"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."
-Rose Kennedy
The date was March 6th, 2005. My wife and I were particularly anxious and excited this Sunday morning as her contractions started happening rhythmically and consistently. We thought, "Could this be the day? We're still two weeks from our due date."
We were expecting our first child.
We didn't know his or her gender and did what most first-time parents do, we had a list of names. The girl's name was easy for us-- Madeline Hope-- but the boy's names were more difficult. We had settled in on having David be his middle name but really had no front runners for a first name.
Our hearts were filled with joy and our minds were spinning as we prepared to meet our baby. After all, everything had been according to plan, our five year plan.
Allow me to digress for a moment...
When Lisa and I got married in June of 1999, we decided to give ourselves five years until we started having children. We wanted to solidify our marriage first, reach financial stabilization, buy a house, and then bring our children into our lives, not the other way around. This was wise and I don't regret those decisions. It was a good plan.
We started "trying" in May of 2004 but no one knew that we had begun implementing our family expansion plan. But something happened. Something we didn't anticipate. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law, newly married, had started trying too. Then, on Father's day of 2004, they announced they were pregnant. I remember a flurry of initial feelings-- surprise, excitement, joy-- but then in a moment that I have not forgotten, my brother-in-law turned to us and flippantly declared, "We win!"
Those words echoed violently through my heart, scratching the soft spots of my soul with knife-like claws. ALL my good feelings flew away like leaves scattering during a Fall zephyr and a black hole of disgust, anger, and shock siphoned the light of the moment into a introspective whirlpool of feelings.
My heart was beating on my ear drum. I was sick to my stomach. The world was out-of-focus. What just happened?
"What did he just say?" I thought to myself. I couldn't believe it. "Did I really just hear that?"
Why was his wife now jeering at me as if she just tossed up a game winning shot to beat the buzzer against the opposing team? What's going on? Time slowed as I looked around the room to what seemed like fingers pointing and laughing. There was rejoicing and hugging. But not for me. I was pissed. That hurt... deep.
We went home that night and we were buzzing with a flurry of words and emotions, not with the fantastic news of a new baby, but in response to their competitive guise. At one point once we got home, my wife looked at me and emotionally proclaimed, "I know that they don't know that we're 'trying'... but what if we lost our baby? How horrible would it be to have them turn bringing a baby into this world into some stupid competition and game. I mean, not everyone can have kids. What if we can't get pregnant?"
Fortunately, we were successful! That's right. Our first month of "trying" and we were pregnant! Phew.
I guess that crisis was averted. Yet, the pain of those careless words remained. I pleaded with my wife to call her brother to talk about this... but talking about stuff like this is not common for her family to do. Often, you just move on in life and ignore unusual situations like this. Not me. Not us. So, she called him and they patched things up.
Good: the invisible relational barrier had been removed. Bad: the wound remained. It was a scar deep in the heart that would eventually carry with it lasting impact. Forgiven, yes. Forgotten, no.
Fastforward again to March 6th...
We packed up the "baby bag" just in case and took off to join our community of faith, Christ Community Church in St. Charles, IL. This place was more than just a gathering of people, or some religious ritual, but a family that had become SO dear to us. We were actively leading with a group of 20-somethings at the time and loved them all as if they were are own brothers and sisters.
10 minutes. 7 minutes. The contractions were getting closer and more intense. We went to Lisa's parent's house for dinner and were sitting in their living room when the contractions became 4 minutes apart, then 3 minutes apart.
This is it! My stomach was in knots. Finally, after months of feeling this baby move around and dance when I sang and played guitar and kick me in the face as I laid upon my wife's pregnant belly... I was going to meet My Little Kicker! The joy in my heart was inexplicable! I couldn't contain my excitement! My face was beaming as if a light were shining from behind my fleshy facade. We were off to Delnor Community hospital. I swear I was either going to puke or pee my pants in excitement and anticipation.
"Am I really ready for this?" I pondered, "Am I going to be a good daddy to this Little Kicker?"
We checked in and got settled into a delivery room. The nursing staff alerted our doctor and they began the initial paperwork and procedures for admitting expectant parents like us.
I remember this next part clearly.
Our nurse told us that they were going to put on the fetal monitor so that they will be able to keep track of what's going on with our baby at all times. She started positioning the monitor on Lisa and on her prego belly... then a perplexed look came across the nurses face. She kept moving the sensor around then listening then repositioning then listening. I nervously asked her what was up and she calmly said that she we having a difficult time getting a lock on our baby's heart beat. She scientifically informed me that this can be normal and that babies like to hide.
That sounded weird to me but okay.
She then said that she wanted to order an ultrasound to monitor our Kicker because she wanted to see what was going on. She didn't express that there was any trouble but just some concern that they couldn't lock in on the heartbeat.
After a few minutes (I wasn't cognizant of how much time passed), she returned to our blissful expectancy with the ultrasound machine. She fired up the machine, put it on Lisa's belly...
Flatline. No heartbeat. No movement.
My baby was dead.
Darkness engulfed the room.
I saw my wife turn her head from looking at the monitor with her once joy-filled cheeks to burying her now grave-like, grief-stricken face into her pillow. I ran over near her head and held her.
"What do I do now? I'm not prepared for this! Am I really strong enough for this? How am I supposed to make it through life now?" Questions and exclamations were spinning through my head like a whirlwind as the clouds of grief rolled into our room, slowly creeping toward us like a consuming fog devouring the light...
Light.
There was this beacon of light shining on us both-- warm, comforting, peaceful. The soul-sucking moment of loss was eclipsed by an unshakable Light that surrounded just the two of us in a sea of Shadow. Where did it come from? There was a deep peace that rested on us. Why were we at peace? But not just a relaxed peace or a make-love-not-war peace, it was more like a peace that transcended our life experience or our explanation: it was heavy yet unburdened; it was palpable yet untouchable; it was knowable yet unfathomable. It moved effortlessly and unrestricted through our bodies and wisped around us, between us with a breath-like stirring. It was familiar yet new. It was Loving and gentle. It was the Spirit of Jesus present with us in the darkest of valleys.
Then, in a unifying instant, we both knew we'd be okay; separately and without words, we both knew. A Whisper in our souls told us that we were going to make it. Yes, it would be the hardest challenge we had yet faced in life. Yes, there would be pain and tears. Yes, we would want to give up. But, we knew that God was with us and that His Spirit lived in us and would sustain us, lead us, comfort us, council us. It wasn't theoretical or ethereal knowing, but a real, get-in-your-face, touch-and-see real. It was the Invisible manifesting as tangible.
I long for that moment. I miss that moment. I revel in that moment. It was... glorious.
Hours past. Complications arose. Then the time came to meet this Tiny Dancer.
Pushing. Crowning. And there... there was my baby.
A blizzard of emotions overwhelmed me: a smile first, then confusion, then a laugh, then deep sorrow. It was... wait, a boy? A girl? I can't tell. Is that the umbilical cord? Wait, I have...
A girl. She was a girl-- tiny, precious and beautiful. She was my daughter and I was her daddy. I immediately envisioned her with double binks (that's what we call pigtails) frolicking on a hillside with fields of Elysium all around her, spinning through the tall grasses with a smile as big as a rainbow; her lungs full of giggles and laughter.
Silence. Reality pulled me back. There was no noise. She didn't make a noise.
It. Was. Deafening.
Babies, my baby, should be crying her lungs out but she wasn't. She was silent.
"Did you have names picked out for your baby?" the kind nurse asked. "You should name her. She is your baby."
We stared at her for a while and decided that her name was not Madeline Hope. No, her name was different. We mentally surveyed our list of names and decided on one that we hadn't thought of previously.
Her name is Faith Marie Hackbarth-- she is my Faith-- born into Heaven on March 7th, 2005.
No parent should ever have to bury their child.
We had her memorial service on Friday, March 11th. Everyone was there-- friends, family, co-workers. My parents flew in from Seattle and my grandpa flew in from Florida. We (and she) were surrounded by an outpouring of love and care that makes the Body of Christ look beautiful. The flowers (one of which is pictured above) were gorgeous. We sang "Blessed be Your Name", a song Faith was very fond of and danced to often, and "Holy is the Lord." It was a worshipful experience led by Dave Stagl and Chelsea Schultz. My good friend, Dan Schultz, shared with all in attendance kind and gracious words of encouragement.
That day, it snowed, a serene, gentle, calming snow, as Steve Yarrow led the burial site reflection. I remember carrying her in that tiny casket. It was surreal. Shouldn't I be holding her? Shouldn't I be pissed that I'm tired and exhausted as a new parent? This was not my path yet. For now, I mourned.
It is easy to think about the foreshadowing conversation from Father's Day 2004 and have an adversarial reaction to my brother-in-law and sister-in-law at moments like this. They are both good people and love us and their two girls a ton. I refuse to view them both by one of their worst moments. They're fallible and broken humans in need of Jesus just like me. They used their words carelessly and wounded me deeply. I've done the same. Every time I remember those flippant words, I forgive them. I choose to forgive them. I choose to love them. It's not easy but it's right. It's what Jesus said would be evidence of His followers and it is by His grace and strength that I make this choice every time.
See, that opening quote isn't quite right. Yes, the author is right that time doesn't heal wounds. Jesus does. Wounds will become calloused scars without the hand of the Healer.
Today, is Faith's golden birthday.
Today, I remember Faith both with joy and with grief.
Today, I have cried for my loss... a lot.
Today, I will hold my boy a little tighter, a little longer.
Today, I have chosen to forgive again.
Today, I choose to be healed by the Healer.
Today, I remember that my daughter is with King Jesus and that someday we will be reunited.
