Dear Sammi

Dear Sammi,

Today marks the second year we've been without you. On May 12th of this year, you'll officially log more time with Jesus than time on Earth, which is so bizarre. And no, I don't know why I know that.

We're trying to hang out in the neutral space between the two extremes of debilitating grief and complete avoidance. There are so many things around this house that bring up positive memories of you, and we think of them often. We happily remember and imitate your Sammi Stomp at dance parties. We still look at pictures of you and share silly stories about you. However, we've also learned what sets off the different members of the family with unhappy memories. We've learned how to honor the different grief styles and how to encourage one another when needed.

Unsurprisingly, grief is still weird. I try to schedule time for it, and it just won't abide by my plans. Grief is like a clumsy, defiant elephant. It barges into my day and sits on my schedule. It won't go on a walk when asked. It won't sit patiently in another room while I "do holidays." The grief elephant does as it pleases and won't take any requests from me.

This year, grief has settled. The initial shock and adrenaline of 2018 wore off, and now we're accustomed to that heavy feeling. It's like getting soaking wet in a downpour. Even after you get inside, all of your clothes are still wet for hours. Even days later, shoes squish and begin to warp. That feeling of missing you has buried itself into the marrow of our bones.

And yet, our hope is anchored.

That "missing you" feeling draws us close to the only One who can ease that pain. That heaviness leads us to a daily dependence on His provision. That sorrow has driven us into a deeper relationship with the Lord. Your sister has been gifted with spiritual maturity well beyond her years as a direct result of losing you. She depends on the Lord in times of calm and crisis and believes in the power of prayer. Her faith is alive and real, praise the Lord. We have tested and verified the words of Romans 5:3-5; suffering does produce endurance. Endurance does produce character. Character does produce hope. Our hope is anchored; it is firm and secure.

I continuously remind myself that this season is finite. I told myself the same thing while birthing you. Labor pains exist within a specific period of time and are then no more. It is 100% painful in the moment, yet the joy justifies the pain. There will come a time when I won't miss you anymore. There will come a time when I exchange my tears of grief for unending tears of joy.

In case I haven't been clear, we still miss you. Your brothers look like you and act like you and destroy things like you. Lincoln has your mannerisms, which is so confusing to me. He says "Cookie Monsterrrrrrr" just like you and has the same laugh as you. It's such a bittersweet gift, but I'll take it.

Love you. Keep praying for us, because it's still really hard down here.

Mama