Where is the Hope in Christmas?

There's a scene I've played over and over in my mind for the last 12 years. My life is done, I enter Heaven and after I meet Jesus, He says, "There's someone who has been waiting to see you." 

And He steps aside. And there she is. And she comes running to me.

I have no idea how this will actually play out one day, but I do know this: my heart longs for it. Physically longs for it. I have no intention of rushing this life, but some days just the thought of holding her again is more than I can bear. And this beautiful, joyous life can be so hard sometimes because part of me died the day she did. And while I live in the fullness of joy as best I can, my life on this earth will never be complete without her.

That's just the cost of death. It's a thief and it takes the people we love and then leaves us here, and when the balance shifts like that, it can never be fully restored here on earth.

And you believe the verses that the pain is only temporary and "joy comes in the morning" but the morning hasn't come and the nights are just so dark. And you believe that one day he'll "wipe away every tear" but that day hasn't come, and some days you cry so many tears that your buckets could cause a flood.

Some of you are there today, staring down a Christmas Eve that should symbolize HOPE but as hard as you search, you just can't find it. And you know all the verses, and you really do believe, but you just miss that person so much that you can't will yourself to do it.

I won't give you Christian cliches. They aren't worth the paper they are written on to someone who is grieving. I won't tell you it gets easier. I won't tell you that if you just believe, it will all make sense one day.

But I will tell you this: if you will just continue to put one foot in front of the other - however painful it may be - He will meet you there. In your pain, in your grief, in your darkness. And at first, you may not feel Him there. I didn't either. But as you continue to move forward, you begin to see it. You believe to feel it. 

And while it doesn't "fix" everything, you begin to breathe again. And slowly, that tiny sliver of HOPE manifests itself in your heart. And while it doesn't make sense, and it may never make earthly sense, you grab hold of it because it's all you have.

And it's the greatest gift you will ever receive.

If you are hurting this Christmas, my heart grieves with you. It may be hard for you you to reconcile in your heart how you are supposed to live this day with joy and happiness, when all you feel is pain and sadness. There is no magical fix. And as hard as you desperately try to find that joy, grief and pain keep creeping their way back in. 

If that's you, my prayer for you over this holiday is simple: that this HOPE will take root in your heart even in the tiniest of measures. Just a speck, just a faint glimmer. It doesn't have to be much. That's the miracle of Christmas. He can take the tiniest bit of HOPE and turn it into something we could never have imagined. He does the work as we open our heart to the notion that this life - however broken it may seem - IS worth saving. It IS worth living. It IS worth savoring because that joy doesn't come from us. It comes from something so much bigger. A God who is so much bigger, who can take that pain and redeem it, if we can just hold on and believe. If we can just conjure up that tiniest bit of HOPE.

I bought this a few months ago at a local store in town. It's "my word" and it has been since we lost our daughter. It sits on my bedside table; a constant reminder that there is still joy to be found, love to be found, and most importantly, HOPE to be found in this life. I can't do it on my own. It's Christ power at work in my life and my heart that allows me to live in joy, despite my grief. It didn't happen overnight. And on the days where the greatest thief of all wants to steal that HOPE, I am reminded of my favorite verse and I "hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful." (Hebrews 10:23, NIV). 

Or as The Message translates it, "Let's keep a firm grip on the promises that keep us going. He always keeps his word." 

He always keeps His word. 

I don't have to do the work. It's already been done. I just have to grab hold of that HOPE - even on the days I waver and doubt - because He IS faithful. He can bring life and love and joy out of pain and loss and darkness. He promises to bring something good out of your pain. 

And when you lose someone you love, that sounds like the most absurd statement of all. Where in the world is the good in losing someone I desperately loved? How does that even make sense?? I argued with God over that one more times that I can count. 

And then, one day, Hope steps in. And while you still grapple with why He had to use something so deeply painful to you, you begin to see glimpses of Him at work. 

So as we await that HOPE during this Advent season, grab on to it for dear life. Even if your grip is barely holding on, His grip is tighter. Even if you don't believe, He believes in you. Even if you are angry at Him and questioning why in the world He is leading you down this path of grief and hurt, He hears you. 

I've experienced all of those emotions. They are natural and they are normal to people who are hurting. 

Even so, this is what I believe. Grief doesn't have to steal your joy. It doesn't have to steal your happiness. It doesn't have to steal your life. And it doesn't have to steal your HOPE. 

Grieve, this Christmas season, for that person you love. That person you would give anything to just have five more minutes with. Grieve because it is natural and it is healing and it is cleansing. 

And as you grieve, grab on to HOPE as best you can. And let the One who promised to one day "wipe away every tear" begin that work now. 

For He who promised is faithful.

During this Advent season, I am most grateful for that. I hold on to it with everything I have. 

Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift. 

She Called Me Melissa

It happened again.

It was an honest mistake.  And over the last ten years, it's been a common occurrence.

"Hi, Melissa," the woman began. "I just want to introduce myself." And she launched into a conversation that eventually thanked us for creating the Melissa George Neonatal Memorial Fund because it had recently helped someone she loved.

It happens all the time. At the grocery store. At sporting events. At the mall. 

"Hi, Melissa!"

I never correct them, unless they ask, "Aren't you Melissa George?" to which I always answer, "Actually, I'm her mom, Amy."

The look on their faces says it all. They are embarrassed. They are worried they've upset me. They can't believe they just called me by my daughter's name, the daughter who passed away ten years ago. 

If they only knew. 

In reality, they paid me the greatest compliment in the world. Not because they called me Melissa, but because they said her name. 

You have no idea what a gift that is to parents who have lost children.

My daughter was a living, breathing person. She had a body. She had a mind. She had a soul. She was my first born. She was named after me and my sister. She was the child that Chris and I had dreamed about and prayed for. 

And she had a name. Melissa Suzanne George.

Grief is such a tricky thing. No one ever knows what to say. And sometimes we dance around the name of the person who died.

If I say it, will I upset the parents? Will I dredge up painful memories? Isn't it better to not say it at all?

No. Absolutely not.

I often receive phone calls and emails from friends of people who have lost children. They never know what to say and want to know if I can give them any insight. 

I wish I had a road map of how to travel the road of grief and loss, but there isn't one. There is no instruction manual on how to reach out to a person who has lost a child. But there are three things I know in my heart.

First, don't feel compelled to say anything at all. Just hug them. Love them. Let them cry on your shoulder. And when you do speak, just tell them how sorry you are. And let them know you are there for them. 

Never, ever tell them you know how they feel. Did you hold your child as they took their last breath and slipped from your arms into the arms of their Heavenly Father? If not, then you have no idea. Please don't act like you do.

Lastly, say their child's name. By doing so, you are acknowledging their child's existence. That name, the one they probably spent months choosing, belongs to their baby. The child they created, the child they miss with every fiber of their being. Use that name. Say it out loud.

I can't tell you what that means to a grieving parent. And not just in the days or months after the child's death, but even years later. When people speak my daughter's name, it heals my soul. 

And what about those who accidentally call me Melissa? They often profusely apologize and as I assure them it's okay, I often tell them, "Please, don't be sorry. You've actually paid me the greatest compliment you could pay me." I am honored to be associated with her. She was the bravest, strongest person I ever knew. 

Our words have power. Names mean something. For those who have lost children, that name carries a meaning that you can't even imagine. It's a lasting reminder of who their child was. 

Don't be afraid to say it out loud. 

I Carry the Scars

It's funny what the mind remembers.

I was working out this morning and the song "100 Years" by Five for Fighting came through my headphones. That song always takes me back to my hospital room in the spring of 2005. It was part of a Capital One commercial and it played over and over again on the television. I was a captive audience because I was on bed rest at Huntsville Hospital awaiting the birth of my twins. Every time I hear that song, I flash back to my hospital room.

I was lifting weights when it came on today and as I thought back to the girl in that hospital room, my first thought was "Well, Amy, you made it. You survived." As I looked in the mirror at this body that I'm trying to get back into shape, I thought, "But, you still bear the scars."

I bear the physical scars of having children. The actual physical scar of having two c-sections. The scar of having a stomach that no matter how many sit-ups I do, just won't go back to it's "pre-baby" stage.

Those are the scars I can see. But they don't even compare to the scars I carry inside.

I carry the scars of trying for almost two years to get pregnant, always ending in disappointment.

I carry the scars of my doctor looking me in the eye during my 18th week of pregnancy and saying, "I'm not going to lie to you, Amy. This is as bad as it gets."

I carry the scars of being moved to a hospital room and being told, "You aren't leaving here until those babies are born." They weren't due for 22 more weeks.

I carry the scars of being wheeled into an emergency procedure on that very day to try and save Melissa's life.

I carry the scars of being told that even though that procedure was successful, they had no way of telling me if Melissa would live or die.

I carry the scars of being told that if Melissa did start to struggle, and they had to take her, they would have to take Ann Catherine, too. And she wouldn't survive either.

I carry the scars of a nurse coming in my hospital room each morning to do an ultrasound on Melissa just to "make sure her heart was still beating."

I carry the scars of laying in a hospital room all day and wondering if this was the day it would stop beating.

I carry the scars of waking up one morning - after seven weeks of bed rest - to find that Melissa was in grave danger.

I carry the scars of nurses flooding my room that morning, and telling me they had to get me to the OR immediately.

I carry the scars of thinking, "This must be it."

I carry the scars of promising both of my girls that if they would just continue to fight, that I would spend the rest of my life fighting for them.

I carry the scars of being told that Melissa just couldn't fight anymore.

I carry the scars of holding my firstborn child as she slipped from the arms of her mother into the arms of her heavenly Father.

I carry the scars of sitting next to Ann Catherine's bedside, and begging her to fight. All one pound, 15 ounces of her.

I carry the scars of waiting for the results of brain scans, heart scans, hearing tests and eye scans - and just holding my breath.

I carry the scars of falling to my knees in my closet and asking God, "Where are you?? I'm down here drowning and I feel like you left me!"

I carry the scars of feeling like my faith had been shaken.

I carry the scars of knowing all of my daughter's earthly belongings fit in one small box. A box that contains all I physically have left of her.

I carry the scars of guilt and years of wondering, "Was there anything I could have done differently to save her?"

I carry the scars of becoming pregnant again, and begging God not to take this child, too.

I carry the scars of being afraid to bond with that child over those nine months, because I was so sure she was going to die.

I carry the scars of knowing that someone is missing from our family.

I carry the scars of knowing that Ann Catherine lost a part of her the day her twin sister died.

I carry the scars of knowing I have a daughter who I will never see grow up. I'll never see her graduate from high school or drive away to college. I'll never watch her get married. I'll never watch her have children of her own.

I carry the scars of learning what it means to truly trust Him when everything you believe in and love has been stripped away.

These scars will never go away. I will never be truly healed in this lifetime.

But, we can live with scars. We can take that pain and we can use it to help others. We can take the worst thing that ever happened to us, and we can use that pain to love others who are also hurting.

Those scars have made me who I am. I have an empathy for those who could never have children. I hurt for those who get pregnant, and then it all goes wrong. I ache for those mothers who won't hold their babies again until they see Heaven. I mourn with them, I hurt for them, I pray for them.

We have something in common. Our scars.

More than anything, I want Ann Catherine and Lily Baker to see my scars. I want them to know that bringing them into this world wasn't easy, but nothing worth having ever is. I don't want to create some fake version of the "perfect mom" who just accepted every bad thing that came her way. I want them to know I was devastated. I want them to know I had it out with God several times. I want them to know that I asked "why me?" I want them to know that sometimes - even 10 years later - it still doesn't make sense to me. I want them to know that I will never be the same person I was before I was wheeled into that hospital on April 15, 2005.

And do you know why I can have those feelings? Those questions that still tear my heart apart?

It's because Jesus had scars, too.

And because of his scars, I can carry mine. I can live with them. I can bear them as a symbol of what it means to love and to lose and to grieve and to cry and to, ultimately, be happy again. And I can do that because the one who holds my future - and the one who holds my daughter - had scars, too.

And because of his scars, I will hold her again.

His redemptive work at the cross makes it all possible. The same cross where he received his scars. For us.

My favorite verse is 1 Peter 5:10: "And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast." I cling to that promise.

Listen to how the Message describes it: "Keep a firm grip on the faith. The suffering won't last forever. It won't be long before this generous God who has great plans for us in Christ - eternal and glorious plans they are! - will have you put together and on your feet for good. He gets the last word; yes, he does."

I am so thankful for a God who gets the last word. He is still "putting me together" and I have no idea how long that will take. Until I see him, maybe? I have no idea, but until that day, I'll carry these scars as a sign of his love, his mercy and his grace.

Because these scars have made me who I am.

What It Means to Live

I woke up this morning and looked at the clock.

6:35 a.m.

I immediately knew it was June 1st. Ten years ago, Melissa Suzanne and Ann Catherine had just entered the world. Melissa at 6:18 a.m. and Ann Catherine one minute later at 6:19 a.m. As I lay in bed, I thought about how they were probably already in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Huntsville Hospital for Women and Children by 6:35 that morning. I was under anesthesia after an emergency c-section and was unaware that they were both fighting to live, but Chris was with them every moment after they took their first breaths and accompanied them to the NICU.  I wondered what those moments must have been like for him. He had to shoulder it alone while I was in the Operating Room. I hate that I couldn't have been with him - and with the girls.

Then I tried to remember, what time did she die?

My mind began grasping at times. Was it 7:52 a.m.? 8:08? 8:32? For some unknown reason, I couldn't remember.

I lay there wracked with guilt.

Honestly, what kind of mother can't remember the exact time her daughter died??

Those hands on the clock, forever frozen in time for us on that day, would become the catalyst for all we would do in Melissa's name. It would become the catalyst for how we lived from that moment forward. It changed our lives in such a profound way. It led to our "new normal."

And now, ten years later, I couldn't tell you the time she died.

I was in anguish. Why couldn't I remember??

I slowly began to realize why. It wasn't because I had blocked it out. It wasn't because time - ten years to be exact - had made it less meaningful for us.

It was because that time on a clock doesn't define my daughter. Her death doesn't define her.

Her life does.

When Melissa died, our world went black. I felt dead on the inside. I remember telling Chris, "I feel like someone has stolen my joy, and I don't know how to get it back." It was a pain like I had never experienced, and to this day, I haven't again. I didn't want to sleep, because every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. And when I was awake, I thought about her constantly.

I wanted to close my bedroom door and stay there forever. How in the world was I supposed to go out among the living when I felt like I had died, too?

And during that time, the most painful time of my life, God revealed something to me. The best way I could honor Melissa's memory was to live. 

I don't mean to just breathe. I don't mean to go about my daily life with a smile on my face while I was an empty shell on the inside.

I mean to really live.

To embrace life. To laugh again. To find my joy. To be the mom and wife I was meant to be. And to do all of the things she never could. What better way to honor Melissa's memory than to live? It's the one thing she couldn't do.

I felt that way last week when I ran my first 10K in memory of her. I feel it every time I watch Chris and Ann Catherine play catch in the backyard. I feel it every time I watch Ann Catherine on the softball field and the volleyball court. And I feel it when Lily Baker dances.

Lily Baker had her recital this weekend. Her ballet dance was to the song, "You'll Be In My Heart" from the movie, Tarzan. You see, God doesn't deal in coincidences.

That has always been the song that makes me think of Melissa. Then a few years later at Ann Catherine's first Swim for Melissa, the DJ played it while she swam her laps. And now, here was Lily Baker on stage dancing gracefully to "our song." The one that Melissa and I share.

For one so small,
You seem so strong
My arms will hold you
Keep you safe and warm
This bond between us
Can't be broken
I will be here 
Don't you cry

'Cause you'll be in my heart
Yes, you'll be in my heart
From this day on
Now and forever more.

I sat in the audience and sobbed as she danced. My God is so amazing. Over the last ten years, He has allowed me to see "glimpses" of Melissa in our every day lives. And this was just another example. She would never be able to dance on this earth, but her sister can. And on that night, she danced for her. 

As I lay in bed this morning thinking of this, the floodgates opened. I began to mourn the child I would never see grow up. And I allowed myself to have those moments as Ann Catherine still slept in her room. Chris walked in and laid on the bed with me as we cried together. When you've shared the loss of a child, you learn to communicate without words. A few moments later, I finally spoke.

"What time did she die?"

Chris was silent for a few seconds and said, "I'm not sure. It was a few hours after she was born."

He knows me well enough to know I would never be satisfied with that answer. He got up and I knew he was going to check her death certificate. Moments later, he came back and said, "8:44."

8:44 a.m. Of course. It was so clear to me now. I wondered how I had ever forgotten it.

And then I forgave myself. Those numbers on the clock don't control me any longer. Yes, they are significant. Yes, they are important. Yes, they were life-changing for us.

But, they are not as important as 6:18 a.m. Because that is the moment my firstborn came into the world. That is when it all began.

Her life is what matters. Her life is what changed us. Her life is what makes me want to be a better person. Her life is what makes me want to live my own life with joy, and grace and full of love.

Her death doesn't define her. And it no longer defines me. And I have no doubt she would want us to live that way.

One of Ann Catherine's favorite songs is "Do Life Big" by Jamie Grace and it truly embodies who she is. Ann Catherine lives life BIG. She loves big. She plays big. She celebrates big. She mourns big. She just lives life so big, and sometimes I wonder if that was born out of how hard she had to fight in those early days just to live.

I want to live that way, too. I want to live life BIG. What better way to honor my sweet Melissa.

Happy birthday, baby girl. Today, we will celebrate your life. And we promise to spend the rest of ours living big.

The Baby is Growing Up

My very first post on this blog, almost six years ago, announced the arrival of my third child - Lily Baker George.

Tomorrow, that baby goes to kindergarten.

Lily Baker came into this world looking, as my friend once told me, "like her daddy spit her out."

She was the most laid back baby, probably out of necessity since Ann Catherine was only 17-months-old when she was born.

She grew into a very funny child, a child who often uses humor to diffuse uncomfortable situations - or to try and get out of trouble. She constantly makes us laugh.

She is also incredibly independent for her age. She is full of confidence. I have often said about her, "I could drop Lily Baker into any situation and she would swim - not sink."

I have always loved that quality in her.

It may prove to be my undoing tomorrow.

She is just so ready for kindergarten. She walked into orientation Friday with her backpack on her back and her nap mat in her hand, and she refused to let me help. She walked into her room, said hello to her teacher, found her name and her seat and began unpacking her backpack like she had been doing this for years. She didn't need - or want - my help.

I thought I would cry right then and there.

It was hard enough when she graduated preschool in May. She just looked like such a big kid on that stage.

Now, we're heading off to big kid school.

To make matters worse, she proclaimed this week that she didn't need to sleep with Bunny anymore.

Those of you who know her well know what a big deal that is. For those of you who don't, let me clue you in.

Chris' parents gave Bunny to Lily Baker when she was a baby. Every night since, for 5 and a half years, she has slept with Bunny. Every. single. night. Bunny has gone everywhere with us - hockey games, church, preschool, even a Wiggles concert.

And that's not all. Bunny was LB's security. If LB got scared, she wanted Bunny. If LB got sleepy, she wanted Bunny. At first, Gammy and Gramps gave Lily Baker two Bunnies, so we always had a backup. We lost one a year ago and, since then, I've lived in panic that we might lose our only one. Bunny was Lily Baker's best friend.

In fact, I've always joked that Lily Baker would walk down the aisle at her wedding with Bunny stuffed underneath her bouquet.

So to tell me this week that she no longer needed Bunny?

Well, that was more than this mommy could take.

Here's the deal. We all want our children to progress and move to the next stage. That's the point, right?

But when it's the baby, it's just so....final.

It's the true ending of a chapter. It means you are moving from a phase of life and you can never go back.

I remember Ann Catherine's first day of kindergarten. I cried, but not for the same reasons that most moms cried. Yes, I was sad about my little girl growing up, but I was also filled with grief that Melissa wasn't there to start kindergarten with her. Each milestone of Ann Catherine's life is filled with a little bit of sadness for us because it's a reminder that Melissa isn't here.

I remember when I left school that day, I couldn't get to my parents' house quick enough to get Lily Baker. I scooped her up and hugged her as soon as I walked in the house. She was my saving grace that day. Ann Catherine had moved on to kindergarten, but I was okay because Lily Baker was still at home with me.

Tomorrow, I'll leave them both at school.
But, as He always does, God speaks truth into my life during these moments. At church this morning, we sang, "Mighty to Save" which is one of the songs that has always spoken to me since Melissa died. And I began to think of her as we sang.

And I realized what a gift it is to have a child starting kindergarten. I mean, she's growing up. And as hard as that is, do you know what a gift that is?

Do you know how many parents would give anything for that gift?

I do, because I'm one of them. I would give everything I own to walk two little girls into a second grade classroom tomorrow, instead of just one. I would give everything to be stressed that my twin girls are starting second grade tomorrow.

Growing up is a treasure.

That doesn't mean it isn't hard for mommies and daddies. It doesn't mean I won't cry tomorrow when I leave Lily Baker in her kindergarten classroom, because I will. And I will probably cry the whole way home.

At the same time, I will thank God for this precious gift of time. I will thank Him for allowing me to raise these beautiful girls on this earth. I will thank him for this milestone of watching them move to kindergarten and second grade. I will thank Him that they are growing up. There are so many moms who would give anything to have those gifts.

And I'll try and put it in perspective. It could be worse. Instead of starting kindergarten, my baby could be leaving for college tomorrow. 

Because when that happens, I really will need a therapist.

She Really is Swimming FOR Melissa

(This is a picture Lily Baker drew of her, Ann Catherine and their two cousins Ally and Will while we were at the beach last week. Melissa is the angel above them. And there's a rainbow connecting them all together. Sums it all up, doesn't it?)

Last week, I took my girls to the beach for a very last minute trip. I looked at the calendar, realized school and Swim for Melissa were only weeks away and called and told my mom we were coming to see them.

Our first morning there, I was on the balcony overlooking the beach having breakfast with my parents as the girls and their cousins ate inside. As we finished, my dad said, "Amy, Ann Catherine told me this morning she had a dream about Melissa last night. She dreamed that she came to swim at Swim for Melissa."

My mom and I both agreed that wasn't out of the ordinary. After all, our summer revolves around preparations for Swim for Melissa. It's a constant source of conversation at our home and our girls are right in the middle of it. It really didn't seem strange to me that she would be thinking of Melissa.

I thought about it more as the morning went on. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I needed to talk to her about it. I felt I had missed an opportunity to explain something to her. I called her into my bedroom and as she entered she looked at me and said, "Am I in trouble?"

I love that children always assume that when you want to talk to them.

I laughed and said, "No, but sit down. I want to talk to you about something."

She stared at me with a look that said I still think I'm in trouble. I patted the bed and said, "Come sit down with me."

She did as she was told. Then I said, "Poppy told me you had a dream about Melissa last night."

I might as well have said, "Poppy told me you like chocolate." She looked at me as if to say, "Of course I did."

"Can you tell me about it?" I asked.

"Sure!" she said excitedly. "I dreamed that we were at Swim for Melissa and Melissa came down to swim with me. And Jesus was there, too."

I smiled at the thought. "Well, you know what?" I asked. "Part of that is true."

She looked at me as if she didn't understand.

"Melissa won't physically be there," I continued. "As much as we wish she could be, we know that isn't possible. But, she will be swimming that day because she's in your heart. Every lap you take, she will take with you. You won't see her and you won't be able to touch her, but she will be there. I promise you that."

She smiled and gave me a big hug. Then she said the words that hurt every single time.

"Mommy, I wish Melissa could live here with us."

I took a deep breath.

"So do I baby," I answered, fighting back tears. And then I went back to what I know. "But you know what? We will see Melissa again one day."

She perked back up. "That's right, mommy! We'll see her in Heaven!"

Then she thought for a moment and said, "You know what I think, mommy? I think Melissa will be doing Swim for Heaven in Heaven while I'm doing Swim for Melissa. Isn't that cool?!"

I agreed that it was and, with that, she hopped up and ran out of the room to play with her cousins.

I've thought about that conversation so many times this week. Oh, how we miss that little girl. Oh, how we ache and grieve that she can't grow up as part of our family on this earth.

But, I refuse to live in sadness. I know, without a doubt, that Melissa wouldn't want that. She fought way too hard to live for me to stop living here on earth.

So this Saturday, I will clap and cheer as children jump into the pool to swim laps for premature babies. I'll tear up as little ones who don't know what a NICU is tell me they are swimming to "help tiny babies." I'll feel my heart swell with gratitude at the parents who spent this Saturday teaching their kids about something bigger than them, when they could have been laying around at home.

I'll cry when my own children plunge into the pool. I'll feel so incredibly blessed that after so much sadness, God put these two amazing children in our lives. I'll grieve that Melissa isn't here, but I'll thank God that her short life was the catalyst for all of this. I'll feel sad that she isn't physically here to celebrate this day with us. I'll feel gratitude that God chose us to be her parents. I'll feel her presence and spirit surround everything we do.

And as I watch Ann Catherine swim with her team, I'll think of what she told me last week. I'll imagine Melissa swimming her own laps in Heaven. I'll imagine her doing something that she never would have been able to do here on earth.

I'll know in my heart that she'll be swimming every lap alongside her twin sister.

And I will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ann Catherine is swimming for her. With every breath, and every kick, and every lap, she'll be swimming for Melissa.

Because that's what twins do - they stick together. And my girls are no exception.

Message from my Girl

Handmade gifts are just the best.

Don't get me wrong. I love the lantern from Pier One and the Terrame gift card that Chris and the girls gave me for Mother's Day.

But I love, love, love the gifts my girls made with their own, little hands. (God bless you teachers who do this every year, making sure mommies get these sweet homemade gifts!)

This year, Ann Catherine made me this box and asked me to put my rings in it. Lily Baker promptly put her "Hershley" kisses in it.

Lily Baker gave me a bookmark with her precious little handprint on it.

And Ann Catherine made me this.

I teared up as I read it. I love reading what my children think of me. At least at this age, while it's all still good. :)

Later this morning, Ann Catherine came in as I was getting ready for church.

"Mommy?" she said. "Do you know why I wrote this sentence?" She pointed at the one that read "My mom will always be with me forever."

"No," I answered.

"Well," she said. "It's the same way I feel about Melissa. You know, how she's always with us and always in our hearts? That's how I feel about you."

I was speechless. I just hugged her and she danced off into the next room, oblivious to the mark she had just left on my heart.

I can't count the times that God has used Ann Catherine to speak truth into my heart concerning Melissa. There have been so many times that she has said the right thing at the right time to me. I don't believe that's a coincidence.

I had grieved Melissa deeply yesterday. As I showered, the loss I felt in my heart hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried. And I cried. And I cried. I felt a heaviness that I couldn't shake. Mother's Day does that to me sometimes.

I grieved her at church this morning as we worshipped. As I have so many times, I held on tightly to Chris' hand with tears streaming down my face. I'm telling you, that man is my rock. I am so grateful that he is in my life. I can't count the times I've leaned on him - physically and emotionally - in the last seven years.

This morning, when Chris and the girls gave me my gifts I thought my heart would burst from happiness. At the same time, there was a sadness in my heart. It's hard to explain how those emotions feel when they battle it out.

It's not that I'm miserable on Mother's Day. I am so grateful for Ann Catherine and Lily Baker and for the chance God gave me to be their mommy. At the same time, I miss Melissa deeply. So deeply it hurts.

That's why Ann Catherine's timing could not have been more perfect. I needed to be reminded that even though Melissa isn't physically here, she is here. She's alive in our family. She's alive in our memories. She's alive in our hearts.

She will "be with us forever." As long as we are separate from her on this earth, she'll live in our hearts. Her spirit will permeate everything we do. And one day, we truly will be with her forever.

I love how God uses my children to remind me of these beautiful and precious truths. I love how they remind me that I can have hope in the midst of sadness.

It was such a simple sentence that she wrote. It's something we have said to her countless times.

How amazing that she used it to teach something to me on Mother's Day.

Moving On

You know that feeling you got in college when your professor gave you months to work on a project? At the time it was assigned, it seemed like you had plenty of time to get it done. But, as the deadline drew near, you began to panic. Did I do it right? Did I do my best? Did I leave anything out?

That's how I feel right now.

Lily Baker graduates from preschool on Friday. As happy as I am for her, I am also sad. Partly because I love this stage of having her with me and not in school full-time. And partly because she's the baby.

Once Ann Catherine started school, I realized how life changes. No more impromptu trips. No more staying home just because she's tired, or because we can. No more random visits during the day for ice cream or to feed the ducks at the park. No more snuggling at home on a rainy day watching her favorite movie.

It's not as if Lily Baker is with me all day anyway. She goes to preschool four mornings a week. During that time, I do my freelance work or whatever else needs to be done. But once I pick her up, we have two hours before we pick up Ann Catherine. I love those two hours. I love having that time alone with her before the day gets crazy.

And Fridays belong to us. She's home with me and we do whatever we want. I wouldn't trade those Fridays for anything in the world.

Thursday of this week, she had "K for a Day" at the school she'll attend in the fall. If ever there was a realization that your child is growing up, it's that. She loved it. Lily Baker has benefited from going to the school for various things over the last two years that Ann Catherine has been there, so it isn't this new, foreign place like it was for AC.

Plus, she's just ready.

Besides being the quintessential second child, LB is my child that I could drop into any situation and she'll swim, not sink. She is going to be fine.

I am another story.

I count it as one of my greatest joys in life that I was able to stop working full-time just before she turned two. I have loved this time with her. I cherish it.

But, as my mother has reminded me time and time again, this next chapter will be just as beautiful. Different, but beautiful.

And I must embrace it.

The other day, we checked Ann Catherine out of school early for a dentist appointment and went to Chick-fil-A for lunch. Since it was late in the day, we were the only ones outside on the playground. Halfway through lunch, a mom and her teenage daughter came outside to eat. As they watched my girls play, I heard the mom say to her daughter, "Oh, honey. I remember when you were that age playing on this playground." Just hearing those words made me want to cry. It only affirmed how quickly time slips away.

Then as my children played, I watched this mom and her teenage daughter. They talked, they laughed - it was evident they loved being together. They had the same relationship I had with my mom, the same relationship I hope to have with my daughters when they are older. It just looked so fun.

I realized that my mom is right. Each stage is beautiful. I have been so tightly holding onto this stage in life because it's all I know. I have been afraid for my girls to grow up. And while I'm still not ready for it, I must embrace it. Each stage is unique in it's own right, with it's own positives and it's own challenges.

I mean, let's face it. I can romanticize this stage of my daughters' lives all I want, but it's not always great. I certainly have moments where I think I'll pull my hair out. Just yesterday, after hearing "Mommy!" for the umpteenth time, I told them I was changing my name. There are days I wish they were more independent. I mean, it never fails they need more milk once I finally sit down to eat my lunch. There are days I wish Lily Baker wasn't so grumpy or demanding.

Then she crawls in my lap and snuggles up to me. And I forget all of that.

I guess that's life, isn't it? It's the good, the bad and the ugly. But when each stage is over, the bad seems to fade away and you only remember the good.

That's how I'll look back on this time with LB. I'll probably forget the meltdowns and the whining. Instead, I'll remember dressing up as princesses, taking trips to the playground and singing Muppet songs in the backyard at the top of our lungs.

And I'll thank God for every minute of it.

My Message from Melissa

I had to make a quick trip to Publix tonight after dinner to grab extra Easter eggs and candy. As I was checking out, I heard a young man say something about a rainbow. Naturally, I had to ask.

"Excuse me," I said. "Did you say there's a rainbow outside?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "Just go outside and look towards the front of the store. It's amazing!"

I walked out, expecting to see a small rainbow but what I saw took my breath away.

It was a double rainbow, arching from one end of the store to the other. I was overwhelmed. I snapped a picture with my phone, then jumped in the car to head home. I couldn't wait to tell the girls, and I prayed that God would allow it to stay in the sky until I got home.

Those of you who know us know how we feel about rainbows. We call Lily Baker our rainbow, the beautiful rainbow that God sent to us after Melissa's death. After that horrible storm, he sent us his promise that he would never leave us or abandon us. He did "exceedingly more than we could ask or imagine" when he sent us Lily Baker to heal our broken hearts.

So each time I see a rainbow, I feel like Melissa is sending me a message from Heaven. I can't put into words how it makes me feel.

As I drove home, I cried when I realized how God had gotten my attention this time.

It's Holy Week, but I have been so overwhelmed with other things - things that truly just don't matter - that I haven't focused on what this week truly means.

Easter took on a whole new meaning for us when Melissa died. I believe in the resurrection of Christ. I believe it gives me a hope that I could never have had otherwise. I have the promise that He will never leave me in this lifetime. And better than that, I have the promise that this life isn't it.

Let me tell you something: when you have lost someone you love, that promise means everything.

Because of the resurrection of Christ, I will see Melissa again one day. I will love her. I will hold her. I will be complete. While I celebrate that promise every day, it takes on a whole new meaning each Easter.

As I pulled into the driveway, Chris and the girls were taking it all in. My sweet friend, Ashley, had called to tell them about the rainbow. She knows what it means to our family.

"Mommy, look at the rainbow!!" Lily Baker cried, pointing at the sky. Ann Catherine ran into the rain and said, "It just makes me want to dance in the rain, Momma!"

And she did.

I watched her with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face. Thank you, God, for Easter.

I am so grateful for a loving God that sends me gentle reminders. Tonight's double rainbow had a double message for me from my sweet daughter. I could hear her saying during this holiest of weeks,

Mommy, I'm okay.

and

Mommy, I will see you again.

And the rainbow is my proof.

The Trip from You-Know-Where with Me at the Wheel

The girls and I returned this weekend from a nice spring break getaway.

We went to my parents' place at the beach. Unfortunately, Chris had to work and couldn't go so my mom rode down with us and my dad met us later.

We had a great time. My kids love going to the beach and this time was even more special because we got to celebrate my niece's 13th birthday while we were there.

We came back on Saturday, just the three of us. My mom stayed so she could ride home with my dad the next day. She repeatedly asked if I wanted her to ride with us, but I turned her down. I'm a big girl, after all. I can handle this.

We set out late that morning and it was smooth sailing. The girls, armed with snacks and a back seat movie, were great.

Then we got to Prattville.

About fifteen cars ahead of me, there had been a bad wreck. We arrived before the state troopers. Suddenly, we came to a halt. A stand still. Within minutes, three state troopers buzzed by on the median followed by three fire trucks.

We weren't going anywhere for a while.

I called both Chris and my mom to let them know we were going to be tied up. People in cars in front of us were getting out and walking around. Interstate-65 North was a parking lot.

My plan had been to stop fifteen minutes down the road so the girls could use the bathroom, so I braced myself for that inevitable cry: "Mommy, I've got to potty!!" Luckily, God was looking out for their bladders and no one had to go.

After about twenty minutes of just sitting there, the cars ahead of me began to move. 'Yipee! It's over!' I thought.

Then I realized that troopers were actually leading all of us through the median so we could turn around and get back on I-65 South. They had shut down both sides of the interstates and vehicles were lined up for miles.

"I don't want to go south!" I thought. "I just came from there!"

Apparently, I verbalized this because Ann Catherine started to cry. I began reassuring her that it was okay, all the while having no clue where I was going. And I began wishing that Chris was with us.

I called him and told him they had turned us around on the interstate. He jumped on the internet to check out routes for me. Just then, I saw the exit sign for Highway 31 and I knew this would get me back to I-65 North somehow. I turned and our little backroads journey began.

Ann Catherine was still crying, scared that I had no idea where I was going. She was partly right. Lily Baker? She was in the backseat wearing headphones and watching "Mr. Popper's Penguins." She was completely clueless.

We drove for about 20 miles and came to a sign leading us to I-65. It led us through the blink-and-you-miss it town of Verbena. Even this caught LB's attention and she yelled over her headphones, "Where are we?!"

We eventually got back on 65, relieved to see civilazation again. We were just glad to be out of harm's way and the girls and I said a prayer for those involved.

Then we pulled into Durbin Farms in Clanton for ice cream. Because that's how we celebrate.

We soon hopped back on the interstate and my text to Chris said, "Huntsville or bust!" I mean, what else could go wrong, right?

As we drove through Birmingham, Chris called to tell me I was going to drive through some thunderstorms between there and Huntsville. No problem. I can handle that.

What I didn't expect was to get caught in the middle of a hailstorm.

Around the Warrior exit, the rain began. Then it turned into giant golf-ball size hail. I kid you not. Have you ever driven through a true hailstorm? I honestly thought a giant chunk was going to come crashing through my windshield. It sounded like someone was dropping giant bowling balls on top of my car. It was completely unnerving.

The sky turned black and we were being pelted unmercifully. All of the cars ahead of me began to pull over, and I followed suit. Ann Catherine started to cry again, but somehow "The Muppets" drowned out the sound for LB. Seriously, give that kid headphones and a movie and she'll miss anything.

We waited out the storm, while I promised Ann Catherine we were going to be okay. We prayed again. At this point I'm thinking, 'You have got to be kidding me!' Of course this would happen while I am traveling alone with my children.

Eventually the storm ended and we got on our merry way. Once we saw the Saturn V rocket on I-565, we all squealed with delight. We were almost home! And I had never been so ready to get there.

I pulled into the driveway, relieved to be home but another emotion ran through my body as well - satisfaction. 'I did it,' I thought. Through an interstate shutdown and detour to a thunderous hailstorm, I handled it. I got my children home safely, with a major dose of help from God.

Isn't that motherhood?

I remember the first day I was alone with my children after we brought Lily Baker home from the hospital. She was just a week old, and Ann Catherine was just 17 months old. Chris had gone back to work and my mom was gone, too. LB began to cry, which made AC cry. I couldn't get either one of them to stop, so I plopped myself in the chair with both of them in my arms and I cried too. I laugh everytime I think about it now. I'm quite sure I looked like an unshowered, hot mess as we all had our pity party together. The three of us just sitting in that chair, wailing at the top of our lungs.

I called Chris at work, just because I needed to cry to someone else. Of course, there was nothing he could do, but it made me feel better. Then guess what? Eventually someone stopped crying.

And we made it through the day.

I remember when Chris went on a business trip when LB was only four weeks old, and he left the three of us alone for the first time overnight. AC had been a trooper until then, but of course the first night he was gone, she decided to cry all night. After hours of trying everything, I eventually laid down on the floor next to her crib and silently cried too. I guess she took pity on me because she finally went to sleep, and I picked myself up off the ground and stumbled to my bed. As soon as I laid down, Lily Baker began to cry in her bassinet as she woke up ready to eat. I am pretty sure I called Chris every name in the book for leaving me alone for the week with two babies. Eventually everyone went to sleep.

And we made it through the night.

I remember the first time the girls and I left the house together. Alone. Not for an extended trip, just for a quick ride to the mall. I was armed with a double stroller, diaper bags, juice cups, snacks and a giant box of wipes and a change of clothes because you just know someone is going to have a blowout before you get there. I was slap-out exhausted before I ever put my key in the ignition. But we got there.

And we made it through the day.

And those are the days where, as a mom, you pat yourself on the back when you lay down in your bed at night and you say to yourself, "I did it."

And it is one of the greatest feelings in the world.

I had that feeling as we finally arrived home Saturday night. No, I'm not crazy enough to think I did it on my own. I have no doubt that as we turned around on I-65 South and I had no idea where I was going, that God was in the front seat with his GPS. But I couldn't help being proud of myself that I had navigated my children through such a mess.

And even though I was so proud of myself for doing it without Chris' help, I had never been so happy to see him.

Treasures in My Own Backyard

I settled into the tub this morning - for the first time in months - armed with a Mimosa and the latest issue of Southern Living.

That is my own personal Heaven.

I am southern, through and through. Chris could move me to Scandinavia and I would still order grits with my breakfast. I had to "lose" my accent when I worked in television, so Chris always loved when I called my mom on the phone and my proper speech morphed into, "Muh-ther! You are nawt goin' to believe this!"

And yes, I really do call her "mother." I am southern, after all.

Anyway, back to the reason for my time in the tub. My mom and I are about to embark on a little trip to the beach with my girls. Notice I didn't use the word "vacation." In fact, I think another word should be created to describe a trip with children. While it's fun and glorious in it's own right, it's not "relaxing." Thus, I decided to make a trip to the tub to gear up for my trip to the beach.

Make sense?

Chris had given the girls strict orders of "Don't disturb your mother!" His voice was serious - more serious than the "Ann Catherine, sit down!" voice he uses after she gets up from the dinner table for the 18th time to do a little twirl, but less serious than his "If you don't clean up your playroom, I'm going to get a garbage bag and throw all your toys away!" voice. Of course, he never has to grab said garbage bag because the threat alone instills the fear of God in them and they take off running to their playroom to clean. Mission accomplished.

So as I soaked - ALONE! - I began to read my cherished Southern Living. As I dreamed of jaunts to Savannah to Charleston, I came across a piece about the Arts community in Alabama. And there it was - Lowe Mill Arts and Entertainment.

Wow! That's in MY town! I was beaming with pride. Then, as I read more about it, I became embarrassed.

I've never been there.

It's right here in my town. I hear about it all the time, but I've never been.

Chris and I love to travel. Since we didn't have kids right away, we did our fair share of traveling. It's how we fell in love with the deserts of Arizona. It's how Napa, California became our favorite place on the map and why a painting of the bed and breakfast we stayed in on our honeymoon AND our tenth anniversary hangs in our home.

We used to love to hop in the car and just GO! So why did it take us ten years of living in the Rocket City to actually visit the U.S. Space and Rocket Center?

Oh, I had been there a gazillion times as a television reporter. And the giant Saturn V on I-565 is my girls' signal that "we're home!" when returning from vacation. But it never occurred to Chris and I to visit until living here for almost a decade.

I returned home unable to eat the rest of the day thanks to the G-force ride we took, but I also returned home with such a proud appreciation of my town and the role the people in this town played in sending man to the moon. (Editors note: if you haven't been yet, what are you waiting for?!)

Just last week, I visited Merrimack Hall for the first time to see "Motherhood: the Musical" with some girlfriends. I couldn't get over this little gem tucked away in this revitalized neighborhood in Huntsville. I also couldn't believe yet that I was just meeting it for the first time. (Another Editor's note: ladies, go see this musical!!)

Chris and I both moved to Huntsville as "just another town on the journey." We didn't want to stay, and talked many nights of where life would take us next. But somewhere along the way, we realized what we had here.

It's a beautiful southern city, but full of diversity. That's something you don't get in many southern towns. Our neighborhoods are a mix of third generation Huntsvillians who say "yes ma'am and no ma'am" and rockets scientists and Ph.D's transplanted from northern cities.

We are just as close to the mountains and Asheville, North Carolina - as Chris and I discovered a few years ago - as we are to the beach. That's a pretty perfect combination.

We have professional sports teams, a gorgeous Museum of Art, a pristine Big Spring Park in the middle of downtown, and various musicals and plays almost every weekend. Mixed in with all of this, we have a small town charm that I love.

We moved here because of our jobs. We stayed because we wanted to raise our children here.

So here's my goal - to learn more about this place that I call home. Because if it's good enough for Southern Living, it's certainly good enough for me.

How I Broke my Toe Playing Pinkilicious

Otherwise titled, "Seriously? You don't have a better story than that?"

It all started happily enough. The girls were out of school for President's Day today and wanted to play Lily Baker's Pinkilicious board game. The game has cards that you pull and you have to do what the card says to get your points.

Ann Catherine pulled a card that told her to pretend she's driving a car, and we all had to follow her lead.

Rather quickly, her sedan turned into a Corvette and off she went. LB and I followed along.

Oh, you know where this is heading, don't you?

Off she went into the kitchen. LB was hot on her heels and I was bringing up the rear. As I turned the corner into the kitchen, I slipped in my socks and the only thing I remember is one leg flying up in the air and then landing, rather unceremoniously, sprawled out on the kitchen floor. There was nothing graceful about it. I banged my knee on the hardwood floor and one of my toes on my left foot hurt like all-get-out.

This is where it gets good.

At first, the girls were oblivious. Then I guess they heard me groaning because, to her credit, Ann Catherine poked her head back into the kitchen to make sure I was breathing. Once she realized I was still alive, off she went. Lily Baker, however, never looked back. I could have been a twisted, mangled, mess and she wouldn't have known it. She was on a mission to win the Pinkilicious game. Sorry, mom.

Think we're a little competitive in this family?

I finally got up and limped back to the game. We began to play, then I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Girls," I said. "Thanks for the help back there. When you are hurt, who drops everything to pick you up and make sure you're okay? That would be me. Instead, you guys were leaping over me like I was roadkill!"

Guilting them into asking me how I was began to backfire. Instead, they started giggling.

"At least Ann Catherine checked to make sure I was alive," I continued. "Lily Baker, you just left me in a heap on the floor with tire tracks across my back."

That's when Lily Baker got up, mock sympathy oozing through her from head to toe, and said, "Oh, mommy, I'm so sorry. Let me see your knee," and she inspected it as if she was on staff at Johns Hopkins.

Ann Catherine, at this point, was in full-blown laughter.

LB gave me a hug and a quick smooch on the lips and mumbled something like, "Can we start playing the game again?"

That, my friends, is gratitude.

I'm wondering if I should have the following conversation with girls: "Hey girls, you know how I showed you to use 911 if there's an emergency? Well, if mommy ever becomes unconscious during Wii 'Just Dance' or a fierce game of Princess Yahtzee, could someone please pause the game for about five seconds and make sure I'm still breathing? I get that you all want to win, but seriously, is that too much to ask??"

It only got worse once Chris got home. You see, sympathy is hard to come by in this household. Chris doesn't feel bad for anyone. He once played a hockey game he doesn't remember. He went back in after taking a puck off the face that knocked him out and left him with a concussion. (on a personal note: kids, I am not condoning this. Your dad clearly has scrambled eggs.) At the end of said game, he had titanium plates put in behind his eye where he was gashed during the game. Then, he played the next night. It's why baseball players who go on the DL because of hangnails make him crazy.

He loves me with all his heart, but believe me, I get no sympathy from him.

So he gets home, and I tell him I think I broke my toe.

"So, how'd you do it?" he asked. I just looked down.

He starts smiling. "How'd you do it?" he kept asking.

Oh, he knew it was going to be a good one. Finally, I confessed.

He laughed the entire time I told the story. Then he looked down at my purple, swollen toe and said, "Yep, looks like you jammed it pretty good," and walked away.

Then as he got to the bedroom, he threw out, "Maybe you should just stick to Wii dancing."

My poor, aching toe. And battered pride.

Tonight as we were tucking the girls in and doing our nightly "I'm thankful for" ritual, Chris said, "I'm thankful no one was seriously injured today while playing the Pinkilicious game."

And the girls started cackling.

Seriously, the outpouring of love is overwhelming in this household. Living here is not for the faint of heart.

I had a migraine yesterday that put me in bed all afternoon and evening. Today, I wiped out during a children's board game and knocked my toe out of whack.

Can I get a do-over? I'm thinking it's not going to be my week.

Wait for the Rainbow

I have a picture that hangs on my mirror in my bathroom.

It's a picture Ann Catherine drew when she was younger. It's a picture of me (you know, the awesome stick figure kind, without hair :) with a halo over my head. I put it there as a reminder of how my daughter sees me, even though it's so far from who I really am. It's a reminder that she is watching everything I do - and learning from it.

Sobering thought for moms, huh?

I added another picture the other night. But before I tell you about it, I must explain what happened that night.

Ann Catherine had one of her grief attacks. I have no better way to describe it. Out of the blue, she'll start thinking about Melissa and she'll just begin to uncontrollably cry. And this goes on for a while.

Have you ever watched as your child truly grieved someone?

It is absolutely heartbreaking.

I went into her room as she and Lily Baker lay in bed. I held her and she sobbed and sobbed. She kept telling me how much she missed Melissa and "I just wished that I could have seen her before she died." I bet she repeated that sentence eight or nine times.

I held her in my arms and told her that I missed her, too. I kept telling her that we would be with Melissa again one day. And each time I said it, she replied, "I just want to see her now!"

I began to cry, too. Tears rolled down my face as I tried to reassure her.

Ann Catherine grieves just as I do. When it finally hits her, she can't hold it back any longer. I grieve the same way. Once I give in to crying, I will cry hard for a good five to ten minutes. So, I didn't rush her. I just held her and let her cry on my shoulder.

The song "Our God" popped into my head. As she sobbed, I rocked her and began to sing, "Our God is greater, our God is stronger, God you are higher than any other. Our God is healer, awesome in power, our God. Our God."

Then Lily Baker, who loves this song, joined in. And the two of us sang the chorus over and over and over as Ann Catherine cried.

It was one of the most gut-wrenching and beautiful moments I have ever shared with my daughters.

And then, when I couldn't sing through the tears any longer, I stopped. And Lily Baker just kept going. And she sang that as I rocked Ann Catherine back and forth in my arms.

About twenty minutes later, she stopped crying and I put them both to bed. Then I came into the den, collapsed into the sofa and began to bawl. Chris came over and put his arms around me as I cried.

"I just don't know what to say to her sometimes," I told him. "I know we will see Melissa again one day, but I know that doesn't soothe Ann Catherine's pain right now."

And that's the problem.

We, as parents, are "fixers." We can't stand to see our children sad. So, we try to fix the problem.

This is one problem I cannot fix. I can't bring Melissa back. I can promise Ann Catherine that we will see her again, but that doesn't take away her pain right now.

Please pray for our family as we navigate this journey. Please pray that God will give us the answers we need to these tough questions.

I want to be real with my children concerning Melissa's death. I want them to see me cry. I want them to see me grieve. I want them to know that I miss her too, with all of my heart.

At the same time, I want them to see my faith. When they are older, I want them to look back on their years with me and I want them to say, "I know that my mom loved Melissa and missed her with all of her heart. But, I also know that she trusted God's plan for our lives and she knew that He was in control. She wasn't bitter or angry. She believed that God could bring something beautiful out of so much pain."

So back to my picture. As you all know, we call Lily Baker our rainbow. She is the promise that God sent to our family after that horrible, tragic storm of losing Melissa. The rainbow is a powerful symbol to our family of God's love for us. It is a powerful symbol that life could go on after the storm.

This week at preschool, Lily Baker drew the most beautiful picture of a rainbow. I asked her if I could keep it. I taped it to my bathroom mirror, just above Ann Catherine's picture.

When Lily Baker walked in my room the next morning, she said, "You put my rainbow on your mirror!" She was beaming with pride.

When she walked out, I thought about what we experienced with Ann Catherine the night before. I realized that the rainbow goes so far beyond Lily Baker's birth.

She is the rainbow we celebrate on earth. But one day, we will see the ultimate rainbow.

When the four of us are reunited with Melissa, that will be the final part of God's promise to us. That yes, it may be hard for now, but the rainbow will appear one day. It will shine over our family - our family of five - as we are finally together the way God meant for us to be. When I hold Melissa in my arms, all of the crying, all of the hurt, all of the sadness, all of the grief, will be gone - forever. Not just in my heart, but in Chris' heart, Ann Catherine's heart and Lily Baker's heart.

That rainbow is going to be so spectacular.

Thank you, God, for the rainbow.

Outgrowing our Children's Toys

There’s a scene in Toy Story 2 that always makes me sad.

It’s when Jessie recounts the story of how her friend and playmate outgrew her. One minute the little girl is spending every waking moment with Jessie, the next minute the doll is under her bed as she giggles and plays with her friends. She is older now, and she has moved on.

I know its fiction, but it always gets me.              

I already see it in Ann Catherine. She deems herself too grown up for some things, as she walks through the house with her earphones on listening to her favorite music.

But, Lily Baker? Oh Lord, thank you for Lily Baker.

At any given moment of any given day, I can find Lily Baker in her room with her gazillion miniature princesses and princes sprawled across the room. She talks to them, plays with them, loves them.

Her favorite is Belle.

I don’t know when Lily Baker first came to love Belle. It just seems it’s always been that way. Yellow is her favorite color, because that’s the color of Belle’s party dress. She loves the Beast, Lumiere, Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts, Chip – all of them. She’s seen Beauty and the Beast so many times she could recite it by heart. And as far as heroines go, Belle’s not bad. She’s smart, loves to read, isn’t a damsel in distress and teaches the beast how to love. Not too shabby. My child’s role models could be worse, you know.

We took the girls to Walt Disney World in April. They were the perfect age. They believe in the magic. By golly, Cinderella actually lives in that giant castle on Main Street. Each night as we walked past, we wondered aloud which bedroom was hers.

But the best part? Watching Lily Baker meet Belle for the first time.

It was at dinner at Cinderella’s Castle. I snapped this picture as Lily Baker saw her from afar for the first time and watched her walk towards our table.

I couldn’t even look at Belle for looking at Lily Baker. Her reaction was priceless. It was worth every single penny we had paid to go there.

It just so happened that Beauty and the Beast was the featured show at Hollywood Studios so Lily Baker got to see it on stage. I don't think she blinked the entire show.

This past weekend we had another first with Belle: Beauty and the Beast in 3D. She had never seen it on the big screen and she was beyond excited.. She insisted on wearing her Belle dress to the theater. Each time her favorite songs came on, I found myself watching her instead of watching the movie. I was overflowing with happiness. It was completely worth the inflated ticket prices and ridiculously priced popcorn.

That’s when I realized something: these memories are as much for me, as they are for her. When I am old and gray and Lily Baker has children of her own, I will see a Belle doll and immediately think of Lily Baker and her love for this princess. I will hear "Be Our Guest" and hear Lily Baker's voice singing it. I will immediately be transported to a time long ago – a time when Lily Baker called her sister “Ann Caf-rine,” a time when she begged to wear dress-up clothes each time we went to the grocery store, a time where it made complete sense to her that Belle could talk to household objects, like a candlestick and clock. A time that now seems so crazy and rushed, but I have a feeling when I reflect back, I’ll long for that craziness.

Maybe our children’s childhood toys – those they absolutely cherish – are more for us than them. Maybe God is giving us memories as well, a reminder when they are older of how wonderful life was when they actually believed in princesses and fairytales.

One day, Belle may find her way under Lily Baker’s bed as she giggles with her friends, painting their nails.

When it does, I’ll still remember her.

I think Lily Baker will, too.