Weeping Willow

We bought this weeping willow tree in 1998.

I'm the one that bought it, although most of our purchases do involve a "we."

It was intended to be a birthday present for my husband's 

thirty-fifth birthday. A week before the big day, 

I bought and stashed it behind the shed, knowing I had found the

 perfect gift - a tree he had always admired and wanted.

 But on his birthday, our third child was lost to miscarriage. 

The tree was forgotten, left without a second thought in its hiding place.

 I confess that I mourned the loss deeply. I felt it was the death of one of our children, 

and not simply a miss, a mistake, or a random biological course correction. 

Even though I never inhaled the scent of that child or smoothed a perfect cheek, 

she was born in my heart as soon as the murky blue lines indicated  positive. 

From that very moment, my unborn child smiled and cooed in my imagination, 

and I already knew how her tiny form would fit in the crook of my arm. 

The physical body of a child may not be fully formed at twelve weeks gestation, 

but the hopes and dreams of her mother are already spun deep and wide.

By Father's Day, three weeks after his birthday, I was still blurry with aching. 

Somehow, I remembered the tree and pulled it out of its hiding spot to

 serve as the gift of the day. 

Planting that tree together as a deliberate memorial 

was the single most healing thing we did. Because of that tree, 

our child will not be forgotten, and I am continually reminded to HOPE.

It's a step I would encourage any mother experiencing loss to take.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Psalm 30:5b

* something special here

Willow Spring

I have curly willow  sprouting on my dining room buffet. 

So I KNOW it must be spring.

Even though outside, snow is blowing in almost white-out conditions, if only for this one hour.

The unselfish gifts of a fellow gardener are much to be treasured.

These branches came from a generous cousin who just happened to have pruners in his back 

pocket. As with all garden plants that have come to me as 'slips', 'cuttings' or 'handfuls', 

every time I look at the growing version in my yard, I'll be reminded of the giver.

What could be better? 

(Except that fellow who gave me pink primrose. He wasn't a friend, 

though, and the plants were for sale, but this is the only plant

 that I've ever really wished I'd never seen.

Makes sense, I guess.)

We have an old fashioned weeping willow in our front yard already, but

it hasn't sprouted any tender leaves - not yet. I'm watching, though,  for those light green, 

tiny leaves that carry so much emotional weight for me. That special tree is a living memorial, 

marking the life and death of one precious hope. The new pearl-like buds of a willow 

returning to life in the spring reassure me that there is New Life to be anticipated by all His 

children. 

We need not mourn without hope!

December 26th

Today was pajama day.  

All Day Long

I loved it - my first true day off in weeks.

In my heart, though, today was a due date. 

You know, I don't remember the due dates of my boys. I think I almost hit the actual due date for My Oldest. Maybe I missed it by one day? The others, I know I missed, since none of  those man-babies seemed to want to leave the cozy womb, staying inside long enough to make me groan in anticipation, 

and a little bit of misery.

But I think due dates get erased, or at least smudged,  from memory when the actual, joy-filled,  birth-date occurs. When no birth-day comes, the due date remains, representing all that was hoped for, all that was dreamed. 

So every December 26th, I nod to myself, remembering, and again agreeing with Him that all is well. 

I find myself willing those dreams into the safety of His hand once again, knowing that there is a future, and a hope, 

because He promised. 

The Willow's Pearls

" The Willow Has Put On Her Pearls "

In early spring, the willows are the first trees to show their leaves, I believe. They catch my eye on every drive! Tiny, bright leaves on long, thin branches - it looks like every willow has put on lovely green pearls just in time to step into the spring celebration.

The willow in our front yard was intended to be a surprise anniversary/birthday gift for My Wonderful Husband in 1998. But instead, it turned out to be a memorial tree for our child lost to miscarriage. When I walk under its graceful branches, I think of that Dear One waiting for us in heaven and thank God. We'll meet her (?) one day, Over There - will she be wearing pearls?

Blooming on the Other Side

Look how this hydrangea has one bloom poking through the fence to bloom  on the other side.  Here comes an unexpected transition for you - We lost a baby through miscarriage back in 1998. While I wasn't very far along in my pregnancy, it was a loss of epic proportions for everyone in my little family, and I went down with it for a while. 

It was such a surprise that so many women I knew had also experienced this same sort of loss, so, unhappily, I had lots of support. Not a sisterhood I had wanted to join ...  I read a couple of books, had my hand held by the sisterhood, and asked "why" of my Lord. This passing was a refining fire for me, particularly in the "why" arena, a former favorite of mine. 

Some dear soul shared a pass-along story that makes this photo special even today. A mom who had suffered loss through miscarriage, busy trimming her roses some months later,  noticed some buds had slipped between the rails to bloom in the front yard. God whispered comfort to her--that her baby was blooming on the other side, in eternity. 

This simple story really spoke to me, and I've carried it around for eleven garden seasons now. That loss seems like so long ago now, and sometimes I worry that I don't think of that child enough. A person should be remembered well. But every summer, some plant manages to bloom on the other side of a fence for me, prompting thoughts of our little one blooming in heaven, on the other side of this life. Now it makes me smile instead of weep--lots of smiles every summer.

"...you will not grieve like people who have no hope". 1 Thess. 4:13b

The Hidden Angel

1 Corinthians 13:12 "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known."

Each of our sons has an angel ornament for the Christmas tree. The year of their birth is written in permanent marker on the feet, bum or wing of their angel and each is playing a different musical instrument. Every year when it's tree trimming time, they look for their personal angel to put on the tree. Even if it's the ONLY ornament they decide to participate with, they search out these.  

We were all expecting a new baby to come to our family way back in 1998, with a predicted birth date of December 26!  What an exciting due date!  I was thrilled when given this date by the OB! But in the summer, this little one flew away to heaven early, and we didn't meet him that Christmas ten years ago now.  I can't believe such a terribly painful thing, one of the great trials of my life and faith, can fit into one sentence.  It takes up hardly any room at all on the screen!  Amazing.

When Christmas finally came in 1998, we needed some way to include the wee person who now made heaven such a longed-for place.  So I bought this tiny angel to represent him. Every year, one of us, usually me, finds her and wedges her inside the tree branches.  Whoever cares for the special angel ornament says something like, "Here's the Hidden Angel!  We'll see him someday!" The announcement somehow keeps Our Hidden Child's place. She's hidden from us, by the branches of the tree, by the bounds of this world, but we really will meet her someday. I like to pretend that the little angel can watch us from the cozy, safe inside of the tree. Maybe our son or daughter looks down on us occasionally, too - safe and sound in the Savior's arms!