I remember the delicate medley of excitement and fear as we arrived at my doctor's office and sat in the waiting room. I remember climbing onto that awkwardly uncomfortable sterile bed in preparation for our first ultrasound. I remember feeling the warm ointment as the doctor squeezed it onto my belly. I remember looking away from the screen for fear of my worst nightmare coming to fruition - until the doctor said with reassuring words, "There's your baby."
Then...I remember watching her as if she was searching for something that could not be found, and I vividly remember the overwhelming fear of that moment. I remember my despair when the doctor uttered the words: "I cannot find your baby's heartbeat". I remember the car ride to the hospital and the additional ultrasounds to determine if our baby was "viable". I remember that dreadful trip back to the doctor's office to await the ultrasound results. I remember hearing the doctor mumble words that confirmed we had lost of our baby. I remember tightly embracing my husband and leaning on him as I wept uncontrollably.
I remember the tears. I remember the pain. I remember the heartache. I remember the brokenness. I remember the emptiness. I remember the numbness. I remember the shattered hopes and dreams. Yet, I remember God's promise to me that He would walk by our side through whatever the future held. I remember the intimacy and closeness my husband and I shared as we wept together. I remember the comfort and love we received from those who dearly love us. I remember our baby, Ashton Hope.
In memory of Ashton today, I chose to release some balloons chosen specifically to display his/her impact on our hearts.
During today's events, I remember one moment in particular when I lost my grip on one of the balloons. I remember desperately grasping for the curling ribbon fearing that the balloon would float away before the appropriate time. Then, I remember tears filling my eyes as I stretched out my hand and tightly grabbed the ribbon. For that feeling was all too familiar. The fear of losing something or someone before his or her time, before I was ready to let go. I was not ready to let go. Not in that moment and especially not on that day - a year ago today.
But there came a time today when I knew I needed to let go. So I clutched that curling ribbon in my hands one last time and I prayed. Then it began, the process of letting go...one step at a time.
As these events unfolded today, the sun was often hidden by the clouds, but for brief moments it would gloriously shine without abandon. Throughout this year, there were days so overcast that the radiant beams of the sun appeared hidden. There were days so dark that it seemed like the light would never shine again. There were days when the pain and heartache and sadness seemed to overshadow any possibility of relief or healing or hope. Yes, there are those days and sometimes there are oh so many. However, the sun always shines even when it is hidden by the clouds. The light always appears even in the darkest moments.
And it did today too. There were brief moments in the midst of this overcast and dreary day when God in His grace allowed me to catch glimpses of the radiant sun and feel it's life-giving warmth.
The Son always shines and His radiant Light is life-giving even in the midst of the darkest days. Even when it cannot be seen, it still exists. Today, I remember the healing that God has done in my heart since that day - a year ago today and embrace the hope of the Son and His radiant Light. May you catch glimpses of the radiant beams of the Son and the life-giving warmth of His Light even in the midst of your darkest days. And remember even when they cannot be seen, they still exist.
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