Tag: miss her

Time Will Tell

stephaniemoorewrites

“All will be well.

You can ask me how,

But only time will tell.”

–Gabe Dixon

A couple of months after Rory passed, I cried to Lance that we needed to have another baby.

Not that any child could replace Rory. She’s irreplaceable. One of a kind.

But I couldn’t see happiness in the future.

I wasn’t ready to stop being a mom to a young child. I wasn’t ready to not have a baby anymore.

My baby is gone. She’s gone.

And babies are hope. I mean, they’re a lot of work! But they encompass love, innocence, joy, and progression. Hope.

I’m not announcing anything here. There’s no baby in my belly.

As Lance and I talked about it, prayed about it, and talked to the boys, it felt okay.

It felt like having a baby is a righteous desire for us.

But it also felt like it wasn’t the only way we could go. There are other things that Lance and I could do in our future. That it wasn’t going to be as bleak as it felt.

I got the feeling that we’d be able to love and care for people. That my mothering wasn’t going to end as the boys left the house.

I have no idea what our future holds. It’s not something I allow myself to think about often. I still struggle to see joy in my future.

But somehow.

All will be well.

Only time will tell.

Memory! When the Boys Are Away

stephaniemoorewrites

In May Lance and the boys would go on a camp out with our church.

Rory and I didn’t waste time.

We got McDonalds.

We took it home and feasted.

Then we got in our pajamas.

Manicured and pedicured it up.

Played a game or two, usually Candyland.

Then laid back and enjoyed a movie. Her go to was always Tangled.

My heart.

In pictures.

I miss those nights.

The Hyphenated Life

stephaniemoorewrites

Living with grief is a hyphenated life. There are very few times that I feel just one emotion anymore.

When I’m experiencing a moment of joy, I’m also experiencing sadness because someone is missing. Rory should be here, experiencing this with me.

When we were in Hawai’i, we were standing by a cliff’s edge. The sun was shining down on us, warming our skin. The wind blowing through our hair, knocking hats off.

The moment was beautiful.

One of my boys came over and wrapped me in a hug. “Rory never got to go here. She never felt the wind and the sun like this.”

She didn’t. She doesn’t.

A broken-hearted thought, in the middle of remarkable experience.

A hyphenated life.

Mother’s Day

stephaniemoorewrites
This picture was taken by Mrs. Williams, her first grade teacher. She believed in Rory. She took this after Rory got a 100% on her final spelling test, correctly spelling all 175 words. Thank you, Natalie!

I believe strongly that it takes a village to raise kids.

As parents we do all we can for them.

But there are times they need people outside of us.

Grandma, aunts, cousins, neighbors, moms of friends, teachers, doctors, fellow church members, etc.

This group of people have made such a huge impact on my children.

I am eternally grateful for people that love my kids.

I’m grateful for people that reach out to them, that take time to get to know them.

Rory was in a unique situation that she got to know a lot of adults in her life. She had so many classroom parents that loved her. The school secretaries had a special relationship with her. Almost all of her teachers expressed how much they loved her.

I’m so grateful for the people that took the time to love her.

To all the women out there that love my kids.

Thank you.

I love you.

I need you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

International Bereaved Mother’s Day

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To the mom with an extra seat at the table.

To the mom with empty arms today.

To the mom with a vacant seat in the car.

To the mom with a hole in her heart.

To the mom who sobs on their birthday.

To the mom who clings to clothing late at night.

To the mom whose life never quite feels complete.

To the mom who makes it through each hour.

To the mom who holds tighter to those around.

To the mom who loves harder now.

To the mom who falls to her knees.

To the mom who finds strength somehow.

To the mom whose loss seems more than she can bear.

To the mom who stands each day anyway.

To my fellow bereaved mothers. Thank you for sharing your stories. I’m so sorry this is our journey. I see you. I love you. You make me feel less alone.

To those that love and support us. Thank you. Texting, prayers, drop by’s, treats, stories of our child, hugs, they sustain us and provide hope. We love you.