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Your memory floats through my mind so often that I’m often seeing two moments at once. I see the one that happened in the past, and I see the one I now live each day. These two often compete in my mind for importance.

I can see you in the play of all young children. Listening to their fun, I hear your laughter clearly though others around me do not. A smile might cross my face at the funny thing you said once upon a time that is just a memory now prompted by someone else’s young child.

The world is awash in color, but orange and green remind me of your caps, not the kind most kids wear, but the kind we screwed onto your “cord,” and you proclaimed they were your favorite colors.

RELATED: What They Don’t Tell You about Child Loss

Advertisements bring more thoughts rushing in. Facebook decided I needed an ad for pull-ups to show how the sides are Velcro, allowing them to re-stick after use—yes, I remember that very well, thank you. I still have your clean pull-up panties in the pocket of the truck seat two years later. It might be disposable, but I can’t bring myself to take it out.

Watching a movie to escape real life for a few minutes thrusts your life into the forefront of my mind. The storyline of a woman dying of liver cancer. They did an aspiration of her liver, painful and precise, but I wasn’t seeing her. I saw you, that long needle being pushed into your soft skin, your tumor cells being sucked out, your wound spurting blood all over your pink blankie. I remember them rushing your bed down to the 7th-floor PICU and the scare we had, our worst nightmare coming true (but not quite yet).

I took the easy way out at dinner and served cold cereal. It seemed sensible with the temperature here being over 107 degrees today. Much too hot to cook! Yet, as I tore into the Lucky Charms, I saw you ordering bowl after bowl from the hospital room service only to eat the marshmallows and beg for another bowl. Of course, we allowed it.

Yes, all around, your memory is here. It’s in my tears, my happiness, my sorrows, and my smile. I know how blessed I was to be your mama. I wish it had lasted longer, but I’m thankful for every breath you took here on earth.

RELATED: The Miracle of Being Fed through 5,000 Days of Grief

I look forward to the day we stand worshiping side by side again. My pew at church is lonely without you sitting by me and humming all the hymns. I listen to songs that sing of the goodness of God, and I believe the words. My faith in Jesus is still strong, but I pray it is stronger than the ache of this loss. I know He kept His promises of life and healing, yet my heart still hurts with missing you, baby girl. Each smile, every heartbeat, the laughter, and the cuddles were all so precious!

Grief is a confusing state to live in, never knowing if you will see the past while living in the present. Heaven won’t be like that. The now will be forever. The joy will surround our hearts again. The sorrow will be banished. Jesus will be in our midst. Praise Him!

Originally published on the author’s Facebook page

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So God Made a Mother's Story Keepsake Journal

Courtney Mount

Millie's Mama, Courtney Mount became an author when Millie was diagnosed with Stage 4 Neuroblastoma in the summer of 2019. She is a Christian wife and homeschooling mother to nine children. She and her husband live on an 80-acre hobby farm where they enjoy playing with the kids and grandchildren. Courtney is the Author of the children's book, "Millie Finds Her Miracle" which is a gentle introduction to death for young children. She frequently blogs on Millie's Miracle FB page, shares her stories on HVFH, and has been a featured guest on numerous podcasts. She is currently writing a book about grief, surviving loss, and embracing Millie's Miracle that brought healing from cancer in heaven.  Find more on MilliesMiracle.Net

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