Happy Birthday 3 years old

Dear Isaac,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY my sweet little boy. Just mentioning you brings a smile to my face and I wish you were here so we could all celebrate together. I miss you so much. Everyone misses you here. We all mention you (independently) often. You are never far from our thoughts and hearts.

Birthday Sign hanging in our front room for your birthday
Happy Birthday Sign for Dad’s birthday that we left up for your birthday too. 🙂 

I started a letter to you last night, but it was turning into a very sad post. It’s hard because I miss you so much. I don’t take the time to write and blog as often as I used to for several reasons and so when I do, sometimes all the emotions and feelings I’ve been feeling for months come pouring out. While I find it important to express them, I wanted your birthday letter to be uplifting and positive.

I can’t believe you’d be THREE!!! At this point you’d be older than Audrey was when you were born. You’d be getting a strong hold on speaking and maybe we’d just be beginning to understand you.

A Chocolate cupcake for my boy! 

Haha. You’d have favorite toys and I’m sure I’d have a clear idea of what kind of birthday cake you’d want, although Audrey is convinced that your favorite flavor is Chocolate. (Not a guess that is unfounded, considering who your father is….hehe).

So much has happened in the last year. Most importantly of all that, I wish you were here to meet and play with your new baby sister. I am sure you got plenty of time with her before she was born, but I didn’t get to witness it and it’s a mama’s pure joy to get to see her children interact with each other. We also live so much closer to family now and I’d love to see you interacting with your cousins. It’s now your 3rd birthday and we have celebrated your birth in 4 different states. Arizona (where you were born), Utah (your first birthday), Texas (your second birthday) and now Colorado. I still can’t believe it’s been 3 years since I last held you in my arms. In someways it feels like just yesterday and in other ways it feels like a lifetime ago. I still miss you terribly. I still have moments of such intense grief that the world feels like its spinning out of control. Most of the time I am alone when these moments happen, but sometimes it catches me in public or group settings. At least we’ll be here next year as well and for the first time since you were born, we will have stayed in one place longer than a year. Each place we move it’s hard to start all over again with people that don’t know you and your story. I speak about you openly, but that doesn’t always mean that people get it right away. There are still so many times when the lack of your presence just hurts. Recently I was at the store shopping with Emilyn and Audrey and a very nice older gentleman was in front of us. He was friendly and playing with Audrey and making her laugh. He looked at my car full of girly things and he says “2 girls, eh? I wonder how Dad feels about that.” With tone and body language it was clear that he was commenting on the lack of sons. He was just being friendly, so I felt no need to put him in his place, so I just responded. “Daddy loves it. He loves nothing more than all his children”.

Audrey (age 5), Emilyn (5 1/2 months)

The man smiled warmly and continued to make Audrey smile.  This experience isn’t the first or last. It’s one of the reasons I can not go a day without feeling your absence. I get comments all.the.time. about 2 little girls. And if you were here, you’d get comments about being smashed between 2 little girls.

The point is, no matter how much time has passed, our family just does not feel complete without you. The other day I was desperate for your touch. I wanted to hold and snuggle you. I wanted to kiss your face and see how you’ve changed. I wanted to hear your thoughts and concerns. Each Sunday I teach the children at church songs. I teach children ages 18 months-11yrs old. I think of you as I teach the younger children, wondering how you might be singing along.

I wish I could celebrate today by making your favorite meal or wearing your favorite color or listening to your favorite song. Doing those things helps me when I miss my daddy. I’m still working on not being jealous of other angel moms that got to spend any amount of time with their children no matter if it was 15 mins to 100 years, but I am so grateful for the time I got to keep you in my belly. You were safe and happy there. Maybe we’ll eat all of the things I craved while I was pregnant with you. Haha!!!! I did finally get your little shelf set up, so now I can look often at things that remind me of you.

Your ‘Molly Bear’ (with your exact weight) and the Shadow Box I made with a lot of your little keepsakes. 

Well, we don’t have any big plans today. We plan to get a cake and sing you Happy Birthday. Considering that you might be starting pre-school this year, I was considering buying a book or something to donate to the school that Audrey goes to. Somehow I intend to still participate in as many “firsts” as I can with you.

Normally your dad and I like to visit the temple on your birthday, but since it’s closed on Mondays we went a couple weeks ago while your dad was off work. We went and participated in sealings. It was a great reminder that our family will be together eventually and for the rest of eternity.

I hope the Heavens can open a little bit today and I can feel your presence. Happy Birthday sweet boy! Your family misses you!

Love forever!

Your mama. đź’•


Love letter

Dear Isaac,

I can’t believe it’s been this long since I have written you a letter. It’s been a very very hard couple years since you touched our lives. While I believe that you are so aware of everything that happens in our family, it also feels good to write to you about events and feelings.

I’ve been participating in a challenge this month in honor of Pregnacy and Infant Loss awareness month.

 Each day is a different theme or part of your story. Each day I share a little part of my heat as it relates to you and our family. The support I have received as I’ve done this has been humbling. So many have shared their own stories with me.  It truly breaks my heart that there are so many that have lost a baby. The pain of losing a child is beyond comprehension and it’s not something that anyone can truly understand unless they have walked that path. Parents shouldn’t have to bury their children—no matter what age.

Today the theme was “Love Letter”. The theme is given and it’s up to us participating how we interpret it. I decided that “Love Letter” meant a letter to you my sweet boy.

I honestly can say that not a day goes by when I don’t think, ponder or long for you. Especially now with your new baby sister. It sometimes feels weird how much she reminds me of you, even though I shouldn’t know anything about you. I find myself looking at her in my arms and I have to convince myself that it’s not you. I have found that I need to put a pretty little bow on Emilyn as often as possible as a physical and visual trigger that it’s not you I’m holding.

 I was warned that bringing a baby home after leaving one at the hospital is a surreal experience and mine has been no different. Emilyn is a constant reminder that I lost you. Her first smile, made me wonder about your smile. Her bright blue eyes have been curious what color yours are, her calm, chill personality is such the opposite of your big sister and makes me wonder how you fit in the mix. Nursing Emilyn reminds me of all the milk you didn’t get to drink, but that I made for you. Even with all the triggers, Emilyn is a gift. She is such a blessing to our family. And honestly, I am doing so much better with my grief than I used to be. I have come to terms with your death in a way that can only be explained spiritually. I feel so close to you and I am grateful that God has not closed that door between us.

You are always so present in our family. We all talk about you openly. Even your daddy can’t talk about his family without including you. We both always say we have 3  children. 

We imagine you with us when we talk about future family vacations. We joke about what a handful a three of you would be together. We see other children your age and picture you. Sometimes our fantasies include your disorder and other times you have a perfect functioning body. Sometimes we think of you with smiles and laughter and sometimes your memory brings tears.

No matter when or how, your memory is always welcome. 

 I hope you have enjoyed your recent time with my Daddy. I miss him terribly and grieving him has only compounded my pain in losing you. Without the testimony of my Savior, I would feel so lost in it all. I’m not sure I can even express how much  losing you both has affected me.

 Well, I’m not sure how much of a “Love Letter” this turned out to be, at least by general terms, but I can say that each word I have written is only written out of deep love for you.

I miss you beyond words. I love you beyond expression and I can’t wait to see and hold you again.

Love always,

Your Mama

You’ll miss it when they’re older. 

Sooooo many times young mamas are told “You’ll miss these days when they get older” or “treasure the time when they are young”. You know what I mean. I know these comments are always well intentioned, but I never understood them. 

My oldest was and still is a needy and high maintenance baby and child. She’s hard to truly explain unless you have one like her, and if you have one like her, you know exactly what I mean. The newborn stage with her was mis.er.able. It was hard and overwhelming, and because of what she was like I got a lot of well meaning advice from friends. It was rough for everyone. When she turned one I wanted to throw myself a party for actually surviving her first year. (Little did I know….haha). 

I don’t miss those days.


When I lost Isaac, all of sudden I longed for those newborn baby days. Desperate to see him smile for the first time. Wondering about his eyes. Daydreaming about how I would juggle a toddler and another (completely different) high need baby. I wanted to soothe his cries and walk with him at 2am. I actually felt like I wanted lose sleep over his wellbeing and just hold him again, dang it! I wanted to feel his weight on my chest. 

I started to get a glimpse of how and why people treasure the baby days. 

Now with my new sweet little rainbow baby, I just rocked her to sleep after changing 3 poopy diapers in 10 mins and a scream fest just before that. As I sit, rocking her, snuggling her close, and feeling her nod off into a peaceful sleep, I realize I want to make time stand still. With her mostly likely being our last, I can’t get enough of these baby days. Somehow I’m associating all of Isaac’s firsts with hers, and seeing her fly through them leaves me aching for more—not another baby, but more of the what I have. More time with my sweet babies. 

And now I start to understand a little of what people mean when they say they long for the baby days.  So I’m going to sit here and relish the time I have with the baby asleep in my arms—treasuring the time I have with her when she’s young, because I might miss it when she’s older.  



When I was pregnant with Isaac it made sense to write. It was like I couldn’t do anything else. I had to write to get out my feelings so I could survive. While I have distinct memories of feeling sick to my stomach after I posted an extremely personal post–worried at the reactions I would get–for the most part, I also didn’t care. I wrote for me.

I remember thinking durning that time that when I was pregnant again I would write all the time talking about what I was feeling and experiencing with going through a pregnancy after loss.

Then life happened and well everything normal in my world suddenly went abnormal. I’d never felt more alone and helpless–well–ever.  I also had never felt more judged.With Isaac, most everyone was supportive and loving–but when my grief and pain started to go on too long, suddenly my openness and candidness felt like open wounds not healed enough to be given to people to have opinions about. I fought spiritual battles, physical battles, emotional battles and mental battles. I felt attacked and weak on every level, with little to no allies or resources. I wasn’t strong enough to fight for friendships as well.

So when I got pregnant, I wasn’t sure how to talk about this news. What would people think? What were people going to say? I wasn’t even sure how I felt about it, let alone be ready to hear how everyone else felt about it. I’ve written probably 2-3 blog posts about this pregnancy, but I haven’t felt comfortable or ready to share them. It’s like people can understand the grief of losing a child, but can’t wrap their head around the years that happen afterwards–let alone the anxiety that comes with a pregnancy after loss.

More and more I have realized at how lonely the road of grief is. Perhaps not lonely at first, but because it is such a long journey, most people aren’t capable of the endurance needed to continue on.

I’m not bitter towards anyone–I would be lying if I said I haven’t been deeply hurt at times, but I can understand why this is a journey I take alone–sometimes with my husband–but mostly by myself as he must walk his own grief stricken path.

But what I have come to understand more than anything else is that the openness I once used to share so freely is now filtered. I second guess almost everything I say and do. I worry constantly about how my actions are being taken and feel I have to justify almost everything. Some may just chalk that up to my increased anxiety–and perhaps that’s true, but for me I know that it’s more than that.

This brings me, through a very short story version of the last few years, to my present day and present pregnancy. Doctors that don’t seem to understand when I question them when they tell me “everything looks great” or tell me that pains or struggles are “normal pregnancy symptoms”. The hardest part about going through something traumatic is dealing with the aftershocks and triggers that follow.

Being pregnant is the biggest trigger.

Ultrasounds, Dr. appointments, Iv’s, ER visits, baby kicks, blood tests, pregnancy clothes, baby clothes, baby department, other babies, and back pain.

I recently posted on my Facebook about back pain I was having and if it was normal. It wasn’t a symptom I remembered when carrying Audrey—but yet, I can hardly remember anything from the pregnancy except that I was so sick I could hardly function.  Every memory I have of being pregnant with Audrey was overwritten by my pregnancy with Isaac.

The last time I remembered having back pain that felt similar to this pain was when I went into pre-term labor at 23 weeks and was carried off in ambulance. Only to wait for hours before being told I had kidney stones, but then finally being told in broken English “You will have this baby tonight”. Miraculously–and by an act of God, I did not lose Isaac that night and went on to carry him another 10 weeks. You can read all about that night here.

As I read though the very thoughtful responses to my Facebook post, I realized that maybe one or two people understand why the back pain was so concerning to me. It dawned on me that I had not really asked the questions I was really wondering at all.

Is the back pain I’m experiencing early labor? Am I losing my baby? Am I crazy? When I realized that I was 22 weeks–almost the exact same gestation as I was with Isaac, I nearly lost it.

When I asked if the back pain was normal, what I was really looking for was reassurance  that this baby didn’t have something wrong with her and that the intense pain in my back wouldn’t turn into contractions and that I wasn’t going to end up in the ER. Going to the ER is not a comfort to me, it’s a trigger.

Triggers are terrible things. I guess in someways it’s our body’s way of protecting us. Desperate to not have to go through that hurt again, so when a trigger hits–we run and duct for cover no matter how crazy we look and seem to others.

While I might have been able to be more open about that in the past, I find that I am keeping more and more to myself. I don’t talk about triggers or hard experiences anymore. I don’t talk about ER visits or debilitating pain. I don’t talk about crisis of faith or my road back after struggling so much. I don’t talk about how it felt having to have my husband come home early from Deployment to take care of me. I don’t talk about the rumors that circulated about me being suicidal. I just don’t talk anymore. I don’t open up.

Maybe I should. Maybe I am.

All I know, that tonight, writing became necessary again. It became a way for me to process and move forward. Tonight I decided that I have the faith to open up–trying not to fear the consequences of showing my heart.

You are never lost to me.

Dear Isaac,

I really miss you tonight. I say that like it’s a rare occurrence, but in reality I miss you all the time. The other day I closed my eyes and tried to remember what it was like to hold you in my arms and I couldn’t. The memory of your earthly body is fading and it is absolutely devastating. I show your picture to anyone who will humor me, since no one asks to see you. I sit and stare at pictures of you trying to convince myself that you were really here and I really held you in my arms.

The year and a half since your death have been really hard. *REALLY* hard. We’ve moved a lot and each time I don’t know how to introduce my family. I never exclude you, but I hate the looks, comments and uncomfortableness that comes when I tell people you are in Heaven. I have had to do most of it alone, as your daddy has been called away by the Army a lot. I hate feeling like my family is so broken up. It feels like your death was a nuclear bomb leaving bits and pieces of us everywhere. My body especially feels dismantled. My heart so detached from reason. I think my brain is lost all together.

Your daddy misses you so much. I hope you can see the proud look on his face when he speaks about you and the comfort of knowing that you are with your Grandpa brings him. Please look over him while he is far away. Be with him as often as you can, as it makes me feel like our family isn’t so torn apart.

Audrey misses you too. She often asks when you get to come live with us forever. It breaks my heart and I never quite know what to say. I pray for your presence at that time and hope that Audrey can feel how much you love her—because I do believe that you do. Tonight she said that when she grows up to be a Mother that she wants to be your mother. She loves you so much and just wants to take care of you. She adores being a big sister and wants to be the one to teach you things. Maybe she can teach you some of the songs she’s learning. It’s funny, she’s the big sister, but I most often think of you watching over her.  She always talks about and includes you, mostly without my prompting. She talks about you like you are just away visiting some family and will be home soon. It warms my heart.

My body has gone through a lot recently. Grief has taken a very physical toll. It’s hard because most people don’t get it because it’s not outwardly apparent. There are many times I feel judged for my inability to do things.  And moving. I hate moving. It tears me away from people that knew you. Really knew you. Knew you more than just my dead son. Sometimes I wish I could just hand people a card and tell them to read this blog before we became friends. Help them understand me so I didn’t have to say the words out loud. Again. When I make new friends I feel like I have to tell them upfront that I lost you, otherwise what else is going to explain my random panic attack or sudden sobbing.

Ha, I say I lost you as if I “misplaced” you or don’t know where you are. Just to be clear, you are never lost to me.

I wonder if I’ll ever be a normal person again. Will anyone ever get to know the bright, happy,hopeful, energetic Sara? Or will there only ever be a dimmed, burn out, exhausted version of myself. Mostly I worry for Audrey. I pray so often that you are there to help her. She struggles you know. And people judge her harshly for it. My parenting gets judged. People see her “misbehaving” and instead of compassion, empathy, love and support, people tell me to suck it up and that I’m letting her walk all over me. Or perhaps that she’s acting entitled. Never ever once has anyone said “she just acting normal for a child that has lost and been through so much”. At least no one has ever said it without me saying it first.  It’s like grown ups are allowed to grieve, but children are not. Children are not allowed to misbehave–ever. Then I get judged because I cannot handle the stress of her abnormal behavior. That I’m weak and just need to be stronger and more in control.

If they only knew how much I desperately wanted to be “in control”.

There are times when I wish people could understand exactly how much effort it takes to get us to church every week. Or how proud I am for cooking dinner. Or how put together I feel that I have made Audrey’s lunch for school everyday. Often I want to wear a sign that says, “my son died, we’ve moved 4 times, and I haven’t lived in the same place as my husband for almost a year and now he’s deployed…..please, instead of judgement, just give us compassion”. On those occasions when people do show compassion, I am overwhelmed by emotion. Like the time I started crying at SmashBurger because the guy gave me a free order of fries. Or the time I had to go cry in the bathroom before teaching my lesson at church because Audrey’s teacher took her and comforted her so I could go teach. Or the time when a friend randomly brought me dinner so I didn’t have to cook. Or the time when another friend watched Audrey and I just came home and took a nap.

I don’t know if you have any baby angel dust, but if you have any pull—can you please sprinkle these amazing people with some extra blessings for watching over your mama?

For the hard times, I am sure you see it all happening. I wonder what you think. I wonder how it makes you feel to see your mother dissolve into tears and panic attacks over careless words and actions of others. Or if you wish you could hold your sister when she can’t be consoled. Or when she cries because you can’t come home. I wish you could be there to stick up for Audrey when others treat her poorly or adults treat her harshly for misbehaving because she just doesn’t know how to process all the change she has been forced to live through in just 4 short years. Many times I have prayed for your presence when I just can’t handle doing it alone anymore. I miss you so much.

I can’t help but wonder what I would be like if you had lived. If I had a normal healthy pregnancy. I know I would still have hard days and being a parent of 2 while daddy is gone would not be easy, but I have to hope that I would be handling it better than I’m handling things now. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel so broken. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel so alone. Perhaps hard days would just be hard days and not devastating, soul shaking, panic attack filled days.


People tell me that “time heals”, but I am not sure that it does. Right now time has only made me feel more alone, more forgetful and more desperate.

I miss you, my son, you are never–ever–far from my heart and thoughts.

Your mama.

Mom Guilt 

Your mom guilt intensifies about 1000000% after losing a child. It’s amazing the things you can feel guilty about. It never goes away either. You never feel better. Time passes, but you can’t get passed the guilt. 

Guilt that I can’t handle being away from from daughter because of separation anxiety and PTSD. 

Guilt that my grief is making me a bad mother to my living child. 

Guilt that I can’t do what I used to do. 

But mostly I have guilt that I take my time for granted with her. Like I’m not allowed to get frustrated or overwhelmed with her cute toddler personality. 

I remember not long after I found out about Isaac, I held Audrey’s hand so tight. I could hug her hard enough. I slept with her in my arms. If I wasn’t touching her, she was too far away. 

The guilt I felt leaving her for HOURS for doctors appointments. Even though I knew she was much better off playing with friends than suffering through waiting rooms and ultra sounds, I felt terrible for leaving her crucial years to someone else. 

Even thought it has been its been 1 yr, 4 months, 28 days since Isaac left this earthly existence, the effects of his death live with us daily. There isn’t a moment that isn’t clouded by day dreams of his survival or sorrow of his passing. 

But mostly it’s a mosaic of both. The tiny shards of glass threatening to cut, but instead coming together begging me to see the bigger picture.

And I try. I really, really try. If only I could just breath. 

If only I could get past the guilt. 

Why can’t I get past this? I’ve known lots of people that have lost a baby now, and they all seem to be functioning human beings. 

Granted there is more to my story with moving and and moving, and then moving again and then deployment. 

No one claimed I’ve had an easy time. 

But I get so tired of the excuses. So tired of the guilt. So tired of explaining why having an office close at 3, when I expected it to be open until 6pm puts into sobs. 

Tired of praying to God to just watch over my child so that I don’t screw her up completely. 

So very tired of pulling this load of grief alone. 

So tired of having to make news friends while broken. 

So tired of…


The guilt of always being the “needy” one. 

The guilt of watching too much T.V. just to distract me from the fact I can’t make coherent thoughts, let alone sentences. 

The guilt that I can’t make dinner on a regular basis. 

Guilt that I have no idea who I am. 

Guilt that I am mad that God won’t answer my prayers or that I can’t find his love in the situation. 

Guilt that I miss my husband fircely and then resentful that we’ve been sepersted more than we’ve been together during the hardest year of my life. 

Guilt that I wonder if I am even a good enough mother to handle two children and maybe that’s why God took my baby. 

The guilt that I can’t seem to get pregnant and that I feel hurt and pain when I see other rainbow babies. 

The guilt that I feel when I think maybe I don’t want another baby. 

The guilt I feel over hating the army for taking my husband for a year–especially when I need him the most. 

The guilt over not having any energy or patience left to deal with a meltdown from Audrey–despite my frequent prayers for it. 

The guilt for giving up dreams and hopes because I’m too exhausted to put on normal clothes let alone go after anything life changing. 

Guilt that I can’t just put it all aside and be happy person. 

Lately Audrey has been scared to go potty. It’s really weird. Today, while at a restaurant (because I can’t be bothered to cook), I must have taken her to the potty about 20 times. I would take one bite of food and off we’d go. Come back, drink of sip of water and of we’d go again. I never yelled or scolded her, but I hadn’t eaten since 8am and it was now 4pm. The Hangry monster was insisting on coming out and threatening this child with her life. 

After about the 18th visit, I was done. Totally spent. Even the waitress asked if she could take a turn. And *gasp* I let her. I let someone I didn’t know take my child to the bathroom. 

The guilt. 

When Audrey came back, once again crying in pain from not pooping. She finally curled up on my lap and fell asleep. 

I looked at her and held her right as tears ran down my face. Here I have a beautiful child of God right in front of me. Someone I can’t hold tight enough and yet can’t get a break from either. 

I sighed as I thought of what I wouldn’t give to potty train Isaac and yet, wondered what I would have done with two kids trying to run back and forth to the bathroom over and over and over. 

Because I don’t get the luxury of feeling blessed that I only have one. I just get guilt. 

I can’t feel grateful that I’m only worrying about one hand instead of two–or more. 

I so I learn to live with the guilt. 

What Easter means to me

I’ve been told that Holidays become extra meaningful after you lose someone. For me, Christmas isn’t really the same after spending so many years making cookies with my Grandma. She had a gift for baking and certainly her recipes  are the best there are out there. Her tradition fell down to her two daughters and after she grew senile, I made cookies with my Aunt and my mom. Now that tradition has become something my mom does with her grandkids. Traditions keep memories alive and can be welcomed, yet painful when holidays approach. Losing a loved one around a holiday can infuse those memories with greater emotion, leaving a person exhausted from the emotional roller coaster they’ve been forced to ride.

I lost my son just weeks before Easter in 2015. To make matters worse Easter fell just days after his initial due date. The first Easter I experience was the hardest of all the holidays during the first year after his death. Depression enveloped me. Even though I knew the message of the holiday should have brought me intense joy–for some reason the thought of Christ’s resurrection reminded me that death is a very real part of our mortal experience.

I remember the tears didn’t stop that day. The many choruses of “hallelujah” just could not penetrate my soul. My soul was crying. I wanted my own personal Easter Sunday with my baby boy.

It’s now a year later and I watched this Sunday approach with much anticipation. The weeks prior gave no indication that this holiday would be a repeat of last year and so I excitedly made plans for our family’s celebration. We colored eggs and Audrey even wanted to “color” an egg for Isaac. She insisted his egg was to be white and just sprinkled glitter on it. I wonder if she’ll ever grasp how incredibly perfect that is. On Sunday,  I even agreed to teach in Relief Society and spoke of my son.


It wasn’t until later than night when the quiet of the Holiday settled in that I started to feel the all too familiar pricks inside my heart. Perhaps its the memories now associated with this Holiday, or perhaps it’s just the fact that to me, Jesus’ Empty Tomb symbolizes my empty arms.


He is Risen is by far the greatest news that any grieving family can receive. Because our Savior overcame death, everyone receives the gift of resurrection. Everyone. Including little babies. Because my Savior completed his mission, I will be able to hold my son in my arms and kiss his physical face.

However, because of this mortal journey that we have all accepted to experience, death is something that must happen first. Death in its soul ripping, heart wrenching, memories stealing way.Isaac Birth Story-55 Unfortunately I cannot think of the resurrection without remembering that fact. I cannot forget that for my son to be resurrected that he first had to die. His life was cut so incredibly short here. I am left with empty arms, like Mary was left with an Empty Tomb and her grief for her loved one. I wonder if it was her mortal grief that blinded her from truly seeing the miracle of the situation at first, just as my grief is blinding me. Perhaps it is pushing through my grief will allow me to see with more understanding eyes.

What was it that allowed her to see her Savior in his resurrected state? What will allow me to get past my grief to see the beauty of this message? Will Easter always be sorrowful? Will I get to the point where I can find the beauty of it?

Although it seems like my dark, terrible Friday will never end, I sense my son as I question. I feel him near in a way that is so specific to angels. I feel his love and I know that he loves me with pure Christlike love. He is telling me to be patient, for my Sunday will come.