Recollection...

I feel empty today. Maybe it's the transition from being done with my homewide organization project, or going from a few kids to one, or maybe I'm just restless. Maybe God's just telling me to rest a bit. I don't know.

All I know is that I'd like to have a good cry.

I miss Amelia again. I remember when I slowly found out all the details of how she would be born, how we had to find her a burial spot, how we may want to take photos. So much was a blur. But now I treasure every detail that I can remember.

It may change from state to state, but in Washington, a stillborn child dying after 21 weeks requires a burial. 20/21 weeks is officially the time when the loss of an unborn child is termed a stillbirth, rather than a miscarriage. I remember when people said, "I'm so sorry about your miscarriage." Not that a miscarriage is any less heartbreaking, don't get me wrong, but every week you have your baby inside, you become closer to that child. I was 28 weeks close to Amelia. I was that much closer to seeing her beautiful face. I knew her for a longer time than the term "miscarriage" suggests.

I actually gave birth to Amelia. Just like I gave live birth to my daughter Brilla. I had to go through the labor pains, the blood, sweat, tears, and the pushing. I writhed in agony not only because of the obvious, but because my heart was breaking. Some of what I felt was complete hopelessness and unfairness. My heart was trying to trust in God, but I'm only human.

I also held her in my arms. I stroked her beautiful and matted hair, that would never hold pink bows. I held her tiny hands that would never wrap around mine voluntarily, and her long, perfect toes that will always remind me of my husband. I wanted her eyes to open, as if God would have seen fit to revive her after all. I wanted her small lips to form a smile. And I wrapped her in a flowered flannel blanket, as if that would warm her cold, lifeless body.

And then, I prayed for the child that I would never be able to raise in my home. My daughter who would only laugh and sing in the presence of God.

I wrote her birth certificate as Michael was having to say his hard goodbyes to his second-born daughter, then placing her into the arms of the undertaker. I wanted to leap out of the bed and touch her one last time. But I couldn't. I was weary and tired. And I had already said my farewell with tears streaming.

And every time I visit her grave and place flowers on it, the tears come again. Because all these memories resurface and the loss is once again remembered. Sometimes I talk to her, if she can hear me in heaven. And sometimes I just pray that Jesus will pass on our love.

I love her so much, a kind of love that aches. And today I really want her home with me. If only...

As I remember the precious, last moments I had with Amelia, my eyes are clouded by my tears. I have not cried for a few weeks. I sit staring at her framed certificate of birth, knowing that her little feet once touched that paper to give the prints which sit beside her name. I'm also looking at the little lamb sitting atop the frame which remind of the Lamb of God who died for us, but rose again. And the sweet figurine given me by Sarah, Willow Tree's Guardian, in memory of Baby Amelia.

Thank you for letting my recall Amelia's birth, her death. But also her resurrection. For that is a detail I cannot forget. She is with her risen Lord.