“Good morning Anna girl. We cannot wait to meet you!”

That’s what I would say each morning as I walked into Anna’s nursery, rubbing my belly, turning on her soft pink lamp, the light illuminating butter yellow walls and every other carefully crafted feminine detail.

I will never forget the moment I reached to turn on the lamp in her nursery for the last time. It was 2:00 a.m. and we stood outside the nursery door as if standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the next step would be a fall far greater than any we had ever endured. Just hours before, Chris and I stared at a monitor, revealing our daughter’s fully developed and motionless heart. Now my bulging stomach was a lie…no life to deliver into our wanting hands. I turned the doorknob, reached for the lamp, and jumped back as the bulb suddenly popped and blew out. I was overwhelmed by the irony and symbolism of the moment…. darkness had come, there was no light to be found.

Since that day, our life has really been a quest for light. “Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5) I will never forget receiving these words in a hand made card from Ellen, clutching it to my chest and wishing that I could will the sun to rise, forcing our dark night to disappear forever.

“Crack the door mommy. Turn on my night light mommy.” It is night time that urges these words from my children each evening. Darkness is frightening. Shadows morph into monsters and wind taps at the window like alien invaders. Grief invites its good buddy fear into the darkness and we are reduced to children once again, wishing we could find a night light.

I remember wondering when the night would leave once and for all. Even the birth of our son John, one year later, could not push the night away. The quest for morning continued. Sure there were moments of light, like little candles, but waking to a new day did not happen for quite some time. I am sure it’s different for everyone, but for me it took three and a half years.

Now five years later, as I approach the anniversary of Anna’s death and birth, it feels like I am standing in front of a window looking out into the bright beautiful morning when suddenly a shade drops, blocking all light. It tricks me just for a moment into thinking that I should get back in the bed, that maybe it’s night time after all. And then a few moments or maybe hours later, the shade spirals up and once again I am staring into the good face of day. Randomly, sporadically, it drops, but I know I can count on a quick recover, as it will always rise again, revealing a sun which never actually disappeared.

The last few days have been like that:

Up, down…up, down goes the shade. Tears, smiles…pain, hope… back and forth. It is February 5th and I am already exhausted by the quick shifts of emotion. Night then morning in a matter of moments…it’s crazy. But it’s okay, because there is light and I know in a few weeks the shades neurotic dance will cease and a normal, livable grief will resume once again. Time has proven this fact to me. There will always be moments of darkness, I am sure as long as I live with this unquenched thirst for Anna, but I can live with the momentary darkness because I know light will dawn on the majority of days.

In the darkness I am acquainted with not so friendly feelings like busyness, fear and guilt.

Busyness: If I slow down then I am forced to have free hands, free time and a free mind to be consumed by whatever wave of grief might come my way. If I am immersed in a project, it is easier to somehow push back the approaching wave, for I am busy. “No I am sorry, I cannot be wiped out by you right now, I’m cooking or I’m cleaning, or I’m running…Go Away!” Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t.

Fear: Every night after my boys are asleep I quietly walk into their room and whisper prayers for them. It’s become a sweet tradition I cherish and yet now, if I forget or if I fail to pray certain things, there is a sense of doom that slithers along beside me. As if I actually have control over their breathing. As if God would say, “Well she didn’t pray tonight, I cannot be God.” In the darkness I have to consciously remind myself that God is good and that I am not God, the sustainer of life.

Guilt, the whopper: Shouldn’t I, especially grieving the loss of a child, want nothing more than to be with my children, basking in the pleasure of who they are and what they do every second? You would think, except “Hungry Hungry Hippos” sounds like gun shots and the idea of finger paint feels like saying yes to a bucket full of mud. I want to be and feel differently than I do, but my patience and tolerance are extra thin, my imagination limited and my creativity is on empty. My brain and my heart are preoccupied and my tiredness is making me less than who I want to be…and so there is guilt.

There is also guilt over “shoulds” like, I should be able to do the scrap book album for Anna now, I should create that picture frame I have been thinking about, I should plant a rose bush, I should find more ways to memorialize, I should watch the video of the day she was born, I should feel this way…or do that, and on and on and on.

Deep in my heart, maybe it’s the seasoned griever in me, or maybe it’s the Holy Spirit, but there is a whisper that says, “Be gentle.” I know this means be gentle with myself, be kind to myself. Expect little, pray for much, and be gracious with the outcome…and so I am trying.

Yesterday morning the darkness came and invited each of his awful friends to the party. Guilt, fear, being unoccupied, they all came at once and I found myself panicking, grasping for control with none to be found. My bag of tricks, the deep breaths, rehearsing truth, the awareness of present joys, none of it worked. And then I realized, this is it, this is the moment, the scary step I have taken many times before where I let go, where I surrender, allowing myself to fall, backwards off the cliff, and then it happens. I hear my weary spirit plead “Jesus help me” and my utter helplessness and neediness ushers in the mighty hand of God to catch me. I am simply held. “And the peace of God which transcends all understanding, truly guards my heart and mind in Christ Jesus.”(Phil 4:13)

Then the strangest thing of all happens. I begin to love my grief, for it is the vehicle to the unmatched experience of being held in the nail scarred hands of Jesus. Hands that know pain, endured the most horrific darkness and conquered death for me. I love those hands. Darkness has forced me to search for light and the light I have experienced in God through suffering is a brighter light than any I have ever known. Don’t misunderstand, I am not saying I like pain or that I wouldn’t grab her back in a second if I could…but finally experiencing for myself the tenderness and strength of God by being bruised and broken is the sweetest reality I’ve ever known. And in those moments of being held, the only thing that matters is that I know I was made for another place and another day. For this I have hope.

Today is February 5th. Up, down…up, down goes the shade. But now, in this moment of light, I look out deep into the distance to the approaching hour, when night cannot come upon us and we will see for ourselves the hands that held us in the dark.