One Lost.

Over the past year,

in moments when I've felt emotions

that I can only express through writing out

or a brief flit of unashamed honesty...

I've typed out the story of my delivery

to share on here with you.

But, to be honest, it's just a lot for a blog post...

and I feel a bit weird 

putting the most painful moment of my life

out on the internet

for anyone to stare at.

If I thought it might help someone 

in any was possible, I would...

but our situation was so tragically unique

that I don't have to worry that it might happen 

to anyone else by me not raising awareness.

If I ever see you in person

and you want to talk about it,

I'll explain it to you then...

But because when I do meet blog readers

and I realize how little I have exactly shared,

I do want to share a few things with you

that can help you understand things a bit more...

First, our daughter was not miscarried, nor was she stillborn.

We didn't find out that anything was "wrong" with her before delivery, 

and we didn't expect anything other than two healthy daughters.

She was full-term. She was born, lived, and she died when she was two days old.

To our surprise, she was Viola's identical twin sister...

and she was prettier than we could have ever imagined our chid could be. 

Today, you would know her as Evelyn...

And the combination of our two daughters

would leave us exhausted, broke, homebound...

and stuck with the feeling that we were

 the luckiest people to have ever lived.

.  .  .

I'm not sure how you're supposed to write

about the first anniversary

of your daughter's death,

but here I find myself trying to do it justice.

I'm sure there are other people who have done it

that could offer an example to me,

but you can't replicate the words of anyone else

when you find yourself in a moment like this.

So, in the name of nothing going as we had planned

and in the hope of everything ultimately working out for good,

I can only offer these words a year out:

I miss my daughter. 

I miss the year that has passed without her,

and I mourn the years ahead that will slip quietly by

without her in them.

But I cling to the hope that God's love is greater

and that this world is fleeting.

In a moment like this, I realize

that what other hope can we have?

.  .  .

I'd also like to say thank you.

Thank for you being there with us.

Not only did you buffer the awkwardness 

of sharing with the internet

that your delivery went terrible and you lost a child,

but you responded in the kindest of ways.

You poured out thoughtfulness through your words,

you eased the hurt with meals and gifts,

you connected with others behind the scenes

to relentlessly show us how much you cared.

You taught me how to love those who hurt,

and I hope to never forget it.

But most importantly,

thank you for celebrating our daughter's life

and grieving our daughter's death.

Your interest and compassion give significance to her life.

As her parents who endlessly grieve such a short end,

there's no greater gift that can be given 

than the one you have offered 

through acknowledging her life and it's value.

From the bottom of my heart,

thanks.