Every day since my best friend got pregnant I have become a master researcher in all things pregnancy, babies, baby safety, baby parties and Jesus. Especially Jesus, because I was appointed God Mother.

In fact, I downloaded one of those baby apps just to see what size her baby was every week. I often think back in amazement on how he started out the size of a sprinkle on a donut. At the start of the week I would send a text message. “Do you want to know how big baby is this week?” One week I even sent her a strawberry shirt to lounge in with a note, “This week baby is a strawberry! I am so berry excited!”

You see, I take my role very seriously because I am not having children of my own. Being invited to take part in such an important piece of a tiny human’s journey (their relationship with Papa Dios) has been the #1 privilege of my life.

In April we received a fatal diagnosis for my God Son that would result in almost instantaneous loss at his birth. In that moment I realized my role would be abridged. I had to shift my focus to getting him to heaven alongside my greatest friends of all and praying over all of this new, terrible and terrifying journey.

My God Son was born into heaven this August.

I cannot ever accurately put into words the grief associated with watching someone you love so much being coping with the loss of their own baby. The grief of months of preparation and planning and future building that seem to come to an abrupt end. The grief that ripples through the entire family.

The Rail Ride of Grief

It’s as if you’re on a train and you can’t get off of the train no matter how many stops it makes before yours. No matter how much speed it gains, time spend in holding on the side rails or how many stops it makes at places you would rather go instead, you’re stuck in the train car, watching through the windows, until your stop.

At some point it feels like you may never get off the train.

Until all of a sudden you do, you’re at the station. You have approximately 10 seconds to gather your bags and jump off all the while you find yourself pushed onto the platform instead. When you look back the train is gone. When you look down you’ve left most of your luggage.

At the station it seems like nothing you could have packed would have prepared you anyways, the weather is both too hot and too cold, it’s raining hard but the sun is out. You expected to find someone waiting for you, but they’re not here. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way home or call an Uber.

In my case, I decided I’d rather walk. We all know how unpredictable ride sharing can be.

Unused Furniture

If I’m honest with myself, every time I walk in my garage I cry just a little. At our house we prepared for our friends to not have to travel with much for us to spend time with them and Daniel. There is a little white high chair alongside all my stray boxes and decor. The chair gathers dust while it waits for him, while we all wait for him. He will never sit in it and that is something someone can never truly wrap their heart around.

Since August it is as if a part of my brain has been on hold. Waiting as well and gathering dust while we all wait for him. Hoping for the missing piece in our lives to click into place from somewhere. Perhaps holding to unload the new sadness that often feels like a case of broken celebratory champagne bottles in my heart. Maybe for answers or understanding, but I know some things pass all understanding.

A Healthy Respect for the Ocean

I have spent this past week on a cruise ship with my husband and our dear friends.

Each time I get on a boat I repeat to myself, “I have a healthy respect for the ocean.” As in, I’m not afraid of the ocean, but I’m aware of its depths, occasional roughness and its role as home to very large animals.

During this trip, while I look out at the vast, blue, deep ocean, I think of my own God Mother and how I throw up a hang loose sign just for her in all my photos while I enjoy life just as she instructed me to while she was on Earth with us. I think of Daniel, who I will not experience these things with on Earth.

I’ve also spent my fair share of time in the ocean while exploring. Just this week I kissed a stingray equal in size to myself and snorkeled a beautiful underwater national park.

The Beach of Grief

I rounded out my ocean time on one of my favorite private beaches. I find myself thinking that, over time, maybe grief can be like a beach.

The waves can be the overwhelming moments of grief with ebbs of everyday life, the sand at shore can be the happy moments or ways I cope or people who have loved me through these experiences, I will be just beyond the breaking wave on the soft sand and my sadness can remain the broken glass.

Some days, I know the grief will form in huge swells and my sadness will slam over the sand, my support system. The glass will spill over onto me where I sit on the land causing even more pain, but the tide will come back up again and take the glass back out into the waters.

Over time, the sharp, broken edges of my sadness will be worn away and whittled down into smoothness by the shores I’ve built. The memories of this sadness will hurt when they hurtle at full speed into the sand, but they will be more beautiful to remember and cherish, just like sea glass.

Today I am reminded that our darkest sadness and the brightest joys coexist every day in our temporary home on Earth. I am also reminded of the promise that one day we will all be together again without sadness or pain in our true home heaven. I take comfort in God’s promise to us. I give my sadness over to Jesus for him to turn into sea glass.

“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4

XOXO,

NBNealie