• Mother of Wilde

60 days without my son

Another day, another milestone. A whole two months you would be today, Noah Wilde. I’m sure by now, we would have gotten a glimpse of that sweet personality of yours. Your eyes would be scanning the room looking for familiar faces. Your hunger cries would still be waking us up every few hours, like clockwork. But an alarm that I don’t want to keep hitting snooze on. We probably would have had our first peek at that gummy little smile, and daddy would have been tripping over his feet just to get it on camera. The cuddles are endless. And I savor them. Like water in the summer heat. Rocking you to sleep every chance I get, because I know time is a thief. It keeps rolling on with no hesitation. It has no emotional ties. It doesn’t care the situation or the pain. It doesn’t pause for anyone. Although, I wish it would. I wish it could have made an exception for us. I would have stored up more of it.


I can hear them now. People in the grocery store, saying how I have my hands full with two under two. How can they tell? The toddler running up and down the isles? Or is it the shushing and bouncing that I’ve simultaneously mastered while trying to quickly decide between the free range chicken or sale chicken. Don’t pity me. Know I prayed for this life. Maybe not the haven’t showered in three days life - but the fullness that my heart has, yes that was intentional prayer. From the outside looking in it looks chaotic. From the inside looking in, it is chaotic. But worth it.


Know this pain that I feel for you Noah — you will always be worth it. What a silly thought that maybe it would have slightly subsided by now. Nope.. Still as deep of a cut as when I first heard the words, “I’m sorry” roll off her tongue. Suddenly, I’m self-diagnosing and finding myself considering PTSD to be a real diagnosis. Trying to explain unexplainable feelings to people is becoming tiring. The focus is always on me and how I am. When really I just want the focus to be on you.


If I close my eyes long enough, I can see you here. Lazy Sundays at home. It’s our family favorite. I’ve swatted Roman away from messing with you too many times that I can’t keep count anymore — but I know he loves you. He doesn’t say much yet but he tells me with his eyes. The way he looks at you. You’re something special. What a protector he is. He gets that from daddy. Overprotective is more like it, but you’ll learn to cherish it like we have. I don’t mind it anymore. There’s a love that spills out from those overprotective ways. It’s a type of love that comes from some place deep, some place true. You don’t find his type often. It’s something to treasure and one day you will. It’s how he will raise you to be. It’s like a well. Overflowing. Unending. Full of hope. Full of promise. Full of love. It’s like our love for you. It’s like God’s love for us.


Nothing makes sense right now. Even worship seems foreign. “Praise Him anyway”, says my grandma. “Don’t lose Your faith”, says my aunt. My family is worried about my well-being. Understandable but nothing to lose sleep over. That foundation has already been laid. On solid rock, not sinking sand. I’m embracing I may not get the answers to my questions on this side of eternity — “but I’ve got a promise that I can hold on to in the middle of the struggle”. I heard that in a song once. Timely. “I know You’ve ordered every step. Yeah, You are the Author and there’s no predicting what is next. But You hold the future and all the questions they come second to the one I know is true. You’ve always been true.” Worship songs are always speaking to me, and even though my heart doesn’t feel like praising, my heart doesn’t feel like thanking, my heart doesn’t feel like rejoicing — I do it anyways.


Like many other mamas, this day is one they want to rip off the calendar. I’ve been on all sides of it - the infertility rollercoaster, miscarriage, being estranged from my mother, and losing a child before delivery. No matter what the season, none of it seemed fair at the time. But I’ve found growth and redemption in each of them, through the suffering. Blooming in dark places. Come on redemption. But for now I might as well get comfortable being uncomfortable. Physically you aren’t with me but I know where your soul is. Incredible comfort in knowing that. Death and eternity. One inevitable for everyone; one available to everyone. Your name was another intentionality from God — “rest” and “comforter”. That’s what you give me. For now, I’ll look at these two arms were always meant to hold two babies and wait. Trust that, I’ll rock your brother in my arms for twice as long, thinking of you. Kiss his cheeks twice as much, thinking of you. Sing to him, hold hands, everything is double with you on my mind. Everyday loving on you through him. Praising Him for being your mama. Praising Him in the waiting for the redemption that’s sure to come.