Opening the gift

I know this post is late, but that’s how it is. I don’t write things just to write them. I don’t like to be rushed. I don’t like expectations. So, this morning, two days after my daughter’s birthday, I am finally sitting down (in my bathrobe of course) with my lukewarm coffee and a sleeping baby upstairs, to write.

Sometimes it feels like there’s nothing more to say.

But then, there is.

Because Hallelujah’s story is just beginning.

This has been quite the week.

Fifth & Jackson is the last place we set eyes on our baby’s sweet face and that is the place Bryan walked into this past Friday to perform a funeral. Just before stepping into that service, he found out that a pregnant couple from church had gone to their prenatal appointment and found that their baby girl had no heartbeat.

The sorrow is just so real and close and breathtaking all over again.

This past year has taught me a few things:

1. As much as Tucker has been a healing weight to our empty arms, he doesn’t fix the loss of Hallelujah.

2. Not everyone grieves the same way. Piper loves belting out Hallelujah songs, but it makes Cayden sad to sing them. She is worried about forgetting her baby sister, but it hurts to remember. Judah is still making comments in the vein of, “I think Tucker is going to live.”

3. Guilt can creep back in if you let it. I still find myself questioning if we did the right thing, or if we should have fought harder to prolong Hallelujah’s life. Ultimately, I can’t change it, and I know God gave us peace in those decisions, so I have to continue to trust Him with that. Every day.

4. I have five children. Daily, I get asked how many children I have, which is complicated. Depending on the person (someone new at church vs. the lady behind my at Winco), I have different answers, but, in general, I’ve decided to start answering, “five.” The truth is, I have eight, but for the sake of time and attention spans, we will let Hallelujah represent March, Hunter and August (the names I’ve given our miscarried babies). Twice this month, I have ventured to say “five” and it has brought me peace to have my littlest daughter given weight in this world again, even if it’s only through a simple number. I think this is important for my other kids to hear me do as well. She is not forgotten.

Hallelujah’s birthday fell on President’s Day this year, which was perfect. No one had school, Bryan never works Mondays anyway, and so it was easy to schedule her birthday celebration. Twenty-three of our family members packed into our little living room to enjoy brunch together and go play our annual game of baseball, just like we did the day Hallelujah went to be with Jesus. 

Every year so far, God has given us a sliver of sunshine to play under. It might sound like a strange way to honor our daughter, with a ragtag baseball game that usually includes Grandma Chickee rolling on the ground at some point, toddlers hitting the dirt while someone attempts to field a ball, and a few tears from little boys when their team doesn’t win. 

If you come unprepared to play, you are keeping score, because, yes, we keep score. This year, the Zubbas beat out the Periwinkles by 1 run after 4 innings of play (our longest game to date). 

This is a time to cheer on the little guys as they get their first hits, but still throw them out most of the time. By the time you are 8, there’s no more mercy, and you better not overrun second base.

As Judah says, “Tucker has to like baseball, because everyone in our family loves baseball.”

It’s true.

My sister, Carrie, told her fiancée, Neil (who plays soccer), the same thing when they started talking about marriage. And, he came out and hit in three runs in our Hallelujah game.

Baseball is part of our story, and part of our healing. It gave us something to occupy our minds with two years ago and it will continue to bring us joy. March is going to be all about Carrie and Neil’s wedding (so much joy!) and then April will be wiping our calendar with three baseball teams to watch. Even the girls chose baseball this year, vetoing the available softball choice. They were the only girls at their skills evaluation, and I couldn’t be prouder. They come from a long line of baseball girls, as I learned from talking with my 87-year-old grandmother who used to play baseball against her neighborhood boys because there were no girls to play with. I also grew up playing baseball with my brother in the backyard, and always preferred the smaller ball and pace of baseball to softball.

I digress.

We had a good day.

 We crammed 10 Bernard/Hunter cousins into the back of Grandma Chickee’s Subaru and the rest of the crew walked back to our house when the champions had been crowned. When we got home, someone turned on the Hallelujah Even Here video the worship team made for us two years ago and we all watched and some sang along.

And slowly, people packed up to leave.

I love this tradition because it’s so reflective of two years ago.

I still feel the pang of finality when it’s all over; when we picked up and packed up and went back to life after death.

We keep going.

We keep going, with full knowledge that every day like today is a gift.

We keep going, with full knowledge that every day NOT like today is a gift, too.

Happy birthday, baby girl. You are a gift.