This isn’t how I pictured spending my December. It’s 2 days before Christmas and instead of reveling in the magic of the newborn stage, we had your funeral. After you were born, we had one day with you. One glorious, perfect day before everything changed. Then we spent the next 5 days in hospitals with you hooked up to monitors and machines, not knowing if you would make it another day.
Your daddy and I have seen things no parent should have to see. But here’s the thing, son- we were never alone. Emmanuel. God with us. He was with us the entire time and He has given us everything we need to survive this, gifts that only He could provide.
Strength- as we walked through hospital hallways and looked into your doctor’s eyes when the words they spoke were every parent’s worst nightmare.
Peace- as we watched you take your final breath and slip away from us, into the arms of Jesus.
Joy- to get out of bed every morning, to carry on for your siblings and create memories with them this holiday season.
Faith- to know that even when we don’t understand, we can trust in the Lord’s plan and know that He works all things together for good according to His purpose.
Comfort- in our darkest moments, when the pain is so unbearable, we can physically feel it in our chests and stomachs.
Love- His tender mercies that have been sprinkled all around us throughout this entire journey, often times through the kindness of others.
And finally, Hope- the hope we have in Jesus and the promise of heaven.
This Christmas, in the midst of heartbreak, I still have a reason to celebrate. This isn’t how I pictured spending my December, with you in heaven on your first Christmas, but still, I rejoice. I celebrate that baby in the manger, the man on the cross, and the hope we have because of Him.
Thank you for opening my eyes to this, sweet boy. This is, perhaps, the greatest gift you’ve given me through your life and death. I will see you again, my darling boy. I love you forever.