Reaching for Reason
Fat flakes fall outside the window as little mouths breathe halos on the pane. It is only October 14th, and Omaha watches as a sudden weather front drops heavy, wet powder. The children in the nursery, my two beloved included, stare in hushed awe as the sparkling snow blankets the church garden in white. The first snow of the season excites for many reasons: sledding, snowman-building, fireplace-cuddling, to name a few. The falling flakes usher in, too, the anticipation of winter holidays. But as I watch the snow fall, I think— with a familiar sense of dread and sadness— it’s coming.
---
“You could have a Christmas baby,” my friend says when I disclose our December 19th due date.
“I know. We should have planned that better,” I say, smiling. “I keep thinking that must be hard on a kid, to have his birthday so close to Christmas.”
She shrugs. “You never know- maybe baby will wait even longer and come on New Year’s Eve. Or your anniversary!”
I smile again- excited and unknowing. “Time will tell.”
Six months later, lit by the carriage light on the front of our house, I pose for the last “bump” picture with my wool coat’s sash wrapped tightly above my 39-week tummy. It is December 9th at 5:30 in the morning and 0 degrees. Our warming car idles in the freshly-scooped driveway as Pat quickly steps over and puts his arm around my shoulders, holding the camera out to take our picture: two young parents, smiling in the early morning frost, as they prepare to head to the hospital to meet their first baby. With packed bags in the trunk, we’re as prepared as we can be to welcome new life and navigate an anticipated series of complex medical steps with our child.
That evening, after a couple hours of rest and several more of vomiting in to a series of those plastic blue sleeves, I slide, nauseated but determined, in to a wheelchair to see our daughter for only the second time since she was shown to me— wiggling, screaming, strong, beautiful— from around the blue surgical drape. As I lay on the table being put back together, Pat left with our baby and her medical team. He reported all things amazing through text and picture messages: a surprising, full head of dark hair; perfectly pink-red rosebud lips; a healthy eight pounds; champion Apgar scores. My bed had been wheeled to her room after I’d spent the required recovery time in observation, but my moment of holding her then, while invaluably memorable, was incredibly brief.
As Pat pushes the wheelchair through the unit, I have a moment to notice the sweet stickers adorning the sliding glass door of our baby’s private room: sparkles, girly cupcake, and pink letters. Eva. Shortly after entering the room, Eva is passed from her isolette to her waiting mama, and my arms envelop her wiggly warmth. My daughter and I meld back together, her cords and IV present but unobtrusive. We spend the next hours learning to nurse, sharing sweet snuggles, singing and rocking, and taking pictures as a family of three.
Before I have to return to my room for some rest, I touch my daughter’s cheek with my own. My happy, relieved tears dampen her soft, dark locks as I breathe her in and whisper, “I love you, Eva Kay. Happy birthday, baby girl.”
---
Ten weeks after welcoming our first baby in to the world, Pat and I spend Valentine’s Day in Kansas City. As we sit at a bar in Power & Light, I text my mom.
I can’t do this. We can’t do this. Why are we here?
Her response lights up my phone a minute later.
You can do this together. Pretend she is here with us.
Back in the dark of our room, while Pat goes down to the bar for a drink, I walk over to the window. Pressing my forehead against the glass, I look at the moon and watch as it blurs.
“Why did you take her?” I whisper against the glass.
I say to the blurry, bright light, “Where did she go? Please show me…”
When the door opens to the return of my husband, I step away and turn back to the dark.
The next day, Pat and I stroll hand-in-hand through the Plaza; we don’t have a destination, but we walk together. After passing a few store fronts, my phone rings in my purse.
“Hi, Elizabeth,” the warm voice on the other end says. “I wanted to let you know that your application, physician referrals, and blood work have all been processed and you have been approved as a donor. We at the Mothers’ Milk Bank can’t thank you enough.”
As I thank the woman, hang up, and relay the conversation to Pat, my heart lifts for a moment. But later, as we drive away from Kansas City, I watch the gray sky and sink back.
I silently say to the passing clouds, it’s not enough.
---
“There’s the sun!” I exclaim to my squealing littles in the back seat. “I’m so happy it's come out!”
I turn the wipers down as Hope and I serenade a giggling Dean with a silly duet of “Oh Mr. Sun” on our way to the grocery store. Rain continues to lightly sprinkle the windshield as warm light fills the car.
At our next stop, I press my temple against the window and look up at the sky.
“Do you know what happens when the sun comes out when it’s raining?” I ask.
“It makes a rainbow!” Hope says happily.
“That’s right,” I say, as we both look around.
“I don’t see a rainbow, Mommy,” Hope says. I look in the rearview mirror and see her blue eyes peering up and out her window.
“I don’t either, darn it. But maybe there’s one somewhere that we just can’t see.”
---
Here in Omaha, fall has had a very wet start. Rainfall was recorded in nearly half of the days in September, and nine days in just the first two weeks of October; honestly, it’s been a mood dampener. But at the first sign of light bursting through the drops, I look up. I search for rainbows after the rain the way I search for butterflies in late-summer or baby deer in the spring or clouds with special shapes: persistently and with a belief that they can be the encouraging signs from Heaven that I seek.
That question… Where did she go? Please show me… is one that my Christian faith should answer for me. The same Jesus who said “let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 19:14) tells us that “our citizenship is in Heaven” where His “Father’s house has many rooms” (Phillipians 3:20-21). Like Samuel proclaims after the death of his baby, one day “I will go to [Eva], but [in this life she] will not return to me” (2 Samuel 12:23).
Faith requires us to have “confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1). Unfortunately, these words often feel like… not enough… when it comes to assuring me that my Eva is where I want her to be: alive and thriving in the arms of our Living God and the company of Heavenly angels. I rely on the Lord’s mercy in admitting this and believe that such a personal tragedy as the death of one’s child- and the journey onward- can understandably shake once-firm beliefs. I pray that His grace and mercy journey with me as I rebuild my faith and fight my fears.
During this rebuilding in our life with Eva, I reflect on where we’ve been. In those first devastating weeks and months of 2014, we received many well-meaning platitudes that I’ve had some time to ponder and realize are commonly shared with bereaved parents. Among the most confounding is any suggestion that there is “a reason” for a loss as shattering as the death of a child. There is not a reason, nor are there reasons that could justify the loss of a child to his or her parent.
Still, I reach for reasons like I reach for signs. I know no reason could justify the loss of more time in our Eva’s physical presence, but I do seek opportunities to honor her life: ways to perpetuate her legacy and share with the world the countless reasons that our daughter lived.
---
I steer my small Honda through torrents of rain as I drive downtown. After a morning of studying radar and orchestrating contingency plans, we and our helpers still head optimistically to the site of Eva’s Fifth and Final Life-Giving Memorial Walk. As we wait a while in the parking lot, that optimism washes away with the heavy, hard drops pelting our cars. Pat ultimately makes the call, and we head to Upstream in the Old Market. As I drive away from Miller’s Landing, the rain lightens and the sun tries to peek from behind the clouds.
“Great,” I say to my friend on the phone, as I wait at the light to turn regretfully out of the park. “We’re driving away and there’ll probably be a freaking rainbow.”
An hour later, we welcome our dear friends and family to the top floor of Upstream as the rain roars on the rooftop above our heads. It pours heavily and steadily, affirming our decision to move Eva’s Walk indoors. Though we don’t get to walk a couple miles over the pedestrian bridge or display donor signs, the rain provides a reason to gather more intimately. With delicious food and beverages, we still complete the raffle, distribute the t-shirts and MFA keepsakes, enjoy the butterfly cookies, display pictures of our firstborn, and share the good news that over the course of five years, Eva’s Walks have raised $34,000 for Eva’s Life-Giving Memorial fund and the Meningitis Foundation- a tremendous reason to be thankful.
I don’t wonder why it had to rain on the day of Eva’s final Walk because the celebration of her life and legacy— though different than how I anticipated— continues beautifully.
Indeed, when one friend arrived she said, “This is great. Seriously, this is great.” She gestured around— family, friends, Eva’s name— and said “the reason we do this is right here.”
---
Dozens of worries race through my mind at once, almost all of which concern my or Pat’s health, the safety of our family, and the wellness of our two little loves who are happily babbling in the back seat. My love for them is limitless. And that love paired with child loss has pitched an already-nervous person’s anxieties into consuming, full-blown fears. My anxiety was getting the best of me that week— the end of September of this year— and I’d prayed to God that He would send me a sign that everything was ok, that everything would be ok. Though an impressive sight to behold, I wasn’t convinced that the bald eagle I’d watched soar above Hope’s preschool that morning was anything more than a beautiful coincidence.
“Look, Mommy! A cement mixer!” Hope exclaims as we head to dance class.
“Uh huh,” I say, distracted as I picture devastating implications of imagined possibilities.
“Mommy, a school bus! There’s a school bus, Mommy.”
She launches into a sweet rendition of “Wheels on the Bus” that makes her brother laugh and join in “bah-, bah-, vroom, vroom…”
And then, just as I’m about to exit, she gasps. “Mommy!”
Something makes me look left.
And there’s a rainbow. An unmistakeable stripe of vibrant colors in the sky.
---
I laughed in that moment. My worries dissipated instantaneously as I processed the sight.
“That is a rainbow!” I said, smiling and astonished. “It’s not even raining! Hope, do you see that rainbow?”
The line of cars on the exit allowed me to keep checking back; it remained. As we went through the light and slowed to another stop, I snapped a quick picture before it could fade.
“Ok,” I said out loud. “Ok. I get it. Thank you. I see it. I see you.”
My concept of trust— that is, what it is to trust in Jesus— has changed significantly. When I was a stranger to personal tragedy, I couldn’t fully grasp the message that “God promises a safe landing, not a calm passage.” I have a better sense of this now, formed through trials greater than everyday challenges. I believe in the promise of salvation, and I know the Lord carried me through the storm of losing Eva. I can not claim that I kept moving forward without Jesus. He was absolutely present: the God of enduring love. Now, though, I fear another tragedy. If that could happen… what else? In the aftermath of a high-magnitude storm, a person has to recover, pick up the pieces, and rebuild, and though I can build a stronger structure, I can’t prevent bad from assailing it. And therein lies my persistent fears. Still, I will continue to pray for blessings and find joy in the bounty that surrounds me. As I rely on grace, it’s time to intentionally work on my foundation: more prayer, more scripture. I believe in a God who can meet you wherever you are, right now and right here.
---
As the calendar barrels toward the end of October, I know it’s coming: the increased snow falls, the holiday buzz, the festive activities. For Eva’s mama, an emotion-filled dichotomy persists between the joy-filled, magical exuberance of my two treasured little people, and the bitter void left by the loss of the one who is missing. Two of the most difficult days of the year permeate holiday cheer. December 9 is a birthday filled with what’s past rather than what’s present- every hour a memory. December 25 presents the juxtaposition of a familial, Holy holiday with a painful, haunting anniversary.
Five years ago, we hung pale pink letters, E - V - A, above the white crib in the nursery. The finishing touches were falling in to place: framed nursery rhyme art hung on the walls; the angel bear mobile arched over the crib; the white shelves waited, eager to add pictures and already collecting gifts; and the soft bunny blanket rested neatly over the chair. A couple months later we would rock in that chair, the wooden joints quietly creaking as we gazed at our daughter in our arms and softly sang along to the song of the mobile. Can you believe she's ours, our smiling eyes would say to each other, as we cradled her in the soft bunny blanket. Our Eva.
There’s no way to wrap up a story of a life lost so young. It is an unfinished chapter about which we will always mournfully wonder.
In February 2014, I met for the first time with a mama who came to help me find hope in a way that few others could, as a few years prior, she too had lost her firstborn to neonatal Meningitis.
“I’m so angry,” I said quietly, shivering in the warmth of that cafe, trying to ignore the baby being carried by in my peripheral vision. “It’s so unfair. I have so many questions for God.”
I shared with her the expression used by an acquaintance who lost a child in infancy: “that’s my number one.” As in, that’s my number one question for God when I meet Him. Why my baby?
“Oh,” she said, nodding in fervent understanding. “He and I will have words.”
Now, over the course of five years, I’ve come to wonder if, when I’m face to face with my Savior, I’ll feel any need to question Him. I imagine the Holy, mighty, and humble Jesus carrying my firstborn to me— my arms enveloping her wiggly warmth, as my daughter Eva and I meld back together.
And in the Kingdom of Heaven, it is more than enough.
Fat flakes fall outside the window as little mouths breathe halos on the pane. It is only October 14th, and Omaha watches as a sudden weather front drops heavy, wet powder. The children in the nursery, my two beloved included, stare in hushed awe as the sparkling snow blankets the church garden in white. The first snow of the season excites for many reasons: sledding, snowman-building, fireplace-cuddling, to name a few. The falling flakes usher in, too, the anticipation of winter holidays. But as I watch the snow fall, I think— with a familiar sense of dread and sadness— it’s coming.
---
“You could have a Christmas baby,” my friend says when I disclose our December 19th due date.
“I know. We should have planned that better,” I say, smiling. “I keep thinking that must be hard on a kid, to have his birthday so close to Christmas.”
She shrugs. “You never know- maybe baby will wait even longer and come on New Year’s Eve. Or your anniversary!”
I smile again- excited and unknowing. “Time will tell.”
Six months later, lit by the carriage light on the front of our house, I pose for the last “bump” picture with my wool coat’s sash wrapped tightly above my 39-week tummy. It is December 9th at 5:30 in the morning and 0 degrees. Our warming car idles in the freshly-scooped driveway as Pat quickly steps over and puts his arm around my shoulders, holding the camera out to take our picture: two young parents, smiling in the early morning frost, as they prepare to head to the hospital to meet their first baby. With packed bags in the trunk, we’re as prepared as we can be to welcome new life and navigate an anticipated series of complex medical steps with our child.
That evening, after a couple hours of rest and several more of vomiting in to a series of those plastic blue sleeves, I slide, nauseated but determined, in to a wheelchair to see our daughter for only the second time since she was shown to me— wiggling, screaming, strong, beautiful— from around the blue surgical drape. As I lay on the table being put back together, Pat left with our baby and her medical team. He reported all things amazing through text and picture messages: a surprising, full head of dark hair; perfectly pink-red rosebud lips; a healthy eight pounds; champion Apgar scores. My bed had been wheeled to her room after I’d spent the required recovery time in observation, but my moment of holding her then, while invaluably memorable, was incredibly brief.
As Pat pushes the wheelchair through the unit, I have a moment to notice the sweet stickers adorning the sliding glass door of our baby’s private room: sparkles, girly cupcake, and pink letters. Eva. Shortly after entering the room, Eva is passed from her isolette to her waiting mama, and my arms envelop her wiggly warmth. My daughter and I meld back together, her cords and IV present but unobtrusive. We spend the next hours learning to nurse, sharing sweet snuggles, singing and rocking, and taking pictures as a family of three.
Before I have to return to my room for some rest, I touch my daughter’s cheek with my own. My happy, relieved tears dampen her soft, dark locks as I breathe her in and whisper, “I love you, Eva Kay. Happy birthday, baby girl.”
---
Ten weeks after welcoming our first baby in to the world, Pat and I spend Valentine’s Day in Kansas City. As we sit at a bar in Power & Light, I text my mom.
I can’t do this. We can’t do this. Why are we here?
Her response lights up my phone a minute later.
You can do this together. Pretend she is here with us.
Back in the dark of our room, while Pat goes down to the bar for a drink, I walk over to the window. Pressing my forehead against the glass, I look at the moon and watch as it blurs.
“Why did you take her?” I whisper against the glass.
I say to the blurry, bright light, “Where did she go? Please show me…”
When the door opens to the return of my husband, I step away and turn back to the dark.
The next day, Pat and I stroll hand-in-hand through the Plaza; we don’t have a destination, but we walk together. After passing a few store fronts, my phone rings in my purse.
“Hi, Elizabeth,” the warm voice on the other end says. “I wanted to let you know that your application, physician referrals, and blood work have all been processed and you have been approved as a donor. We at the Mothers’ Milk Bank can’t thank you enough.”
As I thank the woman, hang up, and relay the conversation to Pat, my heart lifts for a moment. But later, as we drive away from Kansas City, I watch the gray sky and sink back.
I silently say to the passing clouds, it’s not enough.
---
“There’s the sun!” I exclaim to my squealing littles in the back seat. “I’m so happy it's come out!”
I turn the wipers down as Hope and I serenade a giggling Dean with a silly duet of “Oh Mr. Sun” on our way to the grocery store. Rain continues to lightly sprinkle the windshield as warm light fills the car.
At our next stop, I press my temple against the window and look up at the sky.
“Do you know what happens when the sun comes out when it’s raining?” I ask.
“It makes a rainbow!” Hope says happily.
“That’s right,” I say, as we both look around.
“I don’t see a rainbow, Mommy,” Hope says. I look in the rearview mirror and see her blue eyes peering up and out her window.
“I don’t either, darn it. But maybe there’s one somewhere that we just can’t see.”
---
Here in Omaha, fall has had a very wet start. Rainfall was recorded in nearly half of the days in September, and nine days in just the first two weeks of October; honestly, it’s been a mood dampener. But at the first sign of light bursting through the drops, I look up. I search for rainbows after the rain the way I search for butterflies in late-summer or baby deer in the spring or clouds with special shapes: persistently and with a belief that they can be the encouraging signs from Heaven that I seek.
That question… Where did she go? Please show me… is one that my Christian faith should answer for me. The same Jesus who said “let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 19:14) tells us that “our citizenship is in Heaven” where His “Father’s house has many rooms” (Phillipians 3:20-21). Like Samuel proclaims after the death of his baby, one day “I will go to [Eva], but [in this life she] will not return to me” (2 Samuel 12:23).
Faith requires us to have “confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1). Unfortunately, these words often feel like… not enough… when it comes to assuring me that my Eva is where I want her to be: alive and thriving in the arms of our Living God and the company of Heavenly angels. I rely on the Lord’s mercy in admitting this and believe that such a personal tragedy as the death of one’s child- and the journey onward- can understandably shake once-firm beliefs. I pray that His grace and mercy journey with me as I rebuild my faith and fight my fears.
During this rebuilding in our life with Eva, I reflect on where we’ve been. In those first devastating weeks and months of 2014, we received many well-meaning platitudes that I’ve had some time to ponder and realize are commonly shared with bereaved parents. Among the most confounding is any suggestion that there is “a reason” for a loss as shattering as the death of a child. There is not a reason, nor are there reasons that could justify the loss of a child to his or her parent.
Still, I reach for reasons like I reach for signs. I know no reason could justify the loss of more time in our Eva’s physical presence, but I do seek opportunities to honor her life: ways to perpetuate her legacy and share with the world the countless reasons that our daughter lived.
---
I steer my small Honda through torrents of rain as I drive downtown. After a morning of studying radar and orchestrating contingency plans, we and our helpers still head optimistically to the site of Eva’s Fifth and Final Life-Giving Memorial Walk. As we wait a while in the parking lot, that optimism washes away with the heavy, hard drops pelting our cars. Pat ultimately makes the call, and we head to Upstream in the Old Market. As I drive away from Miller’s Landing, the rain lightens and the sun tries to peek from behind the clouds.
“Great,” I say to my friend on the phone, as I wait at the light to turn regretfully out of the park. “We’re driving away and there’ll probably be a freaking rainbow.”
An hour later, we welcome our dear friends and family to the top floor of Upstream as the rain roars on the rooftop above our heads. It pours heavily and steadily, affirming our decision to move Eva’s Walk indoors. Though we don’t get to walk a couple miles over the pedestrian bridge or display donor signs, the rain provides a reason to gather more intimately. With delicious food and beverages, we still complete the raffle, distribute the t-shirts and MFA keepsakes, enjoy the butterfly cookies, display pictures of our firstborn, and share the good news that over the course of five years, Eva’s Walks have raised $34,000 for Eva’s Life-Giving Memorial fund and the Meningitis Foundation- a tremendous reason to be thankful.
I don’t wonder why it had to rain on the day of Eva’s final Walk because the celebration of her life and legacy— though different than how I anticipated— continues beautifully.
Indeed, when one friend arrived she said, “This is great. Seriously, this is great.” She gestured around— family, friends, Eva’s name— and said “the reason we do this is right here.”
---
Dozens of worries race through my mind at once, almost all of which concern my or Pat’s health, the safety of our family, and the wellness of our two little loves who are happily babbling in the back seat. My love for them is limitless. And that love paired with child loss has pitched an already-nervous person’s anxieties into consuming, full-blown fears. My anxiety was getting the best of me that week— the end of September of this year— and I’d prayed to God that He would send me a sign that everything was ok, that everything would be ok. Though an impressive sight to behold, I wasn’t convinced that the bald eagle I’d watched soar above Hope’s preschool that morning was anything more than a beautiful coincidence.
“Look, Mommy! A cement mixer!” Hope exclaims as we head to dance class.
“Uh huh,” I say, distracted as I picture devastating implications of imagined possibilities.
“Mommy, a school bus! There’s a school bus, Mommy.”
She launches into a sweet rendition of “Wheels on the Bus” that makes her brother laugh and join in “bah-, bah-, vroom, vroom…”
And then, just as I’m about to exit, she gasps. “Mommy!”
Something makes me look left.
And there’s a rainbow. An unmistakeable stripe of vibrant colors in the sky.
---
I laughed in that moment. My worries dissipated instantaneously as I processed the sight.
“That is a rainbow!” I said, smiling and astonished. “It’s not even raining! Hope, do you see that rainbow?”
The line of cars on the exit allowed me to keep checking back; it remained. As we went through the light and slowed to another stop, I snapped a quick picture before it could fade.
“Ok,” I said out loud. “Ok. I get it. Thank you. I see it. I see you.”
My concept of trust— that is, what it is to trust in Jesus— has changed significantly. When I was a stranger to personal tragedy, I couldn’t fully grasp the message that “God promises a safe landing, not a calm passage.” I have a better sense of this now, formed through trials greater than everyday challenges. I believe in the promise of salvation, and I know the Lord carried me through the storm of losing Eva. I can not claim that I kept moving forward without Jesus. He was absolutely present: the God of enduring love. Now, though, I fear another tragedy. If that could happen… what else? In the aftermath of a high-magnitude storm, a person has to recover, pick up the pieces, and rebuild, and though I can build a stronger structure, I can’t prevent bad from assailing it. And therein lies my persistent fears. Still, I will continue to pray for blessings and find joy in the bounty that surrounds me. As I rely on grace, it’s time to intentionally work on my foundation: more prayer, more scripture. I believe in a God who can meet you wherever you are, right now and right here.
---
As the calendar barrels toward the end of October, I know it’s coming: the increased snow falls, the holiday buzz, the festive activities. For Eva’s mama, an emotion-filled dichotomy persists between the joy-filled, magical exuberance of my two treasured little people, and the bitter void left by the loss of the one who is missing. Two of the most difficult days of the year permeate holiday cheer. December 9 is a birthday filled with what’s past rather than what’s present- every hour a memory. December 25 presents the juxtaposition of a familial, Holy holiday with a painful, haunting anniversary.
Five years ago, we hung pale pink letters, E - V - A, above the white crib in the nursery. The finishing touches were falling in to place: framed nursery rhyme art hung on the walls; the angel bear mobile arched over the crib; the white shelves waited, eager to add pictures and already collecting gifts; and the soft bunny blanket rested neatly over the chair. A couple months later we would rock in that chair, the wooden joints quietly creaking as we gazed at our daughter in our arms and softly sang along to the song of the mobile. Can you believe she's ours, our smiling eyes would say to each other, as we cradled her in the soft bunny blanket. Our Eva.
There’s no way to wrap up a story of a life lost so young. It is an unfinished chapter about which we will always mournfully wonder.
In February 2014, I met for the first time with a mama who came to help me find hope in a way that few others could, as a few years prior, she too had lost her firstborn to neonatal Meningitis.
“I’m so angry,” I said quietly, shivering in the warmth of that cafe, trying to ignore the baby being carried by in my peripheral vision. “It’s so unfair. I have so many questions for God.”
I shared with her the expression used by an acquaintance who lost a child in infancy: “that’s my number one.” As in, that’s my number one question for God when I meet Him. Why my baby?
“Oh,” she said, nodding in fervent understanding. “He and I will have words.”
Now, over the course of five years, I’ve come to wonder if, when I’m face to face with my Savior, I’ll feel any need to question Him. I imagine the Holy, mighty, and humble Jesus carrying my firstborn to me— my arms enveloping her wiggly warmth, as my daughter Eva and I meld back together.
And in the Kingdom of Heaven, it is more than enough.