Dear Village

It’s odd to feel gratitude when thinking about losing a baby. The most horrific, helpless, overpoweringly sad, broken and awful emotions I’ve ever felt were because our baby died. So it feels confusing, almost paradoxical that some of the warmest, deepest, most thankful moments we’ve had also occurred around and because and for Abram.

One of the threads of thankfulness that continues to be bold and present every time I think about Abram is how many others have thought and are thinking about Abram. I think too many women and men go through this on their own, quietly crumbling on the inside with no one but themselves to pick up the pieces. I can’t imagine the strength that takes, and every time I try to fathom it, I am thankful that loneliness is not something I’ve felt. In this ocean of grief, as I think of it often, we are surrounded by others to help us remember Abram, to grieve for him, and to simply love him.  

Our village has given us ‘tangibles,’ which I have found truly matter when you don’t have a baby to hold. Something physical that says, “Abram is with us.”

We have trees, in our yard, in our families’ yard, in the farmhouse yard when you look out the kitchen window. Trees we water and plant small flowers around. Trees to be planted in the Fall from friends. Trees planted last winter. Trees that bloom and trees that stay ever green. Abram’s memory is literally on this Earth.

I have jewelry from family members, from friends, from other moms near and far. Whether it’s his name etched across, initials, the glint of my children’s birthstones, a simple star or an angel wing, it lets me wear to the world that his memory is with me, lets me hold and touch something that is for him whenever I need to that day. And reminds me of each person who so thoughtfully gave it, who was touched by Abram, who is there for us.

We have paintings, words to hang, books to read, candles to light, journals to write, plants to grow, even soft blankets and blue mugs that say “you had a little boy…” When I was worried we would have a weird shrine in our house because these things meant so much, another friend, who lost her baby daughter, said these things will scatter through your house like water, so that he is a part of your home. And now I find so are the people who gave us them.

If people feel uncomfortable when we say Abram’s name, they don’t show it. Many ask questions, something I welcome. Anyone who knows me for 5 minutes knows I talk about everything, especially my kids. How could I not talk about our baby boy? Our village gets this.

I tried writing down the ways we’ve felt love, and I know I couldn’t even come up with all of them right now.

Emails, messages, calls from other moms, dads, grandparents, people who have lost. Who know. Who share.

Healing words and notes from family, friends and strangers who held Abram in their hearts.

The jersey LC helped us make not only for our girls but for Abram as well.

A message from a friend that she and her kids were planting wildflowers for Abram that day.

My aunts and uncles taking the time to look through Abram’s scrapbook, reading the notes people wrote for him the day we gathered after he died.
The soft yellow bag Kay put his blanket in after sewing it, because 'every baby needs soft flannel.'

A Christmas wreath from a friend who stopped in right after we found out he wouldn’t make it, and I remember placed her hand on my belly so naturally and said “Oh Abram.”

Abram’s framed footprints on friends mantles and bookshelves, a quiet reminder that he is loved in that home.

A prayer from Anne, putting the love into words.
A small stone in front of the magic fort at the farmhouse, saying "Abram's Evergreen Cove."
The blanket, made with pieces of all of us and held with the memory of him. 

The knitted hat our midwife made the night he was born, that sits on an ultrasound picture of him sucking his thumb. Knowing he wore it for the few hours he was in our arms.

My husband’s processing. His comments when he finds the good Abram brings to the world.

Our own four-year-old asking to see the scrapbook of Abram, “the one where he is red and so tiny.” She and Bria coo at the photos they love. Bria asking to hear his heartbeat that was recorded on our phone. “Heart? Heart?” she says. Addie singing to his trees, pointing at his star in the sky, asking what he looked like, felt like, who is with him now, if we miss him.

We had parents in the waiting room the day we delivered him, ready to hold their grandbaby. Who believed he was a miracle and a gift to the world. We had brothers and sisters who were whole-heartedly there for us, broken-hearted with us. A niece and now a nephew making us laugh and smile.

At the center of it all, we have each other, Sheaff and I, every day – the good ones and the bad ones. We have remained “we.” We talk each other through it, hold each other through it. And we have Adalyn and Bria, who bring more light than they know.

Most folks know, we have a brother and sister-in-law who were due 9 weeks after Abram was due, whose pregnancy could have been a source of pain. Instead they not only acknowledged and understood the moments we missed Abram, but felt them with us.  While of course there was total joy, they also cried when they found out they, too, were having a boy; the friendship we will always imagine between the two. They checked in at every milestone and in between. They had tears before their own sweet baby came into the world, simply grieving for what could have been. No one ever ignored Abram, and my family embraced all emotions that came, which allowed real and genuine space to welcome John as his own person. I was amazed – thinking his birth would be very heavy emotionally – but it was light and joyful, and I truly believe it’s because I knew Abram was not being replaced, was not being forgotten or pushed to the side. While their stories will always be connected, these boys were each their own selves, and each so loved.  Not an easy thing to explain, but again, it is not a time we felt alone.

We had a midwife who has never stopped being there for us, who when I saw her at the hospital for John, let me have my only moment of tears as I knew she knew every moment I was remembering. There was no taking away from our joy for John, and I didn’t have to explain that or anything.

We have family who have dropped everything to take care of us since Nov 14 whenever we needed them. I have an incredibly strong mom and dad who cried and broke a little with me, every time I felt and voiced a new realization or depth of grief with them.

We had a village. We had a gathering to remember Abram.  We saved every card that was sent, every email; every text and comment we took in as comfort.

I had Addie’s teacher crying with me outside of her classroom when I told her the results of that first UVA visit, another mom beside us crying too, parents stopping in the parking lot and sending messages offering to help. 

We have college friends who visit, old family friends who either just want to give a hug for Abram or brought a small memento to think of him.

We have a brother, sister-in-law and friends who have helped me illustrate a book for the girls. Kind acquaintances who donated books in Abram’s honor to the library. Coworkers and supervisors who sent cards and gifts and covered classes without hesitation when I was in the hospital. The students themselves brought in a basket of chocolate and fuzzy socks for me, sent emails, still check in.

We have friends who came over with Christmas ornaments, plants and flowers, food, even one friend who drove over supplies for the kids to decorate an ‘Abram’ tree, supplies that she used when she unexpectedly lost her two year old boy the year before.

And that’s the thing. One of the worst things I’ve learned is that too many other families go through losing a baby, a child. But that has also shown me one of the most amazing parts – how many people open their hearts to tell you their story, to share each others’ losses; they become people you can send off a rambling email to or just a text saying “today was hard” and they know exactly what you mean. The bond is so genuine and strong.

Sometimes [all the time], I think, I wish this village could have loved a baby in the way we imagined. And I immediately think at the same time, I’m so thankful they have found ways to love him anyway, to hold Abram’s spirit close. I would give anything to have Abram here with us, going on four months old, making life crazy with three kids; for his story to be different. But  I don’t know how to explain how much it means, how much it heals to know that we are not just alone missing him, but we aren’t alone in our love for this sweet little soul.

However deep our grief is, our village feels boundless. And I am forever grateful.