Monday, January 26, 2026- 3:42PM
It was snowing the day we tucked our daughter’s life away into a box. This box, so smooth and beautiful, with her name etched on the lid- one that we will pull out when we wish we could pick her up out of her crib and hold her in our arms, when we wanted to push her on her bike or give her a hug after school.
I turned to JB, too tired to cry, and noted with sorrow how tragic it was that her whole life fit in a slightly enlarged shoebox. His response was surprising, yet a comfort to me: “All of our lives fit in a box.”
What do we leave behind that truly matters?
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It was snowing the day we left the hospital without her as well, my body empty of the life that I was carrying two days before. I remember being struck by the snow then, too. Perhaps it’s because we have had an odd Alaskan winter without much of the beautiful, white powder, or maybe it was because what happened in that delivery room was so life-changing that it felt like many seasons had passed since we first walked inside of it. Either way, I noticed the snow.
Other things I notice today- the light in my children’s sweet eyes. The gentle warmth of my husband’s hug. The generosity of others. The coziness of a heated blanket gifted from a dear friend who has also known loss. The healing balm of reading God’s Word as I feel lost.
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JB and I have been watching tv shows after we put our precious kids to bed- a bit of an escape, and an easy, shared experience right now. It is crazy how many different things remind us of our loss, of what we have gone through. We have had to turn off several shows as we discover certain topics are too hard.
But one of the shows that has been an enjoyable tune-out time had a quote that resonated with us both. The idea was:
Grief is like a hole that you can’t fill, but over time it gets smaller. So eventually, you won’t fall in with each step.
Today, the hole felt a little smaller. Until the box.
And yet the snow falls.
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