If We Could Talk

If we could talk, I would tell you that the ache of missing you is still there. 
The intensity fluctuates, but it's ever present.  I miss you.  Every day.

If we could talk, I would tell you that sometimes I see little boys with dark hair and sweet smiles and I wonder.  Would you look like them?     

If we could talk, I would tell you that I can't erase doctor visits and ultrasound appointments from my phone's calendar, even though the memory is full.  It hurts to let go of anything related to you, because I had to let go of you.

If we could talk, I would tell you that when I see little blue birds I think about you.  They remind me that God takes care of us.  His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches over you and me. 

If we could talk, I would tell you that your sister's presence in my life is like a healing balm on my wounds.  And even though she is here, I never forget that you are not.  You are irreplaceable.

If we could talk, I would tell you that losing you was the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  When I have flashbacks of saying goodbye to you, I gasp.  Memories of your death make me cry, but memories of your life make me smile.

If we could talk, I would tell you that sometimes I struggle with guilt.  I question if feeling happy with your sister means I've left you behind.  But I realize that when we made the decision to try to have another baby, we were choosing to let our hearts love again...and love is always the right choice.

If we could talk, the most important thing I would say is I love you.  Always.      

Time

I have taken a long retreat from writing in this public space.  I have done a lot of writing in my head and in my heart, but have not felt inclined to share it.  The past year was one full of grief, love, fear, and hope.  I think I just felt too vulnerable to share many of my feelings out loud.

I have spent a lot of time pondering specific verses in Ecclesiastes 3 about time.

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven...
A time to cry and a time to laugh...
A time to grieve and a time to dance...
A time to tear and a time to mend...
A time to be quiet and a time to speak...
God has made everything beautiful for its own time.  He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end. 
(verses 1, 4, 7, and 11)

Our openness about our beautiful and heartbreaking journey with William brought our family a level of love and support we could never have imagined.  It is very clear to me that the time that I carried William was a time to speak.  After we said goodbye, I needed time to be quiet.

To grieve.  To cry.  To mend.

As the months passed after William died, I found that grief takes various shapes and forms.  I had trouble making decisions, being productive, and being emotionally available to the people in my life.

I would go to the grocery store and stand in front of the shelf as the minutes passed.  What kind of pasta should I buy?  What package of paper towels is the best deal?  I had so much trouble making simple decisions.

I would sit at the kitchen table with a long list of people to thank for the kindness, donations, meals, and gifts we had received from so many.  I would hold the pen in my hand and try to find the words to write.  My sadness felt paralyzing.  I just could not complete simple tasks.

I could not go to certain social gatherings, especially baby showers.  I wanted so much to be there for the friends and the family I loved, but it was just so hard to be emotionally available when I was in so much pain. 

When we decided to move forward with attempting to have another child, I was fragile.  Losing William left my heart wounded and sore.  When we received the miraculous news that our second IVF had worked and I was once again pregnant, fear and hope overcame me.

I was still grieving so heavily, but in the quiet moments I found myself whispering to God, Is my time to dance coming?   Is it time to laugh again?

Time continued to pass and I found that I noticed the sun again.  I felt the warmth of hope and the promise of happiness returning.  The waters of grief began to recede.  I felt less and less like I was drowning and gasping for air.  It didn't hurt to breathe anymore.

It is now over a year since I held William...since I handed him over at the hospital, knowing I would never see him again on this side of Heaven...since I knelt in the grass at the cemetery wondering if I could truly go on without him here with me.  And although the tears are falling as I write this, I can often speak of him without tears.  In fact, I often speak of him with a smile now.

God has used the love of our friends and family, the birth of our daughter, and the passage of time to methodically mend the scattered pieces of my heart.  I'm able to see the beauty of the seasons I've lived through.

My season with William, my season of grief...the long season of pregnancy with our daughter, her days as a newborn...there has been beauty all along.  Sometimes painful beauty, the kind that refines.  Sometimes beauty filled with joy and dreams fulfilled.

But God has truly made everything beautiful in its time.

Time will continue on, and there will surely be many seasons of joys and sorrows to come...but right now, I'm overwhelmed with gratefulness for this season.

It is time to laugh.  It is time to dance.

Fragments

Two weeks ago, I returned to work for the first time since September.  Typically, I hardly ever miss more than one or two days of work at a time.  As a teacher, I find that the planning required for calling out is often more work than just going in. 

It was so strange to walk into my classroom after such a long absence.  It felt like returning home to find that someone else had been living in my house for six months...rearranging the food in the cabinets and eating at my kitchen table.  I don't mean this as a negative statement.  Having been a long term substitute at the beginning of my career, I fully understand the balancing act required when you are filling in for another person.  My substitute did an excellent job of respecting my space while also running the classroom in a way that worked for her.  It wasn't bad...it was just different.  It was a familiar place that felt unfamiliar.

So many things were different and some things were exactly the same.  My reusable lunch bag was still sitting in my little refrigerator behind my desk (thankfully, my sub threw out the perishable food!).  My picture frames were still sitting on the window sill.  The little slips of paper found in fortune cookies years ago were still taped above my computer screen.  My sub plans for the morning of September 22nd were still saved on my computer's desktop.

I left school that Thursday morning for an ultrasound, planning to return by lunch.  An hour later, we found out our son was going to die and that my own health was at risk, too.  I didn't step foot in my classroom again for almost six months.

My school has been tremendously supportive to me during the time of my absence and during my transition back to work.  My husband, family, and friends encouraged me and prayed for me as I struggled through the first few days.  Bit by bit, I got used to being back in the school environment and taking on the responsibilities my job requires.  Overall, it's been a fairly successful two weeks.

But each time I add something "normal" back into my life, I feel as though I'm being divided into pieces.  Whether it's something small like buying food at the store, or something big like returning to work...I feel like I'm living two lives at one time.

In the one life, I function in a way that is familiar...I smile at coworkers in the hallway and casually converse while waiting for the photocopier.  I help my seven year old students talk out their disagreements over who is "it" during tag at recess.  I read them stories and plan lessons for them.  I chuckle at the cute things they say.  I come home and empty the dishwasher and fold clothes.  I joke around with my husband and get angry when people don't use their turn signal.

But then there is this other life I'm forced to live.  The life where my baby died.  The life where William's absence scratches at my heart every minute, leaving me raw and exhausted at the end of each day.  In this life, I plan what I will place at his grave the next time we visit the cemetery.  I send a picture to CHOP to include in the memorial service they have for children who have died.  I get on the scale and mentally tally how much weight I've lost since having my baby.  My baby who doesn't live with me.  My baby who I don't get to watch grow up.

And even though I've had so many moments where I feel successful in the one life, the other life is always there.  When I teach a great lesson to my students...William is still gone.  When I fold three loads of laundry and tidy up the house...William is still missing.  The moments of normalcy and functioning in the one life fail to undo the pain and grief in the other.  

I can imagine it's common for the bereaved to feel fragmented...to function in the different roles they fulfill while wondering if they will ever feel like a whole person again.  I find myself looking at strangers in stores and restaurants, wondering if they also have pain scratching at their hearts while they order their lunch or pick out their produce. 

As people so often say, I will keep putting one foot in front of the other.  I will grade papers.  I will laugh with my husband.  I will miss my son. 

And I will have faith that God is holding every fragment of my life and my heart in His hands...staying by my side as I adjust to my new "normal".

Missing

Sometimes only one person is missing and the whole world seems depopulated.

Alphonse de Lamartine

In recent weeks, I have been more contemplative in my grief.  Several times, I've placed my fingers over the keys only to find myself lost in thought without a word making it to the screen. 

Many people have told me that it will get easier with time.  I do believe this to be true and I see some of the rawness of my pain beginning to scab as the days wear on.  But, in some ways, the passage of time has been more painful than helpful.  I feel as though I'm moving farther and farther away from William.  As the world counted down to midnight on New Year's Eve, I ached at leaving 2011 behind.  It was the only year he was here with me.

And I realize that William will always be with me in my heart.  But, if you've lost a loved one, you know that there's a difference between someone being in your heart and someone being here with you.  Really here...a living, breathing piece of your life.

I feel the way that everyone feels when they lose someone they love.  I feel that he is missing. I feel like he should be here, and he is not. 

And because he is missing, there is a big empty space where memories will never be made.  No birthday parties or new clothes...no first words or favorite colors...no cuddling or bedtime stories.  

And I'm so thankful for the memories I do have with him, for the brief lifetime we spent together.  The kicks and the singing...the ladybugs and the hiccups...the long drives and belly rubs.  But the feeling that he is missing will never completely go away.

I know I will experience so many wonderful memories with our future children, but I had dreams for William.  There were hopes and dreams that belonged just to him.   

Because when someone enters your life, they make a space for themselves.  A space with curves and corners that no other person can quite fill.  When they are not there anymore, that space feels empty and it hurts your heart.      

So here I am.  Trying to navigate each day when someone I love so deeply is missing.  And I know that countless others are doing the same thing and have done the same thing.  I know that God is still with me, patiently and gently guiding me through this journey of pain and loss.  I know that the acute grief will subside and the sun will shine again. 

But today it is raining.  The sun isn't shining.  No matter how much I wish differently, my William is not here.

And because he is missing
I am missing him
so much

I Miss You

It's been almost four weeks since you were born

It's been almost four weeks since you died

I miss you

I miss you so much

When we were separated

My body longed to care for you

My heart longed to beat beside yours

I am so lonely for you

This morning I looked up at our skylight

I watched a single ladybug crawl slowly across the window

And I cried

I cried because I miss telling you about the world

I cried for all the ladybugs you'll never see

I sat beside the Christmas tree

And I cried

I cried because I wanted to spend this Christmas with you

I cried for every Christmas we won't be together

I cry for you often

I cry for everything we had

I cry for everything we'll never have

And I know things will get easier

But this winter feels unending

The coldness of your absence makes my heart ache

And I know you are now living in perfect eternity

But it feels as though you belong with me

In my body

Or in my arms

And I'm trying to accept that you're gone

But I miss you

Your life changed my life

So I grieve for you

Because I read that grief is the cost of loving someone

And I loved you so deeply

And will love you forever

Moments of Grief

I am still working on writing William's birth story.  It is a difficult story to tell and I'm writing about it as I feel led.

In the meanwhile, I am working through my grief on a moment by moment basis.  I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't anticipate how exhausting it would be.

My sadness is amplified at unexpected times and triggered by unexpected things.

I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the petals that have fallen from the vase of flowers.  I realize that the flowers are dying and begin to cry.

The flowers are dying.  My baby died.  Why do beautiful things die?

I stand in front of the dishwasher and look at the green light that tells me the dishes are clean and need to be put away.  I see the clothes piled in the hamper.  I hear the garbage truck beeping as it drives around our neighborhood to pick up the trash.

How do these ordinary things keep happening when I'm in such extraordinary pain? 

My Mom takes me to the grocery store to help me get a couple things we need.  I stand in the produce department and look at all the people rushing around buying fruit and vegetables.  I want to stop them and tell them that I had a baby.

I know you can't tell, I imagine myself saying, but I gave birth to a baby boy two weeks ago.

It really happened.

He used to be alive...and now he isn't.

I realize it would be irrational to say these things to strangers, so I quietly shop for my food.

But I do find myself longing to talk about William.
To say his name out loud.
To affirm that he existed.

Sometimes I open my eyes in the morning and think, How has this happened?

Sometimes I stop what I'm doing and say, He died...our baby died.

I say the words aloud because it's a way for me to process and accept that it happened.  The words are hard to say and I'm sure they are hard to read or hear, but they are true.

I think that these moments of grief are necessary.
They are painful.
They are uncomfortable.
But they are still necessary.

Sometimes I have to fight feelings of failure.

Pull yourself together, Ali.

Stop crying.

Where's your faith in God?

But then I stop myself.

Because it's ok for me to grieve.  If I need to cry, I can cry.  I'm allowed to miss my baby.

Having faith in God does not mean that I won't or shouldn't feel pain.  God doesn't require me to pretend that I'm not devastated by the loss of William.

So instead of putting unrealistic expectations on myself, I will accept my need to grieve.

I will allow myself to validate the sad things that have happened by saying them aloud.  But even in my moments of grief, there are other truths that need to be remembered. 

They need to spoken aloud, as well.

God is good, even when life feels bad

Hope endures, even when pain is all I see

God is near, even when I feel so very alone

My moments of grief will lessen over time...I will feel happiness again...

I will feel happiness again.

Family Time

I hear my husband call my name and I open my eyes, barely awake.  He's opening the blinds beside our bed.   

Look outside, he says. We have to tell William about snow!

I smile as we lay beside one another and look out the window.  We take turns telling our baby boy about the wintery scene outside.  We tell him that snow is cold and white.  We tell him why snow is fun.  We talk to him for several minutes about a variety of things.

This is something we do now.  We intentionally talk to our baby.  Not because we think he understands what we are saying, but because we want to share ourselves with him.  We want to tell him about the world.  We want him to hear our voices and sense that we are together.

It's a way to spend time together as a family...and it feels good.

When we first received William's diagnosis, I hardly left the house.  The level of pain and shock was high and I found it hard to cope with the outside world.  One Saturday morning, my husband suggested we go for a drive.  It would be good to get out of the house, but we wouldn't be required to interact with people.  We just weren't ready for that yet.

We drove with no destination in mind.  Neither of us could barely utter a word, so we held hands and listened to music.   Sometimes there just aren't words.

Quiet tears rolled down my face as we passed parks where William would likely never play.  I held my breath as we passed soccer fields full of little boys, thinking about the teams that William may never join.  I ached as we drove, longing for my son to live...grieving for all he may never experience.

I want so much for you.  You are so wanted.

As we drove, I allowed myself to feel the unavoidable pain and disappointment of our situation.  I believe it's healthy and normal to feel these things and I don't deny myself moments of appropriate grief.

We finally found our way back home.  I felt drained, but I also felt comforted. 

We woke up the next day and I found myself asking if we could go on another drive.  My husband eagerly agreed.  We both felt a sense of healing from our previous drive and thought it was worthwhile to go again.

We headed in a new direction.  I quietly listened to the music, allowing the words to encourage me.  I looked out the window and occasionally pointed out beautiful houses or trees to my husband.  I found myself smiling once or twice.  Again, we came home feeling strangely refreshed from our drive.

When the next weekend arrived, we didn't even discuss it.  We just knew we were going for another drive.  With each new drive, I found my attitude shifting.  Instead of focusing on what may never be, I started to notice and appreciate what is.

We started talking a little bit more to one another, and soon we found ourselves talking to William.  Our aimless drives began to have specific destinations.

We drove to where my husband went to elementary school.  We drove to his old church.  We drove to my old schools, too.  We drove to places that meant something to us.

William, this is where Daddy scored a soccer goal and everyone cheered...

This is where Mommy went to school and learned how to read...

This is where your grandparents live.  They love you so much...

I began singing along with the music.  I began telling William about the things I could see out the window.  I found that it felt so good to teach him things, to be his eyes.

I'm grounded in reality enough to understand that he's not at the developmental point where he comprehends what I'm saying to him.  Yet, I know he can hear my voice and sense my presence. 

Talking to him and sharing ourselves with him gives us the opportunity to validate his place in our family.  It's one way for us to show him that he is our precious son and we are proud to be his parents. 

We are proud to be a family.

Our situation is unique and we've had to change our expectations and our plans.  I never thought our time with William could be so limited.

So we adjust.  We change how we define a lifetime.  We embrace the time that we have.

As I sit on the couch, I feel him kick.  I know he's awake and moving, so I rub my stomach and begin talking to him.  I walk across the room and stand beneath the skylight window, peering into the sun.  There are at least five ladybugs crawling around on the surface of the window.

William, there are ladybugs that live in our skylight.  They crawl all around on their little tiny legs, which is kind of fun to watch.  They are red with small black polka dots.  I don't really like insects, but I've always loved ladybugs.  They are really quite special and beautiful...

...just like you.

The Morn Shall Tearless Be

I have days when joy and hope help to cushion my pain, but I also have days when the sadness and heartache feel insurmountable.  It's a sadness that I've never felt before.  It seeps into my body and I ache, inside and out.  

And then there are the nights.  I find myself staring out into the darkness, wondering if the morning will ever appear.

How can this be, God?

How can this be...

A few nights ago, I woke in the middle of the night.  William was moving as I placed my hand onto my stomach.  The joy and the pain mingled together.  I smiled as silent tears ran down my cheeks. 

My husband slept soundly beside me as I reached for my cell phone.  I opened up the calendar screen and scrolled to William's due date.  I pressed the screen to my face as my silent tears turned into muffled sobs.  I let my phone drop down to my chest and I held it over my heart.  As I held his due date close, I longed for my baby to be born alive and well while simultaneously preparing for a different and devastating outcome.   

Help me, God

If it's your will for me to let go,

Help me let go

I find that moments like these are part of an important process of surrendering my own plans and expectations to God's will. 

It's a painful process.  In fact, sometimes it's excruciating.

I recently purchased an album of classic hymns sung by Chris Rice.  His voice calms me and the long-treasured lyrics of each hymn soothe my heart.  A verse from the hymn, "O Love That Will Not Let me Go" has really resonated with me.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be. 

I accept the days of sadness and the nights of pain as part of this journey I'm walking.  I accept them because I know that it is normal to grieve when the circumstances in your life take a painful and unexpected turn.  It's normal to grieve when you are forced to alter your hopes and dreams and adjust to a new and unfamiliar reality.  Surrendering your plans and expectations is so very hard.

But I will continue to seek joy, despite my circumstances.
I will believe that God is good, even when life feels bad
I will allow the beauty of William's life to soak into my heart

God, please help me endure the nights of weeping

And believe that joy will come in the morning

Who Will Carry Me?

For many, it's a very painful and difficult choice to make.  For us, it seemed there was no other choice possible.

I was going to carry William, no matter what the diagnosis.

When your baby is given a fatal diagnosis during pregnancy, the conversation tends to immediately go to termination.  Not only are you processing truly devastating news, but then you are faced with a life or death decision.  If you don't walk into the situation with a firm understanding of your feelings on terminating a pregnancy, it can be overwhelming and confusing.  Even though my husband and I knew that termination was not an option for us, I am truly sensitive to the struggle people have in this situation.

No one is prepared to face this type of news.  The world you were in before walking into that office feels unrecognizable when you walk out of that office.  Nothing is the same.  You are in shock and battling hopelessness and confusion. 

At the beginning of my pregnancy, I remember looking at the screen through eyes filled with tears.  There was our baby.  There was a little black circle with a small white light blinking right in the center of it.  The heartbeat.  I was mesmerized.  I remember so clearly how I felt.  In a voice softer than a whisper I said, I will love you forever.  I knew in that moment that I was willing to do anything for this precious baby.

As our story unfolded I was faced with doing the most difficult thing I could ever imagine.  Even though I feel absolutely privileged and grateful to carry William, the pain of my role in this situation is excruciating. 

The reality is that I am carrying a baby that is believed to be dying.  We know that God can heal him, but we also know that He could welcome baby Will into Heaven now instead of later. 

The room we had been cleaning out to be his nursery now goes untouched.  We don't pick out paint colors.  We don't register.  Our families don't plan baby showers.  We don't read books about having and raising babies.  We don't do the things we thought we'd do at this point.

Instead, we go to appointments and I lay in silence listening for his heartbeat, is today the day?  We go to appointments where they give us details about how to prepare to have a still born baby or a baby who dies shortly after birth.  We choose a funeral home.  We choose a cemetery.  We are given information about the grieving process.

Instead of preparing for a new life, we prepare for a likely and untimely death.  We aren't preparing to say hello, we are preparing to say goodbye.

We live in constant tension between hoping for a miracle and facing the possibility of a bitter reality.

And in the meanwhile, I carry William.  I carry him and love him and cherish every single moment.  Even through all the pain, I have no regrets.  I know with all my heart that God has chosen William just for us.  He has chosen my husband and I specifically for William.

The decision to continue a pregnancy that the doctors have deemed a "failure" was not a hard decision for us.  We pleaded with God to give us a child and choosing to end our baby's life because of his diagnosis was not an option. 

But does the ease with which we made our decision make this journey any easier? 

No.

It's important to me that I am honest through this journey.  I have no desire to appear self-righteous.  I don't want to act like I am a pillar of strength who gets up each day bravely facing the road before me, confident that everything will turn out alright.  Even though I believe without a shadow of a doubt that we made the right decision, I am still a disappointed and frightened young mother.  I still shake in the middle of the night at the thought of going through labor and delivery for the first time under these circumstances.  I still cry angry tears, asking God why He doesn't change this situation.  I still doubt my ability to actually walk this road.

I want to carry William, God.  I am honored to carry the gift you have given us.  

But who will carry me?  

I don't think I can really do this, God.  I feel like I'm stumbling and falling.  

I'm not strong enough...who will carry me?

 As I face my own weakness, I have to cling to God's promises and His strength.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed" Psalm 34:18

Please rescue me, God.  
I need You to carry me.  
I can't do this on my own.  
I will carry William while You carry me...I trust You to carry us both.

Not Today

I wake up.  The sun is shining through the cracks in the blinds.  I reach down to feel my stomach. 

It's ok.  He's still with me.

In my dream, I was searching our bedrooms for William.  I couldn't find him anywhere and lay on the hallway floor in anguish.  As I turn over in bed I'm relieved he's still here.

It was just a dream.

And then it hits me.  One morning I will wake and he won't be with me any longer.

But not today, Ali.  Not today.  Today he is still here. 


I make the choice to get up.  My body wants to stay in bed all day under the weight of my sadness.  I start small by telling myself to stand up.  Once I stand up, I tell myself to walk to the bathroom.  I do my morning routine step by step, convincing myself to face the day.  By the time I am in the shower, I find myself singing softly to William, assuring him that I will love and carry him today and all my life.  I am feeling a little bit stronger.

My sister takes me to the doctor for our weekly heartbeat check.  I've felt him move so much lately, but not this morning.  As we turn into the hospital, I feel a thump.  It's as if William is saying, "It's ok, Mommy.  I'm here."

The nurse squeezes cold gel onto my stomach and turns on the monitor.  The galloping sound of my precious boy's heart fills the room.  The nurse looks at me and smiles.  I smile, too.  Each moment with William is priceless.

As we walk out of the office, I begin to imagine what it will be like on the day they don't find the heartbeat.  I'm so frightened.  I blink away tears. 

That day may come...but it's not today, Ali.  Not today.  Today he is still here.

We drive to my parents' house.  My husband is at work and will meet us later for dinner.  My mom, sister, and I are going to look at a cemetery.  As much as we hope for a miracle, we realize that arrangements need to be made.  We will be in no condition to make these decisions in the darkest hours of our grief.

We pull into the cemetery and pass through the large iron gates.  The headstones appear just ahead and I take a deep breath.

Why am I here?  How could I possibly be here?

We park the car and begin walking around.  My eyes fall on a grave with a small stone.  It says "Baby Boy".  His birthday is the same as mine.  I gasp and cover my face with my hands, stifling my cries.  I compose myself and keep walking.

It's peaceful and serene.  I see a small office attached to a two car garage.  I walk that way to get information because I figure that is what you do when trying to find a cemetery.  We arrive at the office and I muster up the courage to ask the man some questions about burying my infant son.  He talks to me as if we are discussing the weather or some objects I'd like him to store.  He's abrupt and speaks to me roughly.

Don't you see that I'm pregnant?  Can you not sense my pain?  I don't need you to cry with me, but could you just speak to me kindly?

He hands me a paper with all the pricing.  I quietly hand it to my sister.  She folds it in stunned silence.  My mom, sister, and I walk away from the office.  We say a few things to each other and then begin walking through the cemetery again.  We are without words.

We each walk in slightly different directions, facing our individual grief.  With the sun shining down on me, I feel the urge to fall to the ground.  I want to lay with my face in the grass and scream. 

Instead, I keep walking.

Again, I resist laying on the ground with outstretched arms.  I feel like screaming out in surrender, screaming out in brokenness. 

William moves within me and I breath in deeply.  I keep walking.  There will be a day for mourning.

But it's not today, Ali.  Not today.  Today he is still here.

My mom, sister, and I gather together and begin walking toward the car.  We talk as we look at the graves we pass.  Sometimes, we cry.

I sit on the couch in my parents' house, staring ahead vacantly.  Silent tears fall down my face.  I sense God working in my heart, giving me strength to keep going.  Even when it's so hard, I still believe He is near to us.  I believe He loves us and will guide us while we walk this road.  I believe in His promises.

But it's hard, God.  Today was so hard.  

He knows.

We are not abandoned.  We are not alone.  Not today, not tomorrow...not ever.