On the eve of Lily's birthday.
Eight years ago tonight, hope danced through the air.
It was bedtime. I was supposed to be sleeping. But instead I was giddy with excitement and anticipation. I pulled back the covers and got up again. I wanted to check one more time.
I unzipped the suitcase again and there it all was. My heart danced again at the familiar surprise.
Party hats.
Cupcakes.
A happy birthday sign.
And 3 gallon size bags.
The same kind that the nurses at the delivery of our first daughter, Lucy, had laughed at and poked fun at me for. Inside of each: an outfit and matching hat, socks, and a blanket…. Chosen- to take out the guess work for my husband [I know that someone out there will understand me].
On top of each was written these words in black Sharpie permanent marker:
Day 1 - Welcome to the world, Lily! Destined to do great things.
Day 2 - We love you, Lily.
Day 3 - You’re coming home!
Everything labeled, chosen, written, hope-filled. A new beginning right around the corner (drawing nearer with every tick-tock of the clock… which reminded me that I should be off to bed).
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The next morning, after playing a few rounds of UNO with my husband in pre-op, an anesthesiologist, kind and friendly with big rimmed glasses and gentle eyes, read to me from his devotional for the day while the surgical team worked away to bring us our Lily.
In a soft voice, he read over me from his devotional words that were about shooting stars. I can’t remember them specifically - I just remember his presence… calm, assuring, guiding. And then- I remember him (and this I remember quite clearly) stopping the reading, and looking at me, eyes wide open locking deep with mine, and saying the words, “Your Lily will be a shooting star.” I can hear his voice even as I type it now. It was something about the way that he said it, the way that he locked eyes with mine, the unfamiliarity with the metaphor…. I remember this part so clearly because it struck me right down all the way to my core.
Moments later, as the words still hung in the air… a rush- shouts for help- and a child, my child, in the air being carried away from me- purple and still.
And the words echoed on replay in my heart - “Your Lily will be a shooting star.”
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Our Lily wasn’t born still. She did indeed later cry. But she was born misformed. Lily, despite having received the best of medical care in Honduras during my pregnancy, was born with an undetected severe spina bifida, missing a kidney, an imperforate anus, and respiratory distress. She was rushed off into immediate neurosurgery.
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Our girl struggled for two and a half weeks, in and out of procedures, on and off a vent, before we were able to arrange for her transport to Texas Children’s Hospital [my praise will never cease for Jessica Merwin and the team at Angel MedCare who stopped their business-as-usual to help us]. It only took a few rounds of tests before the specialists told us what we deep down already knew…. The window of opportunity to save our Lily’s life had already closed.
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So, on April 8th, in a hospital room in Honduras, with our pastor present, and my mom and Lucy right outside the room…. Our Lily breathed her last as I rocked her and sang to her songs. We bathed her, we changed her, I kissed every inch of her body… marveling over her fingers and her toes and her locks of dark, straight hair.
And right there… even in the midst of the messiest moment of my life- hope was present. It wasn’t in the form of party hats or homecoming- there was no excitement attached to it. But right there in that hospital room, looking down at our deceased daughter, hope was the breath in my lungs, it was my ability to outlive the moment- to survive unnaturally past my daughter-, and it was my gritty, tarnished but not torn optimism that something could still arise from this - something better than this … something better than these empty arms. Hope was present as the words echoed in my heart one more time “Your Lily will be a shooting star.”
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Our Lily was the beginning of an understanding of the deep cracks, crevices and corruption of the maternal - infant healthcare system in Honduras. In the months that would follow, we, along with a committed group of friends, hand-in-hand with Lily’s doctors, would discover just how deep and wide the injustice crept. We would hear things and see things that would leave us changed forever and determined to find a way… somehow, someway… for there to be better for the parents and babies that would follow us in the nation.
Our nonprofit was formed, money was raised, and change happened (this is, admittedly, a naked and simplistic definition for years of transformation work and efforts that are still ongoing- please click through to www.littleangelsofhonduras.org to learn more). Good work was carried forward and continues still.
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But I do not intend to deceive you, reader. There is no pretty bow on the package of our story. There is beauty that our Lily’s light has brought into the world… God quite literally breathed on our broken thing, on our daughter’s ashes to create something new… to create beauty… But there is no bow.
The hope that was pervasive on the eve of Lily’s birth eight years ago, is still pervasive tonight on the eve of the day that destroyed me…. Precisely because there is no bow. This thing has not yet been wrapped up.
Our story is not over. Lily’s story is not over. God’s story continues.
If death and tragedy had been the final word, I’m quite certain that I would have been crushed irreparably eight years ago.
But because of Jesus… here I sit, on this eve, in a pile of tears, looking at photos, remembering the hour-by-hour… full of hope.
Hope has married my grief and together they dance promising me that this is not the end.
They promise me that the Author of breath is still breathing on these ashes creating beauty…
They promise me a future where we will be reunited…
They promise me that new beginnings are still underway, and are indeed… always underway.
The promise me that life still has the final word.
And so tonight, as I remember those gallon-size bags and the child I carried, as I prepare to celebrate my Lily’s 8th birthday in heaven …. This is my gift to her and my gift to you, my reader. May our story of ‘muddy’ hope inspire you to examine the things that have broken you too… by pulling them closer, by removing the bows and the closure. May the unwrapping meet you with redemption… with hope for a better ending that is still being written.
~ To honor our Lily’s life, please consider giving today to the nonprofit that is working to be a voice for babies like her that are born in Honduras in need of medical care. You can make a tax-deductible donation here.