“Ok!” I say, as I put the cap on the marker and let Hope touch and admire her handiwork. “Let’s go send our balloons to sissy!”
Pat quickly pulls Hope from the warm cocoon of her car seat as I gather the balloons: one white, one red, one purple- Eva’s colors, with our messages written to her. As our breath lingers in frosty clouds, we trot past her stone that we adorned with cupcake ornaments and other sparkly, pink décor to a small clearing.
I distribute the balloons so that we each hold the one on which we wrote. “Count to three, Hope,” Pat says.
The sweetest voice leads us in “1, 2, 3…” and we release our balloons to the heavens, standing in the frigid air.
“Oh, no,” I say, as they head straight for the branches of a wide, snarly oak. We watch as they get closer and closer to its reach, but they clear it, floating higher and farther away.
“They might not go very high with the cold,” Pat says. Sure enough, it seems as though they’re already deflating in size as the ribbons pass the tree tops.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Maybe we should go while they’re still flying.”
We walk away, and as Pat loads Hope into the car, I kneel to outline the letters of “Eva Kay” in the cold stone with my fingertip and whisper the words I always say when I’m there.
As I buckle my seat belt and Pat pulls away, I chance a peek out the window, not wanting to see our messages to Eva sinking back toward the freezing ground. I don’t see them… until I look up. Higher than the horizon. Higher than the first layer of clouds. Three balloons—a white, a purple, a red—fly up.
“Wow!” I say to Pat, hitting his arm with my left hand. “They didn’t sink at all! They’re so high up! They’re almost specks.”
He brakes to look out my passenger window, but they’re too high for him to see; he opens the sun roof slide and says, “Huh! Yep, there they go.”
“Our balloons are flying high to sissy, Hope” I say and hear a happy, “boon, sees-see” from behind me.
I watch them for as long as I can before the car turns to head down the hill and out of the cemetery. The last glance I catch, they are dancing above the clouds, still ascending.
It just seems to happen that we celebrate Eva in extreme temperatures, which may be fitting, really. She certainly had her mild moments: sleeping on our chests, nursing like a pro, snuggling in our arms to read or sing. But Eva also had fire: fighting like a champion to successfully regain full strength after her one-day-old neurosurgery; reacting with feisty expression to her first home bath (“what have my parents done to me?” her wide-open eyes and pursed lips seemed to say); defying- in a big way- any predicted time span for how long she could stay physically with us post-life support.
We celebrated her third birthday in twenty-degree chill (not unusual for a December, Nebraska baby).
Three months ago, we celebrated her life and legacy in high-nineties, stifling heat under the late-summer sun. Eva’s Third Annual Life-Giving Memorial Walk garnered tremendous success. This year, we asked for free will donations to benefit the Meningitis Foundation of America rather than request a twenty-five dollar registration fee for each adult; we truly want people to want to give and participate and don’t want loved ones feeling obliged to contribute any certain amount.
As incredible evidence of our family and friends’ support and generosity, we raised almost as much as last year: $6,100 to Eva’s Life-Giving Memorial Fund, $5,000 of which went directly to the MFA.
To further demonstrate the love of those in our corner, even more participants registered to walk this year than they did last year. We are thrilled that Eva’s Life-Giving Memorial Walk grew, as we feel the benefits of this event resonate. Here are three:
1. I know the names on every form we receive throughout the summer, as I look at them often and feel a loving tug in my momma heart’s Eva space each time I see an envelope in the mailbox.
2. The awareness our friends and family bring to our cause as they walk is invaluable; during the welcome of the walk this year, I told a friend’s story of being stopped by a pedestrian on our route during Eva’s 2nd Walk. He asked why we walked, and she said, “We walk in memory of a baby girl who lost her life to Meningitis.” He asked where he could donate.
3. The Meningitis Foundation utilizes the $23,000 raised from Eva’s Life-Giving Memorial Walks to further their mission: Educate- Vaccinate- Eradicate. Meningitis comes in numerous strains, and currently, no cure exists for infants who develop Meningitis from Late-Onset Group B Strep. We would love to see a cure. We would love to know that no other family has to suffer the way we have.
I still look each day for “signs” from God or Eva: that she is well and that she is with us. I’ve experienced them before, and they always refill my bucket, but they are never enough. On the morning of December 9th, Eva’s birthday, after waking at 5:30 from a night of restless sleep (it’s true what many seasoned grievers will say: the anticipation of an anniversary is often just as hard as the anniversary itself) and spending a couple hours trying to keep busy while intermittently sobbing, I walked outside to take some trash out. I pulled my coat closer as the icy air hit me, walked to the bin, turned to head back inside, and looked up.
An Eva sky. Most often spotted in the early evenings of late summer/early fall, glowing, orangey-pink clouds scattered over a light blue backdrop. We call this an “Eva Sky” because the colors are just like those of her nursery: light blue with pale pink. I heard from some friends who saw this same Eva sky and thought of our girl on her special day.
I shouldn’t be surprised that the balloons defied the circumstances: escaping the expansive reach of the great tree and scaling the cold sky in rapid ascent. Eva defied all challenging circumstances set before her. She is among my life’s greatest teachers, though her exemplary model of grace in life’s hardest trials can be a difficult one for me to emulate.
Especially in December. This coming season is among the hardest for the bereaved. To be surrounded by others’ holiday cheer while missing one’s child is dark to say the least and absolutely unbearable in the beginning. To see whole families and not feel resentment is difficult. To celebrate a third birthday without the birthday girl and not feel bitter is nearly impossible. To hang Eva’s stocking and first Christmas ornaments and miss her is bittersweet; she should be here, but she was here, and what a gift that was on Christmas. To relive the week between Christmas and New Year’s is undoubtedly painful.
A shiny red box with white pin stripes waits beneath the glimmering lights of Eva’s angel tree. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I lift the lid to Eva’s Life-Giving Christmas Box and slip in envelopes. Each envelope contains a certificate and note: the certificate a token from a charity to which we donated and the note an explanation to our families for why we chose that organization. For example, last Christmas one of our envelopes contained a thank-you receipt from the Pajama Program, a foundation that provides pajamas and books to children in need. The accompanying note thanks our parents for inspiring our donation, as we are so fortunate to have grown up with the security of clean pajamas and bedtime story cuddles.
With cozy, warm flames crackling in the fireplace, our family members curl up in a big circle to exchange thoughtfully-prepared and carefully-wrapped gifts. We take turns- from youngest to oldest- unwrapping and admiring each present. We don’t skip Eva, the mere prospect of which was incredibly painful to me as I envisioned family Christmas last year. Instead, we say her name.
“Eva’s Christmas box is next.” A smiling family member lifts the lid from the box and draws out an envelope. We repeat this process until all envelopes open, and that Eva spot in my heart is warmed again. Her legacy brings us joy.
This time of year is hard, when our pain is compounded by missing our child and remembering the harrowing experience of losing her that began on Christmas of 2013. It is hard to join in the happy chorus of voices who sing to “Repeat the sounding joy… repeat the sounding joy… repeat, repeat, the sounding joy…” Our Christmases have become evermore joyful the past two years, as we watch the magic of the season shine through the eyes of our daughter, Hope. But we will always remember, grieve and miss her big sister.
We’re not the only ones.
We’re not the only ones missing someone, grieving a loss, or worrying about the future. There very well may be others who struggle to sing loudly of joy this season. So instead, perhaps this Christmas song’s lyrics and beautiful music will resonate as they do for me in times of struggle or sadness…
“Help me be strong
Help me be… Help me…
Breath of Heaven
Hold me Together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven
Breath of heaven
Light up my darkness
Pour over me your holiness
For you are holy”
We find joy in and are thankful for—this seasons and always—the breath of heaven that gives life to our Eva, even if that life is not what we envisioned for her three years ago. We are thankful for the breath that has blessed us and our family in countless ways: the same breath that came to earth as a baby and would come to bear humanity's sins and sufferings. We are thankful for the breath that moves grace and hearts and balloons…
We, as always, are thankful for you. I know I say that a lot, but I can’t say it enough. Thank you for being near us in this season and always. Thank you for your support in Eva’s 3rd Annual Life-Giving Memorial Walk. Thank you for reading, thinking, and praying. It is in these gifts and this joy— the love of a husband, daughters, friends and family— that my spirits ascend.