I had all sorts of plans for Sarah's fifth birthday. None of them seemed to have come out as planned. The snow on her grave is far too high to even walk through. We couldn't see her marker at all. I forgot the flowers, not that they'd have been any good. I didn't make a cake.
We did drive out. I did get cupcakes. I have thought about her all day, forcing myself to hold on the memories that seem to dim a little more every year. What exactly did her skin feel like? What did that soap smell like that they used to bathe her? Just how did her face look as I held her tiny body? If it weren't for pictures, I might have forgotten totally.
I thought about her delivery earlier. It was not a difficult delivery physically. But it was hardly a normal birth. And when I really think about it, it feels traumatic. Like my soul was rent with her loss.
I have children to bathe, pajamas to put on, stories to read. But all I want to do is climb in bed, roll over, and hope that tomorrow comes fast. You'd think after five years, her birthday wouldn't hit me quite this hard. But then again, maybe I'm entitled to one day a year when I can indulge my grief a little bit?
Most of the time I am comforted with the knowledge that she is not in pain. I'm soothed by the idea that in heaven she has been made whole, and that I'll get to see her again. Most days, I am not at all crippled by the loss of her. But today her absence is everywhere. Today I can see in my mind, the dream I had for my three little girls. Today she is missing and I feel it acutely.
I believe in the promise that death can not permanently separate us from the ones we love. That said, even Jesus mourned the loss of Lazarus when He knew he was about to raise him from the dead. And today, with all my hope and comfort, today I mourn for my daughter who should be here, but is not.
I miss you, Sarah.