I’ve tried over and over to write something positive about this absolutely not positive 5 year anniversary of my daughter’s death, but I can’t.
Five years has been a long time. In the past five years I haven’t potty trained Lily. I haven’t watched her graduate from preschool or cry at her first day of kindergarten. I haven’t helped her learn to read or tie her shoes or even practice for a leading role in the second grade revolutionary war play. Instead, I’ve cried and cried and cried some more. I’ve watched other little girls grow up and I’ve watched other mothers help their daughters grow up. I've watched other mothers pray for miracles for their hurting children and receive those miracles, all the while wondering what I did to not get mine. I’ve held my son as he cries and screams “It’s not fair!” and I’ve held my husband as he quietly sobs and whispers, “I just miss her so much.” I’ve had to show another daughter pictures of a little girl long gone and teach her the name of her sister. I’ve been laughing and loving my children and had to leave the room in tears because of the guilt I felt when I realized that one is missing and will never get the chance to grow up with her brother and sister.
Sometimes the story ends there…no comfort, no testimony, no nothing. And then sometimes, if I’m really lucky, I’ll feel my little girl standing next to me. Sometimes I’ll have a dream of what she might look like at the age of eight, getting ready to be baptized by her father. Sometimes I know the church is true and the pain I feel turns to comfort. Sometimes I can walk back into the room I left in tears and be grateful for the blessings I do have.
But most of the time it just hurts.