This past Monday, January 20th, would have been Katie’s 28th birthday. We lost Katie in July of 1993, when she was 18 months old. At the time, my mother told me that now I would be able to help others, as you can’t truly minister to someone if you’ve never experienced what they’ve been through. It was the last thing I wanted to hear after losing the daughter I’d always dreamed of, but the message has stayed with me all these years.
When I lost Katie, I had two beautiful boys who needed their mommy, and that kept me going. I wasn’t the mother I was before; how could I be? I think more days than not, for many years I was just going through the motions, too afraid to allow myself to feel anything. See, if you allow your heart to feel one emotion, then it will feel all emotions. Everything you’ve kept locked away in a secret place so that you can survive every day will pour in, set free to break your heart. I couldn’t let that happen, for if it did, I might crumble to the floor, never to get up again. And my children needed me. Ryan and Jason deserved to have a mother who got up out of bed every day and saw to their needs and loved them.
Not allowing myself to fully feel the pain of Katie’s loss allowed me to keep moving, but it robbed me of the ability to feel much emotion beyond loving my sons. Even going to church became unbearable. The familiar hymns that had always been a comfort throughout my life were now a key that could unlock the cell where my pain was buried. I couldn’t bear it, so I stopped going. While I avoided church in order to escape the emotion it would make me feel, I robbed my sons of continuing to grow up in the church. This is one of my greatest regrets.
Recently I was asked by a dear friend who also lost a daughter if it ever gets better. I assured her it does. It is true that time heals wounds, or at least makes them less raw and painful. Anniversaries can still be hard. After all these years, the day Katie was born and the day she left are still painful. I allow myself to feel sad on those days, but some years I am able to celebrate her birth. There is no rhyme or reason to it – some years that day is just harder than others. But life on a daily basis is not painful. I can speak of Katie with a smile instead of a tear.
Allowing my heart to soften, to break down those walls and fully feel, is still a work in progress. It is part of my life’s journey. As is the fact that I can minister to others who have shared the loss of a child. I am amazed by how many women God has brought through my path who have shared this loss. Today I am able to be thankful that, when I meet someone who has lost a child, I can share with them that we have this club in common. It is a club no one wants to be in, but I find it a blessing today to be able to encourage other moms and let them know that it does get better. The pain will not always be so raw. Someday they will be able to remember their child with more joy than sadness. And I am always here for them, because I truly know what they are going through.