I Hope You Never Have to Know

Walking out of the church after dropping off inscription forms for Hudson's niche.

The sky was angry, cloudy, about to rain at any moment but there was this star-shaped opening.

There are holes in the floor of heaven.

Tomorrow we meet our pastor at the church at 9:00 AM. He will walk with us to the garden where the columbarium wall is, right outside the room we held a Memorial Service seven weeks prior. For the first time, we will see the box that contains what is left of the life we created, our first baby. I will want to hold that box and not give it back. We will receive the blanket that he left the hospital in and a small box of ashes to take home with us. His ashes will be blessed and then placed inside the wall as his final resting place.

I hope you never have to know what it sounds like to hear the words your child has passed.
I hope you never have to know what it feels like to go through labor to know it will not be joyful in the end.
I hope you never have to know what it looks like to see your lifeless child in your arms.

I hope you never have to watch the door close after your child is taken from your arms, knowing you will never see them again.
I hope you never have to discuss a final resting place for your baby.
I hope you never have to plan a funeral to celebrate a life you didn't get to experience.

I hope you never have to know what it is like to say goodbye to your child before their life had the chance to start.

But if you do, if you ever have to experience this, I hope you know you are not alone.
I hope you know you gave your baby the best life they could have, however long they were with you.
I hope you know you are so loved and the world is here for you when you are ready to re-enter it.
I hope you seek peace. I hope you seek acceptance. I hope you seek strength.
You are not alone.