenge. You can join HERE. 




I want to write a beautiful post about how accepting things the way they are, leads to peace.

I want to be big enough to say:


If I could change anything, I would change nothing. 


However, all I feel after writing this sentence is electricity in my skin. Everything in me pushes against acceptance. When I close my eyes, I am standing at a precipice and acceptance feels like I am making a decision to throw her off of the edge. Acceptance feels like every nerve in my body is focused on “no”. 

I could also claim that if I could change anything, I would change everything. 

But that would mean my sweet M may not be here, and as I look down at her sweaty curls and her grubby fingertips, I can't imagine a single second of my life without her. 

Four and a half years is a long time to push the "what if things were different" out of your head. 


This beautiful post could be about fluctuation and entire seasons of change. It could be about imagining a world where both of my girls are sitting together with their foreheads touching, whispering in the dark. It could be about a world where possibility is immeasurable, and innocence is intact.

But it's not. Because when the subject of change comes up, my mind always races to her. Would I change the circumstances of her birth and death? That question is too laden with sub-context for me to answer. 

Four and a half years is a long time to ruminate on changing a single event in your life.
At one time, I expressed my post-loss existence as having one foot in heaven, and one foot on earth. If I lean too far towards either place I will eventually lose my balance and end up crumpled on the ground, being nowhere at all. 

Imagining change is too difficult in this context. The ramifications of either choice would be too life-altering.

I guess, ultimately, this means I would change nothing. 

But there is no peace in this. There is only a raw aching feeling in my chest at having failed my girl.




{I feel I must reference back to this, an all-encompassing post on acceptance, after writing today’s post. If I would have chosen anything other than my loss for this prompt, it would have been disingenuous. However, I am most definitely in the camp of acceptance.... almost all of the time.}