Christian Vir: 2018

On the back of my right hand there's a tiny scar where they finally found a vein to stick the morphine pump. I wear my "C" initial ring on that same hand, a simple reminder of the baby boy who I couldn't keep from rushing out of my body, lifeless. There was panic the moment he came. I've never felt so intensely unable to control my life. I couldn't keep him in any longer, and I could feel my body helping to accomplish something that my mind didn't want to occur. In my panic, I called to the doctors, who were discussing quietly across the room, "He's coming! I can't stop him!"

But really what I was shouting was, "I don't want him to be born dead! Help me keep him from being born dead!"

We stopped by his grave as a family in the biting wind, and this year, three years after his birth, we brought both of his sisters. Dada carried Charlotte in his arms, and he cried softly as he shielded her from the January cold. I carried Portia in my belly, hands full of orange flowers, grateful to be past the twenty-five week mark with this pregnancy. Our first-born child is officially our youngest again.

A couple of months ago, I filmed some of his story, and I'd invite you to watch it, here. It's the saddest story we have, but there's so much peace and beauty in it too. God gave us Biblical comfort before we lost him, on the way to the hospital, and every sad day after. He has been the balm that heals the hurt, the cord that holds our family together, and the brightness of future promises: a joy-filled life.