“What a lovely sound; angels all around saying this is where you belong. Welcome home. Welcome home.”

I wonder about them. I wonder who they would be if things had been different. I wonder what role they would play in our now-8-member family. I wonder what kind of siblings they would be to me, antagonizing, protective. I never knew them.  I never saw them. Their very short lives were before my existence, but I still wonder about them.

My oldest sibling isn’t the one I miss the most. Blake is the one I miss. Blake was born a year and a half before my birth. He died in the hour after his first breath. When I was little and first found out about him, I tried wishing him into existence. It didn’t work, of course.

My three older siblings were so much older than me, I felt like an only child sometimes. They were all in school by the time I was born and I got to spend the first years of my life being solely doted on by my parents; my dad a farmer and my mom a self-employed seamstress. I had a little corner in my mom’s sewing room that housed my dolls, my kitchen toys, my playthings. I had a great childhood! But I wondered about Blake. I wondered if he would pick on me or play with me. If he would make mud pies with me or if he would think I was an annoying little sister.

My wishful thinking became more prominent when I was 16. I missed this older brother that I had only heard about in snippets like when on his birthday when Dad would say at breakfast, “Today, Blake would have turned 18.” I wanted this brother to be protective of me. I wanted him to be my friend. I would never know him. I could only imagine him.

This is an adventure in my life that is probably a mixture of one of the hardest and most rewarding all molded into one tight little bow. I wish that I could blog more specifically about my experiences as this progresses, but due to respect for the privacy of the hospital patients, families, and government and hospital privacy laws, I cannot and will not. Just know that already I am growing, stretching, and making my world vision just a bit larger than it was. I’m opening my heart to the reality of pain, loss, sadness, anger, and the unfair curves in life’s road. But, miraculously, in my camera lens, I will also catching glimpses of smiles mixed with tears, of tiny, unmoving hands being held by large hands, of hugs and shoulder-shaking sobs. And when you know that this moment will be a blur in their memories later on, you’re blessed to know that you have captured it for them to remember. They will mourn and they will remember.  And they will always be able to say, “See, this child is forever mine. 

It was through that volunteer program, that I was contacted a few months ago about singing at this year’s UI Children’s Memorial Service at the Marriott. I had two songs to sing during the short service and I thought I was going to be fine; I don’t get very nervous anymore in front of crowds, especially since I was accompanying myself on the piano. It turns out, it wasn’t the nerves that I should’ve been preparing for, but the emotional impact of the service.

The ballroom was packed with families, all wearing nametags, “Mother of” or “Father of” or “In memory of.” So many losses all in one room. But—and here is where the miracle lies—these families were not angry. They were sad, yes, but they were so grateful for the support and the love and the gift of the short time with their child.

Before the service started, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned in time to be engulfed in a hug by one of the mothers of a child I had photographed. My heart broke. And the dam of tears that I had been holding back couldn’t hold anymore. As poems were read by NICU nurses and grief counselors, I was struck with such sadness. I was one of the only people there who hadn’t lost a child. I couldn’t sympathize; I couldn’t dare to understand their pain; I didn’t know what to say.

I was near the beginning in the program which was a blessing because I nearly hicupped through the first song and then had only a tiny break before the second, which was perfect time to recompose without losing it again. Near the end of the service, there was a balloon release outside where families wrote messages and attached them to balloons. It was at the point that Kevin and I snuck out. I felt a little overwhelmed, sad, and broken. I also found, interestly, that I was kind of mad.

I felt mad at all of the families who give birth to healthy children every day and have no idea how blessed they are for that gift. Some are–some know how truly miraculous and wonderful a healthy baby is–but some are not. I wanted everyone to be able to experience what I experienced in that room; to know that health is never something to take for granted; that children are a gift no matter their life time, short or long. Every one of those parents would’ve given everything they had to have their child back for even a minute.

Life is precious.

All of the names were read, every child who had died. A slideshow played with photos, a few of which I had taken.

And I thought to myself, if anyone in the world has a reason to be angry, these people deserve to be. Yet they are not. They are here, hugging each other, remembering and sharing about their children who have passed. It’s not fair; it’s not right; it’s not anyone’s fault; it’s awful; it’s sad; it’s life and, in great juxtaposition, death.

Those children, each beautiful in his and her own way, each unique and treasured, were so loved during their life and equally loved in their death. Their lives, short or longer, are precious.

Doreen Sexton says it well: “Some children come into our lives and go quickly. Some children come into our lives and stay a while. All our children come into our lives and leave footprints. Some oh, so small; some a little larger; some, larger still. But all have left their footprints on our lives, in our hearts, and we will never, never be the same.”