Dear baby I never got to officially meet,
I just wanted you to know I still think about you all the time. Even though it’s been 14 years, I can still feel the hopeful excitement of the positive test and the gut-wrenching darkness when the doctor made it official: I had a miscarriage.
I think about you when I hear the song that was playing in the emergency room while I waited for answers. Ironically, it was Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birdies (Don’t Worry About A Thing)”. I now know that was God trying to comfort me. It has taken some time, as all grief does, for it to illicit gratitude for you instead of never-ending tears.
I think about you when I hear Taylor Swift’s song “Enchanted” because the album it was on came out the next day. And there is a section of that song I listened to on repeat for months while I tried to make sense of what happened. (I tweaked the lyrics a little bit to fit our situation.)
This is me praying that
This was the very first page,
Not where the storyline ends.
My thoughts will echo your name
Until I see you again.
These are the words I held back
As *you were* leaving too soon,
I was enchanted to meet you.
I think about you when your brother and sisters are getting on my last nerve, when they can’t be around each other for more than a minute without getting into a fight, when they need yet another thing from me, but I feel like I’ve already given every last drop that I can offer, when they want a snuggle (which is becoming rarer as they get bigger), when we are celebrating a birthday or Christmas—just to name a few. I think about the fact that there was a time when I thought I couldn’t have any of this craziness. I think about how you taught me to be grateful for the chance to have it all, from cuddles to chaos.
I won’t lie and tell you I handled it well at first. I wallowed in misery, trying to numb my pain with junk food and trashy television shows. I withdrew into myself for a few months, unable to smile or give more than the necessary energy to survive the day. My friends, family, and co-workers were worried about me. Once I came out again, they told me they thought they might never see me—the normal me, at least—again.
That’s when I decided that moving forward, your loss wouldn’t be in vain. I wouldn’t let that dark spiral of life feeling pointless suck me under. You caused me to choose faith over fear. You made me realize I had to be an active participant in my relationship with God. Not because He could change the outcome or take the pain away, but because He was the only One who could redeem it. Only God could break through the darkness with His marvelous light.
I think about you when I lead Bible study and organize women’s events at our church, when I share my faith and urge others to choose it over the fear that would typically control their days. I think about you when I tell others about the excellent qualities of God who freed me from distress and darkness, and only because you helped Him get my attention.
Even though we only had a couple of months together, you have had the most profound impact on me and how I live my life, after your dad (but I’ve been around him for 21 years, so he had an advantage).
Even though we never got around to knowing your name, it still echoes in my thoughts all the time. But more than that, it echoes in my behavior, in my decisions, and in my gratitude for what I do have.
You gave me the opportunity to be like this. With your very short time on this side of Heaven, you changed me dramatically and drastically. And for you, I want to pay that forward. Your loss wasn’t in vain. I won’t stop until I see you again, so I can tell you about all the people you’ve helped me change by changing me.
I love you forever,
Your Enchanted Mama
by Jenny Albers 
