Some years things feel easier, and you can see your growth...how you have learned, accepted, found peace with your grief. And then there are years like this one, where the deep, settled pain twists in your gut and makes even just breathing hard. This year blindsided me. I didn't expect to feel the bitterness that crept in during the last couple of weeks. I didn't expect to yell hurtful words at those I love, didn't expect to burst into sobs that came so out of the blue, that the sound shocks you when you realize the sobbing is coming from your own lips, from your own well of pain. This year, there are no words to wrap around my sorrow, so I pulled something from my diary to place here on your birthday, Ella Kate. Seven years old. You would be seven, and the pain of losing you is so fresh, yet so settled in my soul. It is just as much a part of me today as you are. I miss you so much, and would give anything to have you here. I do not like this part of my grief...the bitterness feels ugly and lonely, but I know that even here, in this dark place, God is with me in the trenches. He will not leave me here.

Excerpt from my journal:

I'm not really sure what prompts me to search for the book. It is late at night, in that sweet hour of peacefulness after the kids have been tucked in tight, dishwasher humming softly through the house, letting me know the household chores are finally finished for the day, and I can have some quiet time for myself. I run the bath tub full...as full as it can possibly get without overflowing, and as hot as I can possibly stand it. I pour the bubble bath under the running water, light the candles, and go get the book that is weighing heavily on my mind. It's a beautiful story, a lovely memoir, but I have read its pages before, so I am unsure why I feel the need to go dig it out from under my bed. But I do. I open the book, and watch as a slip of paper falls from the pages and flutters softly to the floor. I reach down for it, and recognize what it is immediately. Any mother would. The glossy, thin texture, the fuzzy black and white image. It's an ultrasound photograph of my sweet girl, who is in the arms of Jesus. I close my eyes and grip the book hard in my hands. Did I read this book when I was pregnant with her? When she was still tucked away, safe and sound inside? I rifle through the pages, lie on the floor, hold the book against my heart, put it against my face. My only thought: "she was ALIVE when I read this book", and it feels as if a piece of us must be in those pages. We read it TOGETHER.

I want to go to her, but I can't. So I talk to God, and ask him to tell her how much I love her, how much I fought for her life in prayer. I ask Him to tell her that I have planned her birthday out, from start to finish in my head. She would have a Hello Kitty cake, and pink balloons, and the most perfect outfit that I searched for months for and probably would have spent way too much money on. I ask Him to tell her about all the things we would have done together...how I would paint her toenails pink, and braid her hair; make her special snacks, and read her books before bed.

The tears come, fresh from a never-ending well reserved just for her. I drain the water from the tub, blow out the candles, stuff the book back under my bed. There will be no relaxing tonight...the only relief from this heartache is a tender God, and a night of sweet sleep. So I crawl under the covers, close my eyes tight, and I know she will be waiting for me in my dreams. Maybe I will get to hold her there tonight? Please, Jesus...

The Lord is close to the broken-hearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.
Psalms 34:18

Thank you Lord, for being close, even in the brokenness and the bitter moments. You are the same God in the sorrow that you are in the joy. Help me to find your sweet, unconditional love, even when it all tastes bitter.

A satisfied soul loathes the honeycomb,
But to a hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet.
Proverbs 27:7