Sweet Flicker I know deep in my soul that it was your time to pass on from this Earth. Your body had been fighting the good fight for so long, and I know you passed without any pain. For what I now understand to be selfish reasons I wanted to carry you longer; to give you more time to grow; to meet you alive at birth. But I now know those outcomes would have very likely led to your pain and suffering, which of course I would have never wanted. All at once I feel both cheated and relieved. Cheated of the time I so desperately wanted; relieved about the time I was not granted. That’s what hindsight allows, I suppose.
Likewise I sit here and write after taking an afternoon walk with your dad on this sunny day, praising His provision in keeping me safe during your delivery despite so many opportunities for things to go wrong. Our walk was long – nearly three miles – which given I birthed you less than a week ago is nothing short of a miracle. It was nearly guaranteed that I was to have a complicated surgery. I had no surgery. It was assumed my labor would stretch for days. You came within a matter of hours. I like to envision you and God sitting together watching over me during your birth, keeping me safe.
Your dad and I have a great many things for which to be thankful, but I will admit it’s hard to give thanks when our grief over you is still so raw. I know we will get there, but this silence, sweet Flicker, is just haunting me in these early days of missing you.
The silence from the home heart monitor on Wednesday morning.
The silence between your dad and I as we drove to the doctor to confirm our fears.
The silence that followed the wailing as we collected your things from our home – blanket, lovie, much-too-large hat – and drove to the hospital for your birth.
The silence of your arrival when we ached for your cries.
The silence of our drive home on Thursday afternoon, an acute emptiness suffocating all words.
And now, the prolonged silence in our home in place of your noises – cries, coos, grunts, laughs – replaced instead by the heavy weight of your absence.
I know, sweet Flicker, that your dad and I will eventually adjust to this silence. Lord willing, this silence will someday be filled with the sound of family. In the meantime, I can absolutely give thanks for these warm, sunny days, the shade of my front porch, and the sounds of the birds and wind that help break up all this silence.
6 thoughts on “Adjusting to the Silence”
I’m so sorry Kari and for your and DP’s loss. I know in my heart that you will, indeed, hear the sounds of a baby’s laugh in the very near future. God bless you both and Sweet Flicker.
Kari and DP – You don’t know me well, but I am so saddened to learn about you losing your sweet baby boy. This blog is a beautiful record of his life here, and I admire your strength in documenting this journey. In remembering that silence for us, I cherish knowing mourned and still mourns with us. I hope you feel the nearness of God and the love of the community around you, even in these dark and quiet moments.
Kari and DP – You don’t know me well, but I am so saddened to learn about you losing your sweet baby boy. This blog is a beautiful record of his life here, and I admire your strength in documenting this journey. In remembering that silence for us, I cherish knowing God mourned and still mourns with us. I hope you feel the nearness of God and the love of the community around you, even in these dark and quiet moments.
Hi Kari and DP, Erick and I are heartbroken for you, and will pray for God’s comfort for you as you heal physically and emotionally. Flicker was blessed to have such loving parents.
I sit here with tears. I’m just a member of your church family, and you probably don’t know me. But I want to thank you for the strength and generosity in documenting this passage of your journey. “Groanings too deep for words” — that’s what I have, and offer in prayer for you. I’m so sorry. The Spirit of God be with you.
Dear Kari & DP ~ I only just recently found out about both your pregnancy and your loss. I am so, so very sorry, my dear friends. I want you to know that I spent some time last evening lifting up your family before the throne of God. My prayer for you is that God would strengthen you through this, bringing new life out of death. Know that God is with you and longs to draw near to you in this time. “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)