sweet september/leave room for hope

The breeze is cooler in the evenings.
The sun takes a little longer to warm up in the mornings.
It is September.

I am still here. I type this post from a desk that sits where a crib was going to be placed, in a room where a baby was going to be laid. I'm wearing shorts I couldn't fit last year this time because of my protruding baby bump. All around me a new wave of mamas are birthing and carrying brand new babies...babies that weren't even thought of last year! And the many babies who were swaddled and wrapped so snuggly last fall are walking and talking, smiling, and throwing tantrums.

Everything has changed.

Yet so much remains the same. My heart longs for Xavier every moment of every day. But I see him. He is the yellow butterfly that darts past my car while at a red light. He is the "x" shaped cloud that follows me in the sky throughout the day. He is hymns and songs. He is music and dancing. He is PlayDoh and puzzles.

I see him in the eyes and smiles of the children in my life. I hear him in Austin, Joseph, and Conall's curiosity. I feel him in Moses' curly black hair, his hugs and "I love you, Nisha"-s. I sense him in Sam's drool dribbled laugh and in the weight of Aimes sleeping against me.

I had a friend tell me that child loss is like a hole torn through your heart and that, while time can not heal such an injury it softens the edges of the wound. This has never felt more true than now as we prepare to celebrate the first year since Xavier's birth. Yes, time has softened the edges of my wound, but the wound remains. I will always miss my first born son, no matter how many children I am gifted to mother.

I won't forget his smell. The feel of his skin against mine. The way his mouth opened and closed just a bit when the doctor placed him on my chest. The way his left ear was folded over. The way he kicked inside me as Sarah and I sang at women's retreat just 4 days before he was born. I won't forget you baby. Never.

I'm feeling very introspective these days. The Lord has carried me through each season with love and tenderness. In the winter he held me tightly, shielding me from icy winds. Even as I struggled against him, beating his chest with closed fists as hot tears hit my cheeks, trying so desperately to get away, he held me still. When I looked all around searching for another source of warmth and shelter outside of his arms, he wrapped me in his pinions and reminded my raw heart that nothing and no one else could heal it.

This spring, He walked with me through gardens and brought the Sun into my soul. I saw the Lord at Easter, in flowers, then at the oceanside. I whispered prayers into the sea and imagined them traveling like seashells miles and miles to the ear of El Shama, The God who hears. He brought community and restoration and new friendships. He gave me another year of life along with friends, strawberry cake from Edgars, and a piñata to smash. He gave me words to write and songs to sing.

And then came summer. Usually I dread the summer, with its oppressive heat, Alabama humidity, and sucking of all energy and motivation to do anything but sit in the A/C. But this summer was filled with so much life-giving joy. Zoo trips and visits with babies; new hobbies, yoga on the deck. Craft nights and wine-fueled conversations. Back porch breakfasts and coffee dates. This summer I stood beneath the shadow of the moon as it crossed the sun. I fed a flamingo. I sang songs and read stories and answered all the questions the little minds that surround me had to ask. Like why my skin is brown, or if I know what ninjas like to drink (kara-"teeeeeaaaaa"), or how hurricanes are made. I went to baseball games and trampoline parks. I drank sour margaritas and ate tacos with spicy salsa.

The Lord also forged new relationships for me. He gave me words to say, notes to write, emails to send in order to encourage my tribe. He sent me broken hearts longing for life to look differently than it does for so many reasons. Lost babies. Missed job opportunities. Loneliness. He has reignited the flame in my heart that finds healing in being home for others. Not just opening physical structure of my home, but he has opened me from the core of my being as a haven, a beacon, and a refuge.

The name Xavier means "New home." I guess that's what the Lord has made--and is continuing to make--me. A new home. I see children in this home, coloring on walls and being put in time out. Or sneaking "en-a-mems" (M&Ms) when no one's looking. I see them dumping sprinkles on the floor while baking cookies, and at night falling asleep in my arms. Do I know the Lord will give us more children? No. Am I guaranteed a living child on this Earth? Not at all. Will my body respond to fertility treatments like the last pregnancy? There is no way to know for sure. But I can hope. As God fills this new house, I do know that He will always leave room for hope.