The Inevitable...

I suppose it was inevitable...
I have a pretty wicked shopping addiction. Fortunately for my husband, it's the worst when I'm at thrift shops, yard sales, or resale shops. I'm also pretty practical about reusing and up-cycling (everything can be reused or sold). I haven't always been this way--okay, I've always had a serious shopping problem; it's just that until the leaner years (thanks, Mr. President), I wasn't as into the thrifts shops. I also put everything on plastic, which I'm in the process of paying off...again...
Anyways, I love to shop, but I love to sell...and I also love to give when I can. With both Hannah and Jericho, I was blessed with a considerable amount of new and used clothing. The clothing I was given has been passed along to several other new mothers, or has been upcycled at a favorite shop of mine, and traded for more secondhand clothes for my son.
Of course, Hannah didn't get to wear much; we had a huge amount of clothing that I had washed and sorted (so it couldn't be returned); I can't begin to remember all of the people we gave it to, but they all knew it was given with love, and with a broken heart. I'm glad that their little girls got to wear the ruffles and bows...and truthfully, I'm glad I never ran into anyone wearing one of Hannah's dresses. I think it would have shattered me.
With Jericho's clothes, it's been delightful to see where they've gone. One friend of mine brought her son home from the hospital in a particularly cute outfit of Jericho's. It was so cute to see our babies in the same monkey-suit! And since her baby was like, twice the size of mine, he looked even funnier in it.
As many things of Hannah's that we could reuse, we did. We had the nursery bedding packed away; she never used it, and it was a gender-neutral jungle design that Jericho loves. There were yellow onesies, white onesies, Blues outfits, some Cardinals gear--we kept what we could, within reason. I didn't get rid of the very last of her clothes until I found out Bug was a boy. We kept books, CDs, certain toys...we had hope that we'd have another baby, and I'm thankful we kept what we did.
So, it was inevitable that one day, I'd run into something of hers that I'd forgotten was hers, and that it would sucker-punch me in the gut.
And it did, 3 days ago.
Books are friends, right? And I firmly believe one should never gift a book without an inscription.
I grabbed a book for Jericho's nightly Bible time and story time, and there it was, from some dear friends and prayer warriors of ours..."For Hannah: Love, The Renauds, 2006"
I stopped breathing for a minute; tears welled up, and I couldn't help but cry...
But there was my boy,
Looking at me...
Big blue/brown eyes staring up at me quizzically...
Tiny hands touched my knees...patted my legs...
He is my now.
Even though I was sitting in what was her room, in the only piece of furniture that we kept--the rocking chair--even though the words on that page had me split-second thinking of what we missed out on---
He is my now.
I looked at him and dried my tears. I kissed his head, and said, "It's all right, Bug. This was your sisters. And now I'm going to read you the stories I didn't get to read her...but it's okay, because she's living them as we speak."
I know he doesn't understand, and I have no idea how David and I are going to approach the subject when he asks (I'm sure he will; her pictures are on the wall, and it's only a matter of time). What I do know, is that all I ever want him to know is how much we loved her, and how much we loved him; how much her tiny life changed ours forever, and how much we learned...and how faithful God is at keeping His promises, and in never wavering in His heart's desires for our lives.
The occasional sucker-punch never hurt anyone, right? Sometimes it's what it takes to remind us how far we've come...and how much the blessing right under our noses really means to us...
I love that boy.

The Garden Alone...

I had these wonderful aspirations of sitting down to write every day, and it just isn't happening. But I think I need to be okay with that--I mean, life is hectic (for me, and for everyone else). The drive to write, for me, is frequently sparked in frustration or in a lack of feeling like I've truly expressed myself (most of the time). I write the most when I'm untangling drama in my head; lately, although there's been no shortage of drama, I truthfully just don't care about it. I have other things to think about.
I keep waiting for the "new mom euphoria" to fade, but it hasn't. :) Don't get me wrong--there are days when I'm home at 6, after being up since 4, and I'm exhausted; dealing with the dishes or the house is NOT on my to-do list; and the Tiny Human is in full Tiny-Tyrant mode. Those aren't smiling-happy-shiny-people moments...but I wouldn't trade them for the world.
In my heart-of-hearts, I am happy.
That being said, I don't have much fuel for angst-ridden writing right now...and that's a good thing. I'm learning to write in all aspects of my life...without deadlines...without unrealistic rules...without comparison.  So, sure, I said I was going to write every day. I've failed at it.
Again.
And I have to tell myself that's okay.
It's officially SPRING, which is my absolute favorite season. When I was in college, Autumn was my favorite. After losing Hannah, Fall has taken on a particular melancholy...although I appreciate it, and it's truly the most beautiful season, it will always be colored by bittersweet memories. My life has changed...Spring has sprung, in so many ways...
Green leaves...sunny skies...gentle rains...Even though here in St. Louis, where we have the most bipolar weather in the world, spring still brings with it the freshest smells, longer days, and the sounds of birds returning from their winter away.  I love it. 
Spring also means it's time for me to start working on my Garden.
I started gardening 3 years ago, per the advice of some close friends. They introduced me to the concept of raised garden beds. I live in an area where our dirt is AWFUL; it's full of rocks, and the chemical makeup makes it unsuitable for growing anything but grass. I don't have a tiller (or the desire to shred my back while using one), and my back yard turns into a mudpit during heavy rains, so raised beds were a genius suggestion. I bought two of them, put them together all by myself, and started my small garden back in 2012. The best thing about it, is the fact that every year I start my seedlings in the windowsill of my office. Even my bosses seem to be impressed at my use of space; my windowsill currently houses 80 seedlings that are growing unbelievably fast. They'll sit there until next month, when my Burpee app tells me it's time to plant...(BTW--if you garden, get that app! It's fantastic!)
When I downloaded my Burpee app, it asked me to name my garden. Hmm--that's an interesting thought.
I got nuthin.'
I actually thought about it for a few minutes: Did I want something Cute ("Cooley's Corner?")? Something Funny ("Gnome Home")? What's in a name?
The words to the old hymn came to mind..."I come to the Garden alone; while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses...and He walks with me, and He talks with me; and He tells me I am His own (yeah, I know--you can't read that without singing it!)..."
When I began my garden in March of 2012, I had many doubts. After all, I can't grow anything. I've never had the patience...and the more I worked on it, the more I began to see what a metaphor it was for my life. I didn't think it would work--after all, everything I tried to grow, died...even my child...It was a horrible thought to have, and as I started my seeds, I prayed to God the plants didn't die. I couldn't stand the thought of investing so much, and having it flop. Maybe, just maybe, I could start over...I could try again. Maybe my hands could find something to cultivate....maybe I could see something come to fruition.
I was still, even 6 years after Hannah died, deeply hurt by her loss. I hadn't quite gotten to April of 2012, when for some reason, the love of God just clicked in my head. I still felt like God hated me, like He didn't pick me to be a mom. I was still really struggling with disappointment, with feeling like a failure...I started the garden, praying my heart of hearts that I wouldn't fail at this, too...like I'd failed at parenting...
Clarification: I knew that I really didn't fail at parenting. Hannah's death was a disease, and it was something NO ONE could have seen coming. I just couldn't unbury myself from that feeling, though, that I wasn't good enough to raise her, and that I'd failed her, regardless of the sermons, prayers, and lectures that said otherwise. It just hadn't clicked yet.
So, I started the garden. In March, April, and early May, things began to change in our house. Someone preached a sermon where they stated that just because you had prayed for a healing one time, and God didn't allow it to happen, didn't mean that you STOPPED praying for healing. That registered with me...faith began to grow.
I planted seeds...watered them...prayed over them...I knew they weren't a metaphor, but it just felt like it was...
Someone preached a sermon about the love of God. I'm not sure exactly when, but around that time is when I finally told my husband that I didn't think God loved me...I don't remember what he said, but something clicked, and healing started happening...
And the seeds turned into plants...
Spring brought changes in the house; we did a mini-makeover, and I got to redecorate the living room and kitchen.  We freshened up the house, we opened up some windows and added more colors, and the garden continued to grow beyond my expectations...
David isn't too into the garden. Sure, he eats the veggies, and will do some of the grunt-work when I desperately need him (I really struggle with the 50-pound bags. I can lift them, but the consequences are not good); however, it's mine. And the longer I have a garden, the more I appreciate the investment of time.  It's my alone time...
It's me and God...in the garden...alone.
It's where He speaks to me...it's where He breaths life into something that was dead.
I can't go into my garden without thinking of the times that I felt like a desolate wasteland, and  thinking of the time that He spent healing me.
I spent many years as a broken woman; anyone who has buried their child can relate. The process of coming out of that brokenness is long, and cannot be judged by anyone. And as far as I can see, the only way out is through Jesus.
After many years of winter, March and April of 2012 began a season of Spring in my heart. Just as seeds were planted, hope was planted and renewed...by the time flowers began to appear in May of 2012, I began to suspect changes were on the horizon...
Sure enough...in June of 2012 I discovered I was pregnant.
Spring began...and so far, in my heart, it's still going on. 
My seeds have been planted this year, and are already going crazy in my planters on my windowsill at work. I'm not sure how I'm going to manage working in my garden while taking care of my little one...I may have to invest in a little bordered "pen" in my yard, for him to be in while I work, on the days David works late. I'm not sure--but I know that I am excited as I think about all of the beautiful possibilities in The Garden Alone this year.
Time in The Garden Alone...time to teach my son about life...time for God to teach me more lessons about His love...
Time for Him to "tell me I am His own," for one more season...

Other People Stole My Memories...

Disclaimer: I've been sick with the stomach flu, and I just took something for the God-awful body pain that I've been in for 3 days. I should totally be in bed, but something on Facebook just tripped the writer's trigger, so if I don't write, my head will probably explode. I'm okay, just shaken, so don't take this as some kind of off-the-wagon head trip into the padded cell. It's just writing, people, and we're all a work in progress...

Other People Stole My Memories...

I saw your post online...
How your daughter sang your son to sleep...
How you heard her angelic voice over the
Monitor in the nursery...
I saw your hashtag:
#ProudMama
Did you know it would break my heart
Into a million pieces?
Of course not--how could you?
You have so many beautiful
Rights to boast...
So many beautiful children...
Voices ringing down your halls...
Birthdays to celebrate...
Songs to sing...
Ruffles and glitter and
Everything glorious.
You deserve it all.
I'm not jealous...
No...
It's just that sometimes...
Sometimes...
I wonder what your life is like?
Did you know she'd be 8
In October?
You're not the only friend I wonder about...
If we switched lives
For just one moment.
If I could see what you see--
Hear what you hear...
Older singing to younger;
What's it like?
Please don't think I'm not grateful;
Words can't express how much I
Thank God for
What
For
Who
I hold in my arms each night.
He is everything to me,
The small one...
The mighty one...
The one who Survived The Odds...
He is the strong one...
The one who was promised to me
And I have
No
Regrets.
But sometimes...
Sometimes...
I imagine what it would be like
To hear my angel
Singing to her brother
Down the halls...

Christmas...A New Understanding

Christmas…

It’s always been my favorite time of the year.

When my parents were blessed with their house, one of my childhood dreams was fulfilled: A fireplace! With the fireplace crackling, and the snow falling outside of the picture window, every Christmas imagination I’d ever had, came true…We had an enormous Christmas tree full of sparkling things, and the world was absolutely perfect.

Christmas with my family is a gift from God.

I remember the first Christmas after Hannah died; as much as it hurts me to think about those memories, it serves to put Christmas in the light it’s meant to be seen through.  Jesus, the Son of Man…the Man Who wept at Lazarus’ grave…

His arms were around me that day, and I know He cried, too…

I cried myself to sleep that day, as my family helplessly stood by…

So many tears were shed in that first…second…third year…

I spent as many nights as possible in our family room, just staring at the fireplace, wishing I were anywhere but in the life that I had. 

David and I had nothing left…

Of course, we had a family that loved us; we had a roof over our heads, and I had a job. The lights stayed on, the cars stayed running, and life carried on

With a huge, missing chunk and an ugly hole in our hearts…

Time keeps ticking, though, and the years have gone by.  I’ve never forgotten that Christmas, though-the Christmas where the grief was so tangible, where the feeling of being abandoned, but of being held, was so strong…It’s very easy for me to go back to that place, and to remember that intensity.

If I could go back to that grieving mother…to that grieving family…and say anything

I don’t think I would.

We were all shaped that Christmas; we were all molded. From the grandmother that felt as if she were watching her children in a burning building of pain; to the mother that felt like her heart had been ripped out; to the father who didn’t know how to handle his wife or his own grief, and only knew to be strong arms; to the sister who saw it all spin helplessly out of control; to the grandfather who had let down his walls to fall in love with a tiny baby, only to see her fly away…

We were all molded and shaped.

We’re all missing that little puzzle piece.

The greatest gift, and the worst gift, I received that Christmas was a pair of earrings that said “#1 Mom.” I literally buried them in my jewelry box.

I wore them on Mother’s Day this year for what I believe is the first time.

Why would I bring this up?

Just as the snow is falling; just as the trees are being lit?

Why would I reintroduce such a sad memory?

Because it’s with me every Christmas.

Not a Christmas will go by that I don’t appreciate.

Not a Christmas will go by that I don’t compare to the most heartbreaking Christmas of my life;

Every time I do, I will rejoice and be thankful that those are days I never have to go through, again.

Every time I think about the Worst Christmas, I will celebrate The Best Christmases of My Life…which is pretty much every one I’ll have from this point, on.

I reminded my mom of my Best Christmas Ever: I was incredibly sick; I’d been sick in my bedroom, and I was miserable. I came down our stairs to find an enormous Sylvester, and a full set of furniture for my dolls. I grabbed Sylvester (and Tweety, naturally); curled up on the couch, and went to sleep.

The site of those amazing toys made me so happy; I still remember the intensity of that emotion, even though it had to be almost 30 years ago.  I can jump right back into that memory, and it still makes me smile….

Because of the hardest Christmas ever, I am afraid to hope for this Christmas. I’m afraid that once I verbalize my dream, it will be snatched away. It’s a struggle I’ve had since before Bug was born. Although I’ve not held back any emotion or love from him, it’s made me not want to verbalize my hopes and dreams for certain things. It’s also made me stomp my foot, stand my ground, and make myself say it anyways. I don’t know how long he has; I don’t know how long I have. I’m increasingly aware that we’re all on a countdown, and God alone knows when it stops. Rather than hide under the fear that keeps us from declaring and from going forward, I’d rather set my face and take my chances…even when I’m scared to death to put my heart out there.

I want to embrace the excitement.

What does he think of this season? I want to see it how he sees it…He laughs as we drive home in the dark, when we pass the houses with all of their lights. He’s fascinated by the sequined tree skirt, by how it catches the light. He wants to touch everything, to feel the textures…and of course, he wants to put EVERYTHING in his mouth.

He’s incredibly active, crawling, touching, standing, picking up, reaching, smacking, slobbering, and the sweetest of all—he’s hugging. The days when I pick him up at the babysitter’s are when it hits me the most, how much he’s grown: He crawls toward me with a big smile, clapping to see my face. This week, he grabbed my ears and pulled my face close to his, so he could bite my nose.

It’s the most beautiful moment of my day.

How could I hold back?

How could I let fear stop me from embracing these moments?

From hoping for a future?

From believing for His plan, for His hope, for His destiny for me? For my child?

How could I let the fear and pain of Christmases past, cloud any of the joy in Christmas today?

I can’t.

I won’t.

I will celebrate this Christmas; I will embrace this season…I AM embracing this season.

I’m finding that like last Christmas (only amplified), that songs about The Child are affecting me deeply. I can’t imagine what Mary went through—no clean hospital, no knowledgeable staff or medications; no ERs or nurses, or even her mother to hold her hand…no sterilization, no clean towels…

Not even a bed, to lay her Newborn in.

“Away in a Manger” has never made me cry before…I can’t even listen to it this year.

How could He bring Himself into this world? “No crib for a bed?”

My son relies on my husband and I for everything—food, shelter, water, love…clean diapers, toys, health.

The Son of God needed someone to change His diaper, to rock Him to sleep…

Did she understand?

He had to learn to walk…to fall down, and bump His head…

To cry…

To be hungry…

To be broken…

How great is our salvation?

I think about my son, and I think about The Son, and I’m stunned…why, oh why, did He do that? How could He? How can He see us as worthy?

How can He see our broken hearts, and our broken messes in life, yet find us worthy of such sacrifice? How can He see our pain, and cry with us? How can He see our joy (compared to what He knows), and laugh with us? How, and why, can He love us?

He became like us…one of us…He knows us from the inside out, and still redeems us…He still gives us hope. He still has faith in us, which is amazing…

It’s the time of year when the whole world sparkles; it’s a season of hope, yet our news is full of people in pain and in sadness.  Celebrating the season doesn’t make the darkness go away…it does remind people of family and tradition, of stories and of imagination, even in the secular world.

For me, it reminds me of childhood…of deep and painful memories…of healing, and most of all, of hope…

My son will most likely not remember his first Christmas.

I, for one, will never, ever forget it…

I have never been more thankful for my Savior, than when I see Him reflected in my own child…I have never appreciated His sacrifice like I do in this moment. This Christmas feels like MY first Christmas…it feels like I’m seeing it through a completely different set of lenses. The emotion of this season is overwhelming…I want to shake people, to ask them if THEY GET IT. Do they SEE it? Do they feel it? When they hear “a Child, a Child, shivers in the cold; let us bring Him silver and gold,” do their hearts break for a King that became helpless? For a King Who cried when He needed His mother’s touch?

He became we…

I know this blog is long…I know I’ve gone on for a long time, but I’m entrenched in this…

It’s not just about Christmas…

It’s about motherhood…about being His Child…about seeing Him in my child…about seeing Him with new eyes, and with a new heart….It’s about realizing His true humility, and the reality of what He did at the beginning of His story on earth…

It’s about rediscovering joy in the midst of heartache, about finding the new with respect to the old…

It’s about believing in the possibility of the unexpected…about declaring that the formerly-impossible is happening.

It’s about the gift of the present…the Presence…

It’s about the celebration of the Sacrifice…how it gives us such Hope, Peace, Joy, Happiness…

Christ is Christmas…no amount of pain or joy can change that.

May this season be one of eyes being opened to the Truth of the holiday…of hearts being broken for Him, and repaired by His love…of Hope for the future, and of Destiny in His grace…May you celebrate The Child and the Sacrifice with true understanding…

May you have the ultimate Joy this season…

Flamingoes and Broken Bones...

My thoughts seem pretty scattered this week. I know—that’s normal, right? It just seems a little more scattered than usual. Sometimes blogging seems like the only way to sort it all out…

I figured out the catalyst—Target has a whole line of little girls’ clothes with flamingoes on them, for summer. I noticed it the other day, when I was shopping for JD…(Rant—boys’ clothes are JUST NOT CUTE! They’re sarcastic, mildly flirtatious, or just plain blah. The only “cute” stuff that I’ve seen is monkeys, crabs, or monsters, and there’s only so much you can do with that. Rant over!). Before JD, I could simply walk by the baby clothes section and pretend to ignore it. Now, I actually have to shop there—this is NOT a complaint, by any means; rather, it’s an observation of the change.

Avoidance is a BRILLIANT form of therapy, LOL…

Seeing those little, pink, ruffly, flamingo-covered dresses was kind of an arrow to the chest. 

I have a friend who’s first little one was a beautiful baby girl who passed away at just 10 days old. Since then, she’s gone on to have four gorgeous boys…Each one is full of personality and love, and I know she wouldn’t trade them for anything. I talked to her in depth, after we brought JD home, and asked her how you ever get through the feeling of knowing you’ll never have that family picture, and have it be whole…you’ll never pile all of your kids up on the bed for an epic wrestling match…you’ll never see your little girl hold her baby brother…I’ve blogged about this before—this isn’t a rehash, just a reference—She’s been a huge influence on me, in realizing this adjusted reality, and in embracing the fact that this will always hurt.

It just will—it doesn’t mean I’m not healed, or that I’m stuck. It’s kind of like a bone that breaks—it’s healed, but you get that achy feeling in it, when the weather’s about to change. That’s the closest thing I can liken it to.

The benefit of having a little boy, after losing a little girl, is that you’re going through the-same-but-different. The differences are pronounced from the very beginning. Yes, the personalities are totally different; the fact that the bodies are so different allows you, as a mother, the ability to force yourself to think “this is not the same.” You’re going to relive some stuff, but not to the extreme, I believe, that you would if you’d have had another little girl. I would have been happy either way, but I truly believe that God meant for me to have my little guy, and though that’s not the only reason, I’m sure it played into His decision. I am not saying any of this to say that I wish I’d had a girl. I don’t. My little guy is perfect-he is my joy. I can’t believe that yes, it is possible to have loved so strongly, twice in one lifetime!!!

I had wondered about that—could I possibly love another child, as much as I love my Hannah? Oh, yes—most definitely. And this love is different, like JD himself: It’s incredibly strong. It’s an intense love, coupled with protective capabilities like I have never known…because I know what it means, to be without.

My little guy is an amazing testimony to the Lord, and I hope I get to tell his complete story to the world someday.

So, it’s the season of ruffly, pink, flamingo-covered dresses…and it’s a season of firsts…and it’s a bittersweet-but-mostly-sweet symphony called Summer…

And I will dream of family reunions…

Waiting to Exhale

Most of you know that there's a timeline running through my head. I've been advised to stop thinking about it...but as anyone who's lost a child knows (particularly, an infant child), that's impossible. Hannah was 29 days old when we had to make the decision to remove life support. That's a life-changing thing to go through...not only the loss of a child, but to pull that plug. It's hell, plain and simple.
JD is 29 days old, today.
I was watching the clock in the nursery, thinking to myself, "don't watch the clock." It's ridiculous--I wish I could turn my brain off. I sat in the bedroom last night, watching him, and realized that we're almost through the worst part...almost.
Everything we gain reminds us of a loss at this point...the things he does, reminds me of what she didn't do at this stage. It's a mind game that I would love to turn off, because it tends to rob me of the joy of my current situation. Ever have an issue like that? Where something from your past that has such strong ties, keeps you from celebrating the beauty of the present? It's not a Godly mentality, and I'm not so stupid that I don't recognize that.
I've always had really intense dreams, but lately, they're even more so. The other night, I dreamt that I was wrestling with both of my kids...my little boy, and my little girl. I didn't want to wake up;it was so beautiful. Reality hit: Until I get to Heaven, I will never have the chance to do that...to put both arms around both of them, to hug them and hold them together...A new wave of anger creeps in, and a new face of loss presents itself...something I never really thought about before.
Everything we gain reminds us of a loss.
I want to be mad at God again, if only for a brief moment...but then I stop and I think about the leaves , and about His careful design. Our steps are ordered by Him, even the steps that look like more of a fall. Sometimes I can look back and see the pattern in the tapestry He's woven...if not for Hannah, there would be _____. I could fill in the blanks with a 100 things that will never fill the gap of her loss.
Certain things in this process have surprised me. In the midst of celebrating JD, I'm faced with a new facet of grief that I've never had to deal with before, and I'm completely unprepared. A new line of "why" has come up, only this time, I'm in the place where I can mostly deal with not having answers.  There's a moment in which I have to force myself to exhale--to stop holding my breath, to let the tears flow, and to mourn the loss of Hannah not as my firstborn daughter, but as JD's big sister...I never really thought about it before, but it definitely hurts.
So we deal with it. I like lists, so here is what we have: We have the fear...the "let's make it through the first 30 days" fear. We have the loss...my family is missing a piece. We have the questions...God, what exactly were You thinking again, and when will I get over the fact that I don't get to have all of the answers? And we have the hope...This little guy is here, and he is loved more than he will ever know; he deserves our love without reservation, without comparison, and without compromise, and he will get it.
We have these things. And though we don't have the answers to the questions, or a quick-and-easy balm to make the hurtful things go away, we have Jesus. Even when I don't understand Him, when I go to Him with scraped knees from falling down, or a broken heart from letting my mind run away with me, He still accepts me. I'd give anything for an audible conversation with Him that's full of answers or promises for the future that were specific to our lives...I won't get that (barring a miracle). But in my list of questions and hurts, I have hope and faith, even when it's hard to access either one of them. This is a case where my heart knows what my head can't wrap around just yet. This is a process.
As of tomorrow, my son will have outlived his sister.  A certain measure of tension will be alleviated, and I am encouraged by the kind thoughts and prayers I've gotten from people who may not understand the situation, but that understand that this is tough. It's a bit of a milestone that I don't expect most people to get. Anyone who's lost a little one, and has had their "rainbow baby," though, understands. Tomorrow, I will turn off the internal clock, and I will let go of this 29 days of underlying tension. I will breathe. And I will celebrate a new phase in JDs life...At some point, I will be able to celebrate the milestones without thinking of what it might have been like, to celebrate them with Hannah, too. I don't know when that will happen, and I think other moms of "rainbows" will have some insight into whether or not that EVER happens. I have no idea. I know that I can look at him, and I can see only him...but I also know that I have thought more about Hannah over the past few months than I have in a long time (although not a day goes by where I don't think of her)...and that eventually, I'll sort through all of it. Again--it's a process.
One day at a time.
One breath at a time.
One milestone at a time.
One prayer at a time.
And slowly, but surely...
Breathe.