Day 26: Blankets & Blessings

Unlike most who lose a loved one, I don't grieve because of the memories made--I grieve because I have no memories. As empty as my arms, my mind can't conjure up a cry or a laugh, a solitary movement or expression--hardness and cold replacing softness and warmth.

I posted about the culmination of these feelings a while ago when I wrote about witnessing a baby blessing on Father's Day this year--two weeks after Shiloh's death. I realized sitting there in that pew that I would not be dressing my baby in a beautiful white outfit. I wouldn't get to swaddle him in a special blanket and gently pass him to my husband who would carry our child to the center of a circle of priesthood holders so he could pronounce a blessing upon him. I wouldn't get to stand up afterward and bear my testimony about how wonderful the experience had been and have a dinner party to celebrate our family's newest addition. I would not get this. I thought. . .
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The day we buried Shiloh I sat there at the cemetery sobbing. To the onlooker, I was overtaken with grief. And I was--to the last degree, but my soul was also flooded with the sweetest warmth at the realization that my prayer had been answered.

A couple of months ago a sweet woman was busy putting the final touches on a few afghan blankets she'd made for new arrivals. Strangely, somehow, she had ended up with an extra. She found herself with the prompting to give this extra blanket to a certain member in her ward rather odd; nonetheless, she followed through and received confirmation of that inspired prompting from the tears that fell as my mother-in-law accepted this woman's gift and related to her how her second grandchild had just been born still.

Just enough fabric from two ancestors sacred initiatory shields found itself in the hands of an aunt who felt inspired to sew a small outfit for a great nephew who had just passed away. Without a pattern, and no measurements taken, she deftly pieced together a gown of white that weeks later would be lovingly dressed on the child, fitting perfectly to his tiny, fragile frame.

So there I was, watching my husband carry my little boy whom I had dressed in a beautiful white outfit and swaddled in a special blanket, to the center of a circle surrounded by priesthood holders gathered to take part as Blaine pronounced a blessing upon this child and the place where he would rest. I got to stand and bear my testimony about how wonderful this experience had been, and join with family for a dinner afterward to celebrate the newest member of our family.

God doesn't always answer our prayers the way we want.
But he always answers them the way we need.

I am grateful for that.

Thanks for allowing me to taste the bitter--so I can more fully appreciate the sweet.