It’s been three years now, and it’s still hard for me. It’s hard for me to go back there. It’s hard for me to remember and relive that pain, and it’s hard for me to think about the daughter I have now and wonder if I will even get to keep her for as long as I want.
We never even got to hold her ashes. When I called the funeral home, to ask about them, they said they had already scattered them. Apparently there had been a mix-up with our request, so they went ahead and did that without us even knowing. They gave me the coordinates of where they had sprinkled her ashes. In the ocean. Hers, and several other babies’.
And just like that, she was gone.
My mind was blank. To this day, I still don’t know what to do with this information. Would we drive to the closest point on the coast each year and try to imagine something we were never a part of? Would we take a boat out to a specific spot and think of how her remains are now far, far away from this spot?
Instead, I’ve decided that every time I touch the ocean, there’s a little bit of her there, somewhere. I draw a heart into the sand, and the water washes it away into the vast greatness that holds her remains.
It never felt like enough, but I didn’t know what else to do.
We planted a tree in her memory in our side yard, which you can see from our dining table. It’s called the Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow tree, because the blooms come out a vibrant purple, then fade to lavender the next day, and then turn white the next day. My dad picked it out, and the symbolism of her fleeting moments with us is not lost on us. Every year it has bloomed beautifully for a few weeks, the purple, lavender, and white flowers budding, full of life. But most of the year, it is bare and empty, a reminder of the little girl we do not have anymore.
I read something on Momastary about One Good Thing, a tradition where parents invite their friends to do one good thing that day in honor of the child they have lost.
I liked it. I like the idea that we still remember, but we redeem that terrible tragedy and allow good to pour forth. What a beautiful way to remember and honor a child’s life. At first I felt like it was too late for us to start a tradition like this… after all, we’ve already missed the last three years. But that’s silly. It’s never too late to start A Good Thing.
We still love you, and we still remember you. We remember you when we hold your little sister desperately tight in our arms, and when we see your tree in bloom. We remember you in our pictures, and in the mementos of you in our home. We remember you when we see the great, vast ocean:
Your love is deeper than any oceans
Higher than the Heavens
Reaches beyond the stars in the sky
–Kutless
I think of how that ocean represents His love and His grace, and how you are now melded into that Love and Grace. And I relish in the knowledge that it’s not just symbolic- it’s true; you’re there with our Creator now, and you know that Love and Grace better than I ever will in this lifetime. Blessed Joy.
I hope we can remember you in joy and happiness by encouraging others to honor your life by doing One Good Thing.
———–
Dear Readers,
It would mean so much to me if you took a moment today to do one good thing. Whether it is holding the door for someone or donating to a charity, it would be a special way of remembering and honoring the life of our first daughter. Thank you for allowing me to share this part of my life with you.
JoEllen
31 responses to “One Good Thing”
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As a mother who has also lost a child… you are in my prayers.
<3
I don’t know the details of your loss, but I lost an infant daughter too. Her ashes are in a teddy bear buried with her grandfather. I can only imagine the horror of finding out that her ashes had been spread already. I love the idea of the tree! Please know you are in my thoughts and prayers.
Thank you, Linda.
As a sister who lost two siblings, you are in my prayers. Thank you for sharing your story with us. What a wonderful idea!
Cupcakes,
Suzi
<3
I’m so sorry for your loss. We have lost a child too.
<3
So beautifully written. I will always do something in Joy’s honor. Missing and remembering her with you, always.
Thank you, Nancy. <3