I’ve been thinking a lot lately about family pictures. There are many reasons for that, some are good and others are just dark and awful. But most recently, I’ve taken my critical eye to every picture our family had taken in the last 3 years. Why do I hate them so much? Why do I force myself into them even though I’m just going to stare at them and notice the flaws? Well it dawned on me, as I’ve been praying through pregnancy and infant loss month, that the biggest reason I don’t like our pictures is because there’s a critical member missing. Even though his absence isn’t totally obvious (we haven’t included teddy bears or pictures or any other items in memoriam) to outsiders, my arms are empty. So it’s not that I hate myself, the hormonal weight gain, the awkward smiles, the crazy faces of our living child... I notice and mourn the empty arms. The awkward ways that our family of 4 takes pictures as a family of 3. When I look at pictures from when Audrey was little, there’s a comfort there. An ease in our body language. There is nothing I would trade to have that ease back, because it would mean we wouldn’t have George Mason, but it also means that even in the invisible, our grief is visible; at least to us.
We have family pictures scheduled for later this year. It feels important to document this pregnancy. To celebrate all of the many facets that make it special to this baby. When I was pregnant with George Mason, I was so torn about how to handle pictures. Would I want to look back on a pregnant belly when there was no baby to show for it? Would I look back on that time with misery or fondness? I didn’t know what to do. And when I couldn’t push it off any longer, I asked a friend to snap a quick photo so I could continue our tradition of sending a Christmas card. That year, the card felt more important for its normalcy than it did as an update to those we love who are near and far. It was only a few weeks later that we welcomed our sweet boy and it is one of the only pictures we have of those months he spent nurtured inside my womb. It’s still hard to look at those few snap shots of our family, but I’m glad we have them; and honestly wish there were more. If there’s anything I can share with a mama’s heart who is facing the same question: take the pictures. You can hide them when it’s hard, but you’ll be so glad you have them.
I think that’s why it feels especially important this time. Even though we have no reason to suspect a similar outcome to the last time, we need to celebrate this little life. And we will. And I’ll also try not to be so critical of the invisible. But man, it will feel so good to place a baby in those arms this spring. It won’t take away the pain of not being outnumbered by our tiny humans, but it will give these mama arms a purpose - even for a short time - and that will feel so good. To hold a baby and not cry over the good bye that is coming, but instead to long for the years of experiences this baby will have, will be wonderfully healing; and I imagine equally difficult. I suppose our family pictures will forever be tainted by the missing person that should be in them. Perhaps with time the awkward body language will dissipate, and the smiles will reflect more joy than sorrow, but I want to document all of it. The entire journey of our family. The very depths of our pain - those black and white hospital NICU pictures - to the very height of our joy - when we meet our Savior, and our son - at the gates of Heaven, and every moment in between.
Farmers who wait for perfect weather never plant. If they watch every cloud, they never harvest. – Ecclesiastes 11:4
