Silent Nights.

I was so physically exhausted towards the end of my work day today that when a co-worker requested someone go two floors down to pick up some paperwork I sheepishly asked an office mate to do it.  I was too afraid if I stood up and walked down the stairs, I might not make it back up.

The Christmas season as a loss mom feels incredibly lonely.  I continue to feel the depths of Sam’s birth and death somewhere in my soul that I never knew existed eight months ago.  Love continues to be poured into me and I’m convinced it’s the only reason I keep breathing.  To my husband, my family, my friends, and the strangers that have become friends who continue to keep Sam alive; I’m forever grateful.

Tonight we were watching The Voice when someone started singing Silent Night.  This Christmas season those lyrics have come to haunt me.  I bear the innermost parts of my soul when I share that hearing about the birth of a baby boy {even though it’s Christ, and not Sam} are becoming all too painful for me.  In no way am I comparing my sweet baby to our Savior but for those of you listening, listen especially now.

We bereaved Mamas have silent nights every night.  We’ve had them from the moment that our babies were born silent and still.  We sit in empty nurseries where all is calm, but nothing feels bright. Our sweet infants, tender and mild, sleep forever in heavenly peace. We are without radiant beams but we saw love’s pure light.

I made Ted fast-forward through the song.  The lyrics alone made me flash forward to Christmas Eve when we attend church and they give you those fun tiny candles you get so excited about as a child.  Every church I’ve attended sings Silent Night at the end of the service.  We’ve raised our lights to heaven feeling glorious that our Savior is born.

But this Christmas season, my first as a bereaved Mama, I openly admit that not a lot feels bright.  In grief counseling a month or so ago, I shared that sometimes it feels as though I put my head down and endure my days because I cannot do anything else.  Eight month have passed and I am still enduring, defined as “suffering patiently; remaining in existence; last”.

In her blog post “What I wish more people understood about Losing a Child” Paula Stephens shares, “Grief is the pendulum swing of love. The stronger and deeper the love the more grief will be created on the other side.” My heart is working overtime to grasp on to the happy days when I can so easily and violently swing back to the remoteness of my grief.  Every day, sometimes in between moments, I swing back and forth..back and forth.

I encourage my readers to enter into the Christmas week remembering those of us who sway with no rhythm on our own pendulum swings of love.  To remember those of us, when you’re lifting your candle in church, who experience the still, silent nights every night.