Different (39 Weeks)


Dear Sophia,

This past year I have changed a lot. 

Physically I have changed.  My eyes look a little older, not sure if wiser, but older.  I have just gained my first set of permanent wrinkles right across my forehead.  I looked in the mirror to see why I would have gotten wrinkles in that particular spot, and when I made a sad face or a face I have when I cry, those wrinkles appeared.  They are wrinkles brought on from a year of so many tears—some of joy and most of sadness—cried all over you.

Emotionally I have changed.  I have learned this year that I am stronger than I ever thought I could be, and I’ve also learned that I am capable of emotions deeper than I thought were possible.  When you were born I learned to open my heart wider than I ever had, and after you died I learned to protect it more fiercely than I ever had.  I have become a bit more cynical and jaded than I was a year ago.  I no longer believe in “happily ever afters”…just that God gives us the grace to get through the hardest parts of life that we have been promised will happen on this Earth.  I find that I have a deeper ability to offer support to women who are struggling with life problems.  I also see that I am more prone to guard my own emotions in the presence of others, in the fear that I may lose control of them.

Mentally I have changed.  I am no longer stimulated or interested in many of the types of conversations that I used to be.  I have to try very hard to focus while in certain topics of conversation because in the scheme of what I’ve gone through this last year, they just don’t seem important.  I have to remind myself that I used to have certain interests, talents, hobbies, and that it is ok and normal to enjoy them again.  My medical knowledge has grown enormously and I have become familiar in the world of intubation, suction machines, seizure meds, and doctor’s visits. 

Spiritually I have changed.  I still feel that I am guarded in my prayers to God.  I still feel that part of me was betrayed by Him when He didn’t save you.  I have come to see, though, that God is working in the worst of times to turn things around for His glory and our best.  I have learned to trust Him even when I don’t want to.  I have seen that I run to Him and run from Him as the cycles of my grief change.  My thankfulness for the Cross has intensified now that I know just how hard it is to lose your child.

When I stop to reflect on all these changes I realize that I am different.  I am not the same.

Your daddy and I are going to go back to Chicago in a few months and I’m kind of afraid.  I’m afraid that this new Sarah won’t be able to relate to her old life.  I’m afraid that my friends and family will not be OK with this difference and that I will feel out of place.  I’m afraid for that first moment when I see them again because now I’m seeing them as Sarah: the woman whose daughter died.  Because, you see, the last time I saw them all I was pregnant with you.  They were all praying for you and wishing that you would be born healthy and that you would live.  I now have to face all them again, but without you.  With only the changed me.

Pretty soon I’m about to enter “Sophia season.”  It begins at the end of May, your due date, and ends on July 22nd, your death date.  This was the season in my life that caused all these changes and differences in me.  I know that each year these months will bring back overwhelming memories of happiness and despair, thankfulness and grief.  I think that as the years pass I will continue to change, because of you.

I pray that I will be able to embrace the new me and be proud of my scars.  I pray that God will continue to draw me to Himself and remind me of His goodness.  I am such a work in progress, as we all are.  I hope you are proud of my, my little girl.


I love you,


Touched By Love (38 WEeks)


Dearest Sophia,

Today while I was at physical therapy with Champ, a new family walked in.  A mother was tightly clutching a bundle of cloth, and at first it appeared that there was nothing underneath the blanket.  As she came closer to the side of the room I was sitting in I saw that she was holding a baby—a very, very small baby. 

The woman and her husband sat down a few feet from where Champ was getting his therapy, and they lovingly unwrapped their little girl.  What I had thought was a very young baby turned out to just be a very small baby.  She looked to be one or two months old, but she couldn’t have weighed more than 6 pounds.  Her arms and legs were extremely thin and had splotches of red all over them.  Her head was very small and shaped slightly irregularly.  When I looked at her face I could tell that this little girl must be suffering from some sort of disease or syndrome or abnormality, and she reminded me so much of you.

She didn’t look like you, but she was just a little different and extra special like you were.

I found myself staring at this family of three, not because of the way the little girl looked, but because of the love that was there.  The mother clapped her daughter’s extremely small hands and nuzzled her precious little nose.  The father proudly snapped photographs on his cell phone as the physical therapist put his little one in a small wooden box—yes a box!—to help support her as they tried to get her to hold her head up. 

Here in Taiwan you don’t see that many kids with special needs, especially ones that look like they have special needs.  You were the first Trisomy-13 patient of most of your doctors and nurses, and so many of them were just shocked that we loved you despite your health issues. So when I saw this family I just couldn’t take my eyes off of them.

In this country you just don’t see that kind of love for these kinds of special babies.

I was so proud of them.  I wanted to let them know that I was proud of them for taking their daughter out in public and taking her to physical therapy.  I was touched that they weren’t ashamed of her when I know shame is a large part of this culture when it comes to children with special needs.  I wanted to tell them that I know what they are going through, and that their love for their beautiful daughter is so touching.

I wanted to go over and give them a hug and tell them all about you, but I couldn’t.  Oh, how I wish my Chinese was better!  Instead I tried to show my feelings through the emotions on my face and I hoped that they would see that my stares were out of admiration and not out of disgust.  I’m sure that those parents were used to having people stare, probably not so nicely, at their daughter and I really wanted them to know that I was not one of those people.

Seeing that family gave me hope for this country.  Maybe more and more families like this one will decide to keep their precious babies no matter what their diagnosis.  And maybe they will chose to love them, really love them, and treat them as they would any “normal” baby.  Maybe in a few years stories like yours won’t be such a rarity.

I pray for the babies, born and unborn, who are sick in this country. I pray that their parents will see their worth and will be proud to love them like the family I saw today was.  I pray that I will see this family again and I will be able to share all these thoughts that I have in my head.

Thank you, Sophia, for giving me a chance to experience love and gain empathy in an area of life that I might never have.  Even though you have been gone for almost 9 months you still continue to teach me lessons and shape my life.

I love you so much.



Your Daddy (37 Weeks)


Dear Sophia,

This week I want to talk to you about your daddy.  You know, the one with the stubbly chin that always loved to rub your hand on it?  Your daddy.

Your daddy has loved you as long as you have been in existence.  The day I told him I was pregnant I think was one of the happiest in his life.  I heard his smile through the phone that day. 

When I was pregnant with you he used to lay his head on my belly and put his mouth right against my skin.  Then he’d talk to you in a hushed voice as he told you secrets—just yours and his.  I can only imagine he was telling you how much he loved you, how he was praying for you, and maybe even how he was scared for you. 

The night you decided to come into this world he was an amazing support to us both.  He let me squeeze his hand and he helped me breathe slowly in-and-out.  He told me that he was thinking about you the whole time.  He couldn’t wait to meet you.

After you were born, you were taken to the PICU, and your daddy followed you there.  He sat outside the room on a hard, plastic chair for hours in the hopes he’d get to see you.  He had been up all night helping me, but still he waited and stayed close so he could protect you, even if from a distance.

During your life he was my rock.  He held my hand on the hard days and rejoiced with me on the good.  He listened to me, held me while I cried, prayed with me, and experienced moments with me that no one else will ever understand.  It was just him, you, and me in this strangle little world for 47 days.

sophia and daddy 2

Each day of your life he came and visited you.  He had to work also, so he would see you for the first visiting hours, go to work, come back to the hospital for the second visiting hours, then go back to work.  He’d come home for an hour and half, then go back to the hospital for a third visit.  And get up the next day and do it all again.

He’d leave his cellphone on during class in case the doctors called, and sometimes they did.  Sometimes he’d get a call that something really bad was happening to you, and then he’d either have to leave work, or go back to teaching his little students.  He had to face healthy 3 and 4 year olds each day, all the while having a sick daughter of his own in the hospital.  He had to see them jump into the arms of their parents after class while knowing that he’d never get to experience that with you.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand how hard that was for him. 

The last days of your life he was there with you, 24 hours a day.  He held you, prayed for you, sang to you, rocked you, and finally, on that last night, got to lay down next to you.


He told me that was one thing he’d always wanted to do—lie next to you and just cuddle with you.  He was able to do that one night, your last night on Earth.  He fell asleep holding your hand, and I will never ever forget that image:  a daddy holding the hand of a daughter he so desperately wanted to save, but would soon have to say goodbye to.

After you died he held you close to his chest. He held you so tight, the way that daddy’s are supposed to.  I know in those moments after your death he was imagining all the things he would miss with you.  He was seeing you skip off to your first day of school.  He was imagining taking your pictures at your high school prom.  He was picturing how beautiful you would have been on your wedding day, and how it would have felt to walk you down the aisle and give you away.  But then he had to open his eyes and see that you were gone.


Your daddy let me carry you out of the PICU because he knew it had always been my dream.

You see, your daddy is a very sensitive man, and a great listener.  That’s what made me fall in love with him.  And he paid attention to the things that I wanted, and needed, while you were alive and after you died.  He loves us so much—his girls. 

And now Sophia, he is a great daddy to your foster brother, Champ.  He takes turns with me doing “night duty” and “morning duty”.  He goes to work each day, and doesn’t complain when I ask him to feed and care for Champ when he gets home because I’ve been with him all day. 

He is a really, really great daddy.  And it breaks my heart that he only got to be your daddy for 47 days.  It breaks my heart that you didn’t get to know him more, and that he didn’t get to live out his daddy dreams in you.  My heart breaks for the relationship that could have been that died on July 22, 2013.  

I hope you knew how much he loved you.  I hope you know how much he loves you still, and how often he still looks at your photographs. 

We both love you so much, our little bear cub.



Peace in the Waiting (36 Weeks)

A few weeks back I wrote you a similar letter to this one, but it’s still lingering in my mind and heart and so I have to continue to share it with you.

My dearest Sophia,

Today I saw a picture of a new baby that had just been born.  She was being held by a smiling family member, with the caption “welcome to the family baby girl, we love you.”

I thought to myself, ‘that should be me.’

Then I realized

              that WAS me.


                          And then it wasn’t.


In just over two months it will be, what would have been, your first birthday. (It still seems painfully surreal to me when I have to type words like that…what would have been.)

As we get closer to that date, I keep thinking ‘when will my next baby come?’  Where is he or she, and why is God taking this long?

I think when you died I made a contract with God in my head: He would surely allow me to have another baby before a year had passed.  It seemed that was just the right thing for Him to do. 

Like I have any right to say what God should be doing or when He should do it.

But here we are, 10 months out, and there is no baby.  No pregnancy in sight.  And I start to have this feeling of desperation well up inside of me.

What if one year passes and I’m still not pregnant?

I don’t think I had even considered that as a possibility almost one year ago. 

When you go through a big loss, like we did when we lost you, it’s easy to think that God is going to take it easy on you from then on.  You get a little arrogant and reason with yourself, ‘Ok, He has allowed me go through this, surely the rest of my life will come without more heartbreak.  He must feel extra pity on me now.’

You want to believe that pregnancies will come easy, babies will be born healthy, and life will be smooth sailing because you’ve been through the roughest of storms and surely that was enough.

I’ve learned that isn’t the way things work.

And because things don’t work that way it’s easy for me to get dissatisfied, angry, lonely, desperate, resentful, and sad.  It is so, so easy to see someone (especially someone who has another child) post a picture of a positive pregnancy test and immediately think ‘they don’t deserve another one as much as I do.’  It’s a terrible thought, I know it, but I would be lying if it didn’t cross my mind.

You might wonder, but what about Champ?

Having your foster brother here gives me a purpose for my day-to-day life, and gives me a feeling of satisfaction in taking care of him.  But he doesn’t fill the giant ache in my heart that longs for a child of my own.  Because he isn’t our own.  And I can’t love him the way I would love my own baby, because I need to protect my heart for the day that he goes away to be with his forever family.

Oh Sophia, I’m sorry this letter has been so full of self-pity.

I pray that God will help me to be satisfied with what I have.  I pray that He will give me another child, but that in the interim (however long that may be) He will give me peace and He will help me fill that feeling of something is missing in Him.

I pray for peace in the waiting.

I wait for the day I can see you again.  I wait for the moment I can hold you in Heaven and show you to all those who never met you and say ‘this is my girl.’

I LOVE you. So, so much.





35 Weeks

Dear Sophia,

This week marked 8 months since your passing.  Eight long, back-and-forth months.

I wanted to share a few things with you this week.  First of all, I wanted you to know that I got to tell your story to another person—my favorite thing to do.

We were in the hospital for 5 days because your foster brother Champ was getting his cleft palate repaired.  The nurses and hospital staff were all a little confused as to the situation surrounding him.  They weren’t quite sure why a foreigner was taking care of a Taiwanese baby, especially a Taiwanese baby with so many “problems.”

One of his nurses came right out and asked me, “Why are you taking care of this boy who looks so different?”

I told her it’s because his mother could no longer take care of him herself.

She was still very confused.

“I know, but why are you taking care of this child.  He has a lot of problems, you know.  I just don’t understand why you would take so much time to take care of a child like this.”

Sophia, my defenses immediately went up.  I wanted to speak unkindly to this lady, but I paused for a minute and realized I could use this situation to really give her a different perspective on special needs children, and their worth.

“I believe that every baby is special to God, and that they all deserve a chance to be loved and cared for.”

“Yes, but doesn’t he take a lot of time to care for? I think a baby like this would be a lot of trouble.”

“Sure, it does take a lot of time to take care of him, but what should I do?  Should I just leave this child alone to die?”

…silent pause…

“Well, I know if I wasn’t a nurse, if I worked in an office, I would not want to care for this baby.”

And this, Sophia, is where I got to share all about  you.  I told the nurse about how we knew you would be sick before you were born, but we chose to love you anyway.  I told her that your face didn’t look “normal” either, but that you were the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen.  I told her how much we loved you, simply because you were our daughter and a gift from God.  I told her that you didn’t need to be a certain way to earn our love, but we just gave it to you freely.  I let her know that we loved you each day until you died, and that we never regretted loving you so fiercely.

Tears filled my eyes as I talked about you.

And then tears filled that nurse’s eyes too.

“Ok.  I think I understand…  You are such a good, and kind woman to care of a child like this.”

“It is a privilege to care for a child like this.

She left, still with tears in her eyes, and a look on contemplation on her face.  I pray that watching us love on Champ helped really change her idea of the beauty and importance of all lives.  And I know that hearing your story, Sophia, made her heart a little softer.

The second thing I wanted to share with you is that we received your Sophia bear, from Molly Bears last week.  I joined the waitlist for your bear shortly after you died, but it was going to be a three year wait.  Some of your daddy’s side of the family came together to buy an “Express Pass” that meant we would get the bear much sooner.  She was created to be the exact weight you were when you passed away—12 lbs and 1 oz.

But that’s not all.  Because you see baby, you have 2 bears that were made for you.  You have your Sophia bear from the Molly Bears, and you have one that your grandma lovingly made for you.  She gave it to me at Christmas because she knew it would be a long time before I got our Molly Bear. 

Both bears are so special to us, and it means everything that we have a tangible representation of you.

sophia bear 2

This is the bear your grandma made for you.  She made the cape and the little dress, and the shorts are made from one of the blankets you used to use in the hospital.


sophia bear 1

Here is your “Sophia Bear” from Molly Bears.  We were able to suggest colors/images that we would love to have on the bear, but there were no promises.  I think she came out perfect.


sophia bear 5


I love you baby.  Till next week…



34 Weeks


Dear Sophia,

Tomorrow we are taking your foster brother, Champ, to the hospital for his cleft palate repair.  He has been sick for the past ten days, and so I’ve been very busy trying to get him better. 

I’m excited for him to get this surgery, because it will make it easier for him to eat and drink, but I’m very nervous for all the pain he is going to have to endure.

You know, if you had lived, you would have had to get your cleft lip and palate repaired.  If you had lived then maybe right now we’d be preparing for your surgery.  But you’re not here anymore, and I don’t have to worry about you.

It still amazes me how God chose this specific little boy to come into our home.  He chose a baby that had so many similarities to you, so that we’d be able to experience some of the things we never got to do with you—even if it’s a surgery.

I remember before you were born we researched a lot about how to care for a baby with a cleft lip, and then after you were born that seemed to be the smallest issue you had.  Cleft lip and palate?  No problem.  We had to deal with holes in your heart, and missing brain structures, and chromosomal abnormalities.

Looking back I realize that if we had to prepare for your cleft lip/palate surgery, then it would mean you were relatively healthy.  It would have seemed like a gift, a blessing, that we had made it that far down the list of things we needed to “fix” for you.

And here I am, with a different baby, and this surgery seems like the biggest thing in the world.

It’s funny how your perspective can change so much, depending on the situation you are in.

Growing up I saw pictures of children with cleft lips, but they were always from different countries, on commercials for some charity.  To me, children with cleft lips were those big brown-eyed kids with dirty faces and torn clothes peeking shyly from behind a crumbling wall.  That medical issue seemed so distant and far from my reality, and I never thought I would have any personal connection to it.

Yet, I have now cared for two children with cleft lips and palates, and that has become my idea of “normal.” 

cleft collage

Now, when I look at babies that are born healthy and with “normal” facial features, it just seems strange to me.  I can’t believe that people can actually have perfectly healthy babies, and that it’s more common than uncommon for them to be born that way.

My reality is filled with wide smiles and scarred lips.  But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  It was a privilege to care for you, and it’s a privilege to care for him.

I’ll be thinking about you tomorrow, baby. I’ll be wishing it was you that was there.

I love you.



A Unexpected Surprise (33 weeks)


Dear Sophia,

There are little to no surprises about your life anymore.  There isn’t any fact about your health, or the events of your 47 days of life that I don’t know.  There will never be any new milestones in your life, new stories to tell, or any new photographs to share.  Except for the new stories that arise that are connected to your legacy, there will never be anything that I could learn about you that I don’t already know now.

That’s what makes “surprises” like this picture so meaningful.



This picture.

Oh, this picture.

Your dad sent it to me a few weeks ago and asked me if I had ever seen it.

I hadn’t.

It was one last precious surprise in our story together.

Now Sophia, to many people this picture wouldn’t seem too special.  They might think that the lighting isn’t great or that there is a lot of clutter in the background, or why oh why does that person have headphones on her bare belly?

But to me this picture represents so much of our journey together. 

It is a physical reminder of your presence in this world. I was about 24 weeks along here.

It shows just one of the things I wanted to share with you. Music is such a large part of my life. I always imagined us twirling around singing songs to Jesus.

It represents the hope I had for your life.  I truly believed you could hear all the music that I played for you and that one day those same songs would comfort your outside the womb.


Now Sophia, at first that’s all I saw in this picture.  But then your daddy said “look what song is playing on your iPod.”

Baby, it immediately brought tears to my eyes.

Our song.  I was listening to our song. 

Oh, how He loves us.  That was always our song.  And in this picture I was reminded, once again, of the goodness of our Savior.

He knew that almost 8 months after your death I would need to be reminded that He was always there.  Even in the photograph that I had never seen.

That very song is the one that I used to listen to and sing to myself over and over when we first heard about your possible diagnosis.  I had to remind myself, through this song, that God still loved you and me, and that He was going to make everything ok.  I remember sitting in bed with tears streaming down my face, night after night, listening to this song and I remember sitting in your hospital bed, night after night, singing it to you.  We played this very song at your memorial service while a video of your life was played.

And this is the very song, one of the only songs, that I have not listened to since July 22, 2013.  I simply have not been ready to hear it.

But finding this picture and getting this unexpected surprise has made me think that maybe it’s time.  Maybe this picture was God’s way of letting me know that it’s ok to hear the song again.  Maybe it was Him saying “it’s ok to sit in your bed and cry while your hear these words of love from Me to you.  I was with you the first time you cried, and I’m still here now.”

I feel like this picture was a gift from Him to me, and I’m so thankful for it.  I will add it to the other photos and memories of you that I carry around in my heart.

I love you, and I miss you.



Carrying You With Me (32 Weeks)


Dear Sophia,

Nine months ago, today, you were born.

That means it’s been eighteen months since you first came into my life, and into my womb.

I had so many dreams and goals for you.  There was so much I wanted to show you and share with you.   We should have had the whole world to experience together, and yet that never happened.  I was never ever able to show you anything except the inside of the PICU.

I could never carry you outside the walls of the hospital, so now I carry you places in my heart.

This past week I carried you to the beach in Kenting.  Do you remember the last time I was there?  We were there.  Together.  The last time I was in Kenting was on my babymoon, almost exactly a year ago.


I remember feeling quite pregnant with you at that time.  Little did I know that I would still have almost ten weeks more to go before you decided you were ready to come out.

When we decided to go back to Kenting last week, my first thought was of you.  It made me so sad that we were returning without you, when the last time we had been there was to celebrate you.

It was just another reminder of the emptiness that I have in my arms and in my heart and in my life.

Still, it was a trip I needed to make in order to conquer that source of grief.  I’ve found in my grief journey that if I shrink back from the things that make me sad then they just grow bigger and scarier and harder to overcome in the end.  I knew that if I didn’t go back to Kenting now, then I would never want to go back and I would forever claim it as “the place where we had the babymoon of our daughter who is now dead.”

The trip was short (less than 48 hours) but it was just what I needed to heal that piece of my memory.  We took your foster brother Champ, which was great, and a part of the healing process.  God uses him almost every day to help me heal, and although he isn’t our forever son, he is the baby we have now that can allow us to do the things we always wanted to do with you.

I got to take him to his first trip to the beach.  I got to dip his toes in the cold ocean water.  I got to hold him while he slept with the warm sea air blowing across his face.  All those things that I had wanted to do with you, I got to do with him.

But he is not you…

…and we did not forget you. 

You were there with us.  You were there in the multiple Superman shirts and necklaces that I saw.  You were there in your name written in the sand, and you were there in my heart.

sophia beach collage


So here’s to the many more adventures that I can share with you.  Here’s to the experiences that I am learning not to shy away from, but embrace, knowing that I carry you with me.

Here’s to you always being my little girl.



things Not Promised (31 weeks)


This past week we got to once again share your life with this world.  Daddy and I spoke at church about the blessings that came from deciding to keep you even though you were sick, and deciding to love you even though you were most likely going to leave us.  It was a such a joy to talk about you, and it reminded me again of just how proud I was of you.

Dear Sophia,

This past week I was thinking (as I often do) about how my life has changed since we found out we were pregnant with you.  One of the ways your life has shifted my way of thinking is in the realm of life and death.

I realized that besides being robbed of your life, I have also been robbed of the chance to ever normally enjoy a pregnancy again.

Because I’ve become a little more jaded.  A little more cynical.

I’ve seen that pregnancy does not equal a child, or a healthy child at that.

I look at all the moms-to-be on Facebook or in magazines with their glowing faces and hands lovingly caressing their swollen bellies, and I think—I want to be them.

I want another baby.

And I want to not be afraid to want another baby.

I want to be able to see those two pink lines again and be assured that in 9 months a baby will be in my arms.  And in another 9 months that same baby will be able to look at my face, and smile, and know who I am and interact with me.

I want to be able to plan a nursery without first feeling like I need to plan a memorial service.

I want something that I have been robbed of—the hope that life can go on “like it’s supposed to” and that not every life that I carry has to end in death.

But baby, I’m afraid that I can’t, and will never have those things.  And what’s hardest to stomach is the fact that I’m not promised any of those things.

Just because you died, that doesn’t mean that I have a “get out of another baby-death free card.”  And just because we struggled with infertility before you, it doesn’t mean that now another baby will come as soon as I want it to be here.

Those things just aren’t promised to me.

And I know that God is with me now, and will continue to be with me.   But just because He’s with me, that doesn’t mean that everything will happen the way that I want it to.

I guess that I’m just struggling with this lately.  I’m wishing that I could go back to the old Sarah who believed that most things have happy endings, but the truth is I’m not the same girl I was before you.  You changed me…

…for better and for worse.  But mostly better.


I absolutely LOVED being pregnant.  Every.single.minute.



The Worst Club in the World (30 weeks)


Dearest Sophia,

This past week I accidentally stumbled across a few videos and blogs that were about other parents who had lost their children.  In one video there was a woman who had tried for ten years to get pregnant, and then when she finally did, she miscarried that baby.  While she was describing the deepness of her devastation and loss I found my eyes fixed on the screen with my head shaking up and down in agreement with her feelings.

In one of the blogs I came across a woman who was pregnant with twins and ended up losing them both.  The first little boy died shortly after birth and they truly believed the other would live—that God would spare his life—but he died the next day.  As I read the words that their mother had painstakingly typed, after their death, I could see myself in each letter.

It seems like the only people who could ever begin to understand what I’ve gone through, are those who have gone through the loss of their own child.

Since your death I have joined an exclusive club—the “parents of dead children” club.  It’s one that you would never wish to join, and you don’t have a choice as to whether or not you’re admitted as a member.  It’s the worst club in the world, yet at the same time there are beautiful kinships that are found there.

For those of us who refuse to let the lives of our lost little ones go silent, there is an intimate group of souls there to empathize and just listen.

I have met and communicated with several other mommies who lost their babies and it has helped me heal.

I think that those relationships are so important to have, because without them I would feel completely lost and alone.

I guess I just want anyone who is reading this, and has lost a child, to know that I’m here to listen.  I’m so proud of you, Sophia, and your life—you–taught  me so much.  But in your death I learned and experienced things that are very exclusive, and if anyone reading this is looking for another “club member”,  I’m here.


On a different note, I was also thinking about you in Heaven.  What are you doing?  What do you look like?  Have you made a lot of friends, and are you there to welcome all the other new babies?  What is it like to see Jesus face to face, and to worship at the Throne of God?  Will you be there waiting for me when it’s my turn to die?

I miss you, Sophia.  I can’t believe that it’s been 30 weeks, 3 days short of 7 months.

Miss you everyday, my little bear cub.