I Can Only Imagine
Today is not a special day, it has no meaning whatsoever with regards to my son. Other than this could be an anniversary of one of the days I was pregnant with him, and a day when I was rubbing my tummy, smiling, talking to him, planning our future games and road trips together, and dreaming about cuddling him as he falls asleep at night.
All day long, I've been listening to the song "I can only imagine" because my step-daughter, age thirteen, has to practice it for her solo in church tomorrow. The song automatically reminds me of a friend that lost her daughter to ovarian cancer at the age of eighteen. They played it at her funeral.
The funeral brings me back to the loss of my son. And how I can only imagine what it would be like to get to heaven one day and see him, hold him, be with him, love him in a way that I was denied. The best gift I could have ever given him was his presence in heaven and with Jesus. Now I can only pray that I'll make it there to be with him one day.
And when I do, after having been in Jesus' arms, will mine be good enough for my baby boy? Will they be able to hold him with a love that he will know is from his mommy? Will he even know me at all? I mean, he was just a baby.
From the alter's sides, they lost a son too. Jay especially, he was hard hit by the loss. But I was hit the hardest and it still hits me the hardest on any random day. This is nothing compared to those special days. The day I conceived him. The day I first saw his heart beat. The day he got his first picture taken in my tummy. The day I first felt him move, the day my girl and I felt him together. The day I found out I lost him. The day I gave birth to his beautiful still body. The days I held him to my heart, our skin against each others and me tracing his body just so I would never forget. The last day I got to hold him. The day of his funeral. The date range that he would have been born had I been blessed enough to have him alive and with me.
He'd be a year and a half right now, cruising around the floor, giggling, playing, smiling, throwing toys everywhere, falling down and crying, and me taking joy in being there for all of it. Instead, the floor has a dog laying on it, the toys for the nephew are neatly put away in their box until his next visit. Instead of baby pictures on the bookshelf, I have a picture of his tiny little feet, and just above is a fr
I can't end this story in any "wrap-it-up" style, so I'm just going to stop here for now.