I feel like I’ve reached the first plateau in a series of scaling mountains. And this mountain range that I’m currently climbing is the unfortunate range called Grief.
Hitting the 7 month mark since Goldie died feels like an accomplishment, like I survived the steepest, darkest, most dangerous part of the climb to somehow find myself able to take a rest on a sunlit, flat meadow surrounded by the safety of trees. I can breathe in this place. I can sleep here. I can regain my energy for the rest of the climb—the climb that I will make for the rest of my life.
Grief doesn’t really have an ending point or final destination, especially when I always hope to get a little choked up when thinking about my baby girl—even when I’m old and grey. I enjoy missing her, talking about her, thinking about her little eyes that stared into mine for those 40 minutes that her heart beat outside of my womb. But on this 7 month plateau, I feel different than I did last month.
I feel a deep, lasting peace.
Experiencing peace after death doesn’t mean that I don’t look at her pictures without tears dropping like raindrops from my chin. It doesn’t mean that I’m void of pain or absent of anger—or that I will ever move on from the daily longing to hold my daughter close.
What it does mean, is that after the tsunami of death crashed onto my heart and retreated back out to sea, leaving piles of rubble and destruction in its wake, I’ve finally cleared enough of mess to build a little shelter. And inside that little shelter, I’m starting to feel normal again. Yes, there are things about my life that still need to be rebuilt, but I have a hunch that the rebuilding of my heart up until this point has a lot to do with my little Goldie.
Because at this very moment, my baby girl is apart of the great cloud of witnesses—and I believe she is praying for my healing.
What a beautiful picture of a daughter interceding for her family—the family she will one day be reunited with. What a beautiful moment to think about Goldie praying for my future, for my hope, for my heart to be restored. My little Luca is praying at this very moment for her Daddy, for our marriage, for her brother Moses and her grandparents, aunties, uncle, and family still on earth. She prays for me every day because she loves me—the only mother she will ever have. And our temporary difference in location will never change or separate our love for one another.
Every time I open my mouth to worship, we sing a duet together in adoration. Every time I stop and praise Jesus for his faithfulness and goodness, I see us cheering in unison—bowing low with the deepest affection. But instead of being a mother blessed with the opportunity to raise my daughter—teaching her the ropes of life, and educating her about the world, at this very moment….
She is instead teaching me.
She is teaching me how to dance on the feet of the Father, the way she is dancing.
She is teaching me how to belly laugh with Jesus, the way she is laughing.
She is teaching me how to pull the Comforter close, the way she pulls Him close.
When I think about her worship, her prayers, her peace and her joy, my little Goldie is teaching me to live in the realm of heaven while I’m still breathing on this earth.
Things didn’t exactly turn out as my mother heart had planned. My plan was for my daughter to hold onto my hand on my deathbed. My plan was for her to be there as my heart beat its last, and not the other way around. But just because things didn’t turn out like I wanted doesn’t mean I have to spend my life without my daughter….
Because at this very moment, I am seated in heavenly places……and so is she. (Ephesians 2)
I miss you, baby girl. Mommy misses you every day, and yet still, I feel you so close. Thank you for teaching me what it means to love deeper than a million oceans. Thank you for praying for me every day, for believing for my healing, and for hoping for the moment that we will once again hold onto each other….
Forever and ever.