debbie mendoza

Today marks another year of life without my firstborn.

For many years, December 21 was the day I waited to pass so I could get into the Christmas spirit. How symbolic it is for me that it is the Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year. That resonates with my experience.

Part of healing is to let yourself feel all the emotions instead of stuffing them down. So today I allow myself the sadness if it comes, and I let my words flow.

Today is my annual nod to the baby boy who made me a mother but never came home with me. He didn’t grow to become a man, instead, he went to be with Jesus on day one of his life. It is my acknowledgment of the grief that devastated me. It is remembering the day my pride was bulldozed, the day I realized that bad things happen all the time and that no one is spared from them. And the Christmas season certainly isn’t a deterrent.

That day, that loss, changed my life. Because of it, I started seeing people differently. In my sorrow, I thought of the people of Sudan, especially the women enduring civil war and genocide, living in refugee camps. Pain is universal, I told myself, and if there were people who could escape and survive such devastation, then I could get through this.

Life moves on from the days of our worst pain and greatest joys. The real test is living in the moment. We grapple with the past and prepare for the future, but making the most of the moments in between is what is most priceless.

Life moves on from the days of our worst pain and greatest joys. The real test is living in the moment. We grapple with the past and prepare for the future, but making the most of the moments in between is what is most priceless.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t long to be reunited with my baby, but until that time comes, I take seriously the responsibility to take care of my physical, emotional, and spiritual health. To steward well the time given to me in the moment. To treasure the blessings I’ve been given to carry me through until that reunion takes place.

Each of my children has taught me about life, living, and myself. The firstborn, in his 12 hours of life, has carried the heaviest burden of teacher, though: of opening my eyes to the sadness humanity endures and showing me that a person can live the fullest of lives even after such a heartbreaking loss. That God is close to the broken-hearted. That He is there in every moment of grief and anger, and that He sees us in and through all of it. That grief never leaves completely, and will manifest itself every now and then, but less and less as time goes on.

I honor his short life by living mine fully. By believing in God’s faithfulness and goodness. I don’t know why my son had to die, but in some inexplicable way, good has been manifested in my life as I’ve dealt with the loss all these years.

Of course, I would have preferred to have carried him home with me instead of walking through those gates with empty arms and a still-protruding stomach, but that isn’t how the story played out. The stark memory of emptiness has slowly faded over time but springs to life again every time I hear of someone going through the horror I did on that day.

Sometimes I feel I have no help to give anyone going through something similar. At other times I feel strong and say, “Hold on to God. He’ll get you through it!” And actually mean what I say.

A few days after I returned home from the hospital empty-handed from my great loss, a friend who had been through the same thing some years before came to visit me. I was in shock. My breasts were rock hard with milk that was going nowhere. The medication I was taking to dry it up made me very congested. I was a whole mess.

As my friend was leaving, she hugged me and gave me the best bit of hope that I held on to for many years to come. She said, “One day, you’ll wake up, and it won’t be the first thing you think about.” Those words became my hope, and I was very aware of them the day they came true for me.

As my friend was leaving, she hugged me and gave me the best bit of hope that I held onto for many years to come. She said, “One day, you’ll wake up, and it won’t be the first thing you think about.” Those words became my hope, and I was very aware of them the day they came true for me.

I admire when people can wrap a bow around something difficult they went through and present hope and advice on how they got through. In this story, I’m not one of those people.

Whatever I say about my experience will depend on what I’m thinking and feeling on the day I talk about it. Even though it’s been a long time, to me, it’s still an ongoing process. But what I can do is to proffer the hope that was given to me, “One day, you’ll wake up, and it won’t be the first thing you think about.” And I can tell you to hold on to God through this as if your life depends on it, because it really does.

I’ve known women who have buckled under the weight of a similar loss and others who’ve used it to propel them to higher heights of activism and volunteerism. I am neither of those women. By God’s grace, His strength, and His constant presence in my journey, I just live the life I have been given. I’m grateful for the fact that I get to write devotional plans about joy and gratitude, because those too have been a huge part of my journey.

This year was one of those when I started feeling the Christmas spirit early. No waiting around for the Winter Solstice’s shortest day to pass by. That happens sometimes now. When it does, I embrace it and honor my baby by living every December day full of hope, joy, and anticipation. I enjoy the seasonal lights and music and join expectantly in planning our Christmas vacation.

Part of healing is to let yourself feel all the emotions instead of stuffing them down. So today, I allow the joy in, the gratitude for the lessons learned, and the hope of heaven ever-present. The acceptance that even though that story didn’t turn out the way I would have written it, I get to live my story fully and freely.

Sometimes that is all you can ask for.

© Debbie Mendoza, December 2023