Holding my precious Eva, in her red and white striped leggings, red tutu, and gold cardigan with matching bow, I gazed admiringly into her eyes. I adjusted her sparkly bow, worried that a tiny gold fleck would shed into those stunning eyes. Those eyes. More alert than any newborn I’ve ever seen, Eva’s blue eyes sparkled with life, vitality, and resilience; she took in her surroundings and studied them. During that moment, as I stared in awe at the wiggling, beautiful blessing God had given me, she stared back at me.
We have several invaluable pictures of me holding Eva: pictures that capture moments so irreplaceably precious. One in particular, though, breaks my heart. I have never shared it publicly or even with close friends. The angle is different than on the other pictures we have from this same scene. The other pictures show my face: elated and smiling at the sight of my amazing baby daughter. The picture that breaks my heart shows Eva’s face: her studying my face with equal awe. I love seeing Eva’s pretty face, but I can’t look at this picture and not feel that I failed her amazing, trusting gaze.
Now thirteen months after Eva’s newborn photo session, I read certain sites and stories, in search of cold comfort or understanding: The Compassionate Friends posts, Silent Grief: Child Loss Support materials, Pregnancy After Loss blogs. One recent reading stands out to me as very poignant and true: “Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion to death.” I believe professionals and non-professionals alike call losing a child the worst kind of loss for countless reasons— most of which are inexpressible to those who have not experienced the anguish— but the guilt that accompanies the loss is a significant part of that. When freight train-punches of grief hit me these days, it is often a result of flashbacks and longings and guilt. My beautiful, amazing Eva looked at me, her mommy…
I prefer to keep my writing about life with Eva positive, which is not difficult; after all, she brought more blessings into our and others’ lives— and continues to amaze us in countless, positive ways— than we could have ever imagined. Listing these blessings is futile; they are infinite. Memories of our time with her, including that photo shoot with our warm, wide-awake Eva in her red tutu and gold bow, are irreplaceable and conjured with ease. Memories of love, laughter, surprise, security, joy, gratitude, and contentment fill our hearts and home. These are a part of our story. So too, though, are moments that should have no place in any parent’s memory: moments instigated by a common germ from which I did not protect my daughter.
In the midst of this guilt, I frequently wonder what Eva’s eyes see now. I want to know: where is she? what does this place look like? who is holding her? what is she doing? what does she see? To say that the past almost-two years has been a journey and test of faith is a significant understatement: another indescribable facet of the extremely unique journey of bereaved parents. I want more than what I’m getting in ways of reassurance of what I must believe: that Eva is in a place more beautiful than I could ever imagine (or that I am designed to know), held by her family of angels and the loving, merciful Creator of the Universe. I keep asking God to show me this, with concrete evidence. I keep waiting.
And I must keep believing. I must believe that Eva is in Heaven and that Heaven is an exquisite place with “no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and its lamp is the Lamb” (Revelation 21:23). God made Eva: innocent, pure, and extraordinary. Jesus loves children. So Eva must reside with Him, who “will wipe away every tear from [her] eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore” (Revelation 21:4). In the midst of my guilt and grief and human doubts, I have to believe this.
I reflect on the past year and what Eva must see from her vantage point in Heaven, as she looks at her family on Earth who love her more than we could ever express through words.
In this “year two” in life with Eva, she must see her mommy and daddy who work every day to live our lives in ways that honor her and our experience, even through deep grief. As year two progresses, it is still difficult to see other families who get to be “in tact,” but we increasingly try to be present and recognize (and remind others of) the fact that we, too, are parents and fortunate to be the parents of our amazing angel.
She must see our home and the way she fills it: with pictures, love, mementos, and the soon-to-be created “Eva space” in our room.
She must see moments of mourning and moments of smiling.
She must see her parents’ marriage as even stronger because of her.
She must see the comfort and light that comes from the love we’ve been shown by family. Her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who send messages of comfort; give gifts to remember her life and perpetuate her legacy (diaper drive, the Heifer project, etc.); and remember her, love her, and mourn her in their own time.
She must see her beautiful picture and mural in the church nursery.
She must see the wonderful work and support that went into her Inaugural Memorial Walk and the preparations that will begin shortly on the 2nd Annual Eva’s Life-Giving Memorial Walk.
She must see the friends and family who sent angel ornaments to her parents to create an angel tree for future Christmas times: such special gifts!
She must see her parents, unwilling to and incapable of celebrating Christmas 2014 in the traditional sense, go to the beach, think about her, and write her name in the sand.
She must see family and friends who remember her always, through texts, messages, cards, words, calls, their own pictures, reflections, etc… and the invaluable love this shows her mommy and daddy.
She must see you— reading this blog— care for her, her family, and her legacy, from near or far.
She must see her mommy’s belly swell with the growth of her little sister, who— like Eva— is so, so loved. She must know that we will forever be different parents because of her. As we anticipate the arrival (in less than three months!) of our second incredible daughter, love and gratitude are constant, fear is inevitable and hope is essential. All of these emotions come easily and exist simultaneously.
She must see the way she has forever inspired and changed her growing family and those who love us.
These are only a few aspects of life with Eva, as we continue through year two, that she must see and on which I often reflect.
And we, of course, see Eva and the blessings she’s given us. We are blessed with our angel, her sister, and the constant lessons we are learning from our unique parenting journey. We are grateful for these blessings and those that come from our families and friends who continue to love and support us. It is your love, and the love of her family and our God and Savior, that must continue to shine in Eva’s angel eyes.