Remembering Judah- Our 2 Year Journey

It's hard to believe that two years ago today, we lost our son Judah.  I can so vividly remember being in the hospital and feeling his small, sporadic kicks at 21 weeks and watching him wiggle around on the ultra sound monitor.  There was hope that, even though I would be on bed rest the rest of the pregnancy, if he stayed put for just a few more weeks, he would have a chance of survival.

But things changed within the following few hours and as I went into labor and delivered our son, those hopes were gone.

That first year after losing him was incredibly hard.  While we felt the love and support from our family and friends, and while we knew God had a purpose in it all, it was an emotionally one of the hardest things we've gone through.  We not only lost a child, we found ourselves being labeled with infertility… and that combination had us wondering what God had in store for us as a family.

The first anniversary of Judah's death was painful as we hung his ornament on the tree and went through his box of pictures and items from the hospital.  We remembered our son and the moments we had with him, and wondered if we'd ever have the experience of welcoming a healthy baby into the world.

This year, as I sit here watching the snow come down as I write, I feel the seemingly non stop movements of our little girl as we wait anxiously for her arrival.  At nearly 36 weeks, we know that even if she came today, she would survive… and we are so excited and thankful.

God has been so faithful on this journey… and not just the journey of this pregnancy, but the entire last two years.  We are so thankful for everyone's prayers and encouragement and know we wouldn't have gotten through without your support.

I wasn't going to write a lot today because I wanted to repost a blog post that Gabe wrote the other day.    I thought it summed up perfectly the struggle, feelings and hope that we find in our loss and even the great gift of the Christmas season.

I’ve always loved the Christmas season. You can ask my wife. I’m one of those nerds who sings Christmas tunes in the shower. 

...in July.  

And yet, there was a year that Christmas was anything but holly and jolly. Innocence was lost. The forever green trees meshed with a short life taken what felt too soon.   

Now, Christmas will forever feel strange to me.  

On December 23, 2011 I held my firstborn son after two weeks of being in and out of the hospital. Rather than celebrating the start of a new family. I held my boy, lifeless. Died in child birth, I picked up his remains on Christmas eve from the funeral home.  

Quiet.  

Such a small box.  

Everyone else had already gone to begin their Christmas eve celebrations. Then Allie and I celebrated — or at least remembered with tears — the labor pains of the virgin Mary who gave birth to Jesus the Christ on December 25th. What must His first cry have sounded like? Strangely normal, I assume. We hung an ornament in my son’s honor. It was so small — smaller than him.   

Then the 26th came.   

A day that comes every year. A day I didn’t necessarily look forward to that year. A day to remember my own birth. I was born early too, I am told. I shared that in common with him, but I made it.    

And now two years later, there is another added element. My wife is 9 months pregnant. I can feel my daughter get a case of the hiccups, bust a move when the music is cranked, or even stretch as she is gearing up to join us. I can’t tell you how excited, overjoyed, overwhelmed, anxious, and just thankful I am.  It is in these few days in each year I’m reminded of the story of this world. My world. Your world.   

Its broken. Death isn’t beautiful. Its dark. Cold. Anyone who tells you to just accept death as evolution’s avenue of human progress and development, has never really loved and lost. Either that or they’re hopeless and cynical. Never really seeing what is right in front of them — the ugliness of death. The wrongness of death. 

But in the midst of all this brokenness, a new day comes. I am reminded that God didn’t just sit on the sidelines. He entered our pain and suffering. And every year when I remember my son’s death, I remember that God sent His Son, Jesus Christ. He sent Him in a particular point in history - real time and space - to be Emmanuel — God with us. He saw that there was so much wrong in the world, and He knew He was its only solution. Born in order to die that death would one day end. Suffered so that one day suffering would cease. Sin paid for. Death defeated. God’s Son intentionally went to the cross to die so that one day our sons and daughters might no longer die, but might live forever.   

Then as my birthday hits afresh on good ol’ Boxing Day, I breathe anew the truth of the Gospel. Jesus was miraculously born. Lived a life I want to live, and died the death I deserved to die, then rose from the dead three days later - changing the very course of history. Death to life. God isn’t done working in the world. God isn’t done working in me. Through me. In you. Through you. For His good purposes.  

This is the full story of Christmas I want my soon-to-arrive daughter to know, own and live. 

Death, miraculous birth, a birthday and imminent new life - all in only a few short days. Christmas will forever feel strange to me, but that doesn’t mean it's without hope.

We love you Judah!  You are forever in our hearts and minds… we can't wait to see you and hold you again someday!

 

Love,
Mom and Dad