#69

 It's dark and cold as we lean so far

away from the Sun, here in the North.

And the hope I was holding in my heart

for you

is extinguished (like an Advent candle)

but the hope for the Church

is alive and bright.

You could have arrived

on the longest night,

but you never materialized here.

It's not mine to know

if you're singing with angels

or if you were only a moment to throw me

deeper into the Father's arms.

Either way, I welcomed the very idea of you

with trepidation, yes,

but with so much hope.

That's the miracle of it all, I guess.

Even though you're not here,

HOPE is.

Even though it's dark and dreary,

cold and miserable outside our warm house,

hope is emblazoned on the souls of your father and me.

Hope is an anthem blasting from the soundbar under our TV.

Hope is the very message of the season that could have been

your birthday.

So whether you were born into Heaven,

like the cheesy plastic angel your Dad bought at the fabric store

(currently clamped to the top of our Christmas tree)

or if your soul is places I cannot yet imagine,

I love you little one.

Thank you for reminding me to hope.

*For Baby #3, due 12/22/2020