Not Now, Not Ever: Evelyn's Birthday Lament

On the occasion of marking my Granddaughter Evelyn's first birthday, I find I am compelled to the honesty of Psalm 88, the only lament in Scripture that does not resolve back into God-directed orientation and praise.  

My commitment in writing and posting is always to uplift and encourage and point to hope.  That does not change with this piece.  

But today I leave room to be in pain.  To acknowledge and affirm the pain of my Daughter and her family, and of course my own pain.  To stand in solidarity with other families, other Grandmothers who have lost a child to stillbirth, or lost a child at all.

If you are not up to honest lament today, stop reading now.  Don't read this today, or don't read it ever.  That's okay.  We're all managing our harshness-intake right now, with good reason.  I understand.

I call out to some good poetry, wrenched from my gramma-grieving heart, that might catch in the throat and somehow make palpable untouchable pain.

But it won't come.

I guess because it's untouchable.

There are some things one dare not try to make sense of.  This is one of them.  The holding of a tiny, perfect, newborn baby girl, wishing with all anguish that she would take a shuddering breath, open her eyes and let us know there's been a horrid mistake, but she doesn't, she lies still.

That wretched stillness of that night!  And silence.   A too-quiet birthing.  A shattering, hope-threatening loss.

No soft, poetic way to put this.

I hate that we're marking a year of the harshness of not having Evelyn.

With all I am, I hate it.

A separation too much to bear, like walking barefoot on glass, but you have to keep walking.  You have to keep moving through the months, getting punched in the gut on the third of every one of them, until you get to this.  Her birthday.  Her deathday.

And if you are the Gramma, you have to watch as your Daughter lives this pain, helpless to protect her, make it go away, because it doesn't.

And right now I can't hold her.

So that's the next thing I hate.

I hate that we're having to do mark this day during the over riding harshness of an insidious microscopic menace that won't let me hold my Daughter.

And there it is.  The only thing I can think of that would make this day in any way barely tolerable is if I could hold on to her.  She is my baby girl after all.

And there it is.

That's the thing.

She can't hold her baby girl.
And neither can I.

And we stand six feet apart - not holding, not touching.
And it's so not okay.

And I think there's nothing for it but to let it be what it is.
And to feel it.
And to let this rock us.
Because it's supposed to.

No one can ever let it be okay that they held a dead baby in their arms.

And yes I know there is a bigger story here.
And if I glance up and out past this a little bit I can already see it.
In fact, I've seen Evelyn's brief time with us prompt things redemptive and strong already, in ways only God could make possible.
I know He's here with us, wrapping Himself around us when we can't do that for each other.
He must be, because otherwise how are we still standing?

But I also know He's not rushing this.
He's here is this moment with us, this moment of anguish.
This birthday of such pain.

Evelyn, it will never, never be okay that you're not with us.
Not until we can dance with you, anyways.
Not as long as we need to go to where your magnolia tree is planted in order to sing to you.
Not now, not ever are we okay.

This is the cost of loving you.

You are so worth it, baby girl.