I buried my daughter’s ashes this weekend. While some of my family was here to love us and spoil us and mourn with us, we had a little ceremony and buried our baby.
We sang He’s got the Whole World in his Hands--Oh, my “tiny little baby”--, buried her ashes next to the lilac our friend Patty brought to us in the hospital, and we prayed.
My family’s time with us was amazing and hard. They came to “love on us” and so they did—they painted, drilled, mowed, shoveled, etc. They took time not only to drive 10 hours for only a bit more than 24 hours here, but they cried with us, looked at Hazel’s pictures and other mementos, worked hard and just hung out, talking and even laughing.
It was great to see my kids playing with their kids. It was healing for me to spend time with my family. I didn’t have to act any certain way—they knew I was sad, so I could just be sad.
It’s hard to talk about the weekend, really. It was better than I thought it would be, and harder, as well. We discussed my dad and what he’s going through right now—and my mom and all she’s dealing with as result of Dad’s bad decisions. I felt constantly exhausted, not just because of all the work, but also because of the hyper-emotionality of the weekend. I cried when they left, but I was glad to go to church and be surrounded by friends there.