A Whole Childhood of Remembering Matthew

Eighteen years ago today was Thanksgiving morning.
Eighteen years ago today was also the first and last time I held my son, Matthew.

He was the tiniest baby I had ever seen, and also the most perfect. I spent the few hours I was given memorizing every tiny feature of his face, tracing his miniature fingers with mine and marveling at the perfect son we would never grow to know. Those couple of hours had to last a lifetime, and somehow, they have.

Today would have been his 18th birthday.
An adult.
Heading off to college.
Immersed in his senior year, applying to schools, planning futures.
An entire childhood I mourn today.

Milestone years are always the hardest. They arrive with a weight that sneaks up, no matter how much time has passed. It feels impossible not to imagine who he would be, who his friends would be, what he would study, which school sweatshirt he would proudly wear. I can picture him so clearly standing between his brothers in the driveway, laughing and tall and almost grown. I imagine he would have looked just like me. I don’t know why. I just always have.

When I came home from the hospital eighteen years ago, with all the physical after-effects of birth but an empty nursery in the room next door, I was completely undone… emotionally anguished, physically exhausted and heartbreakingly empty. Three days later Honey gently reminded me that the very next day was John’s birthday. I felt buried in failure – unable to safely carry and deliver my child, and now unable to be present for the little boy I did still have. I looked in the mirror at a sad, tired young woman and promised myself, and both of my sons, that I would never again take a moment for granted. So I got out of bed, lit the Christmas lights that were already hanging, and celebrated a two-year-old with every ounce of strength I had left. I have always said that John saved me from myself and this year, almost poetically, he did it again. He joins us for the week starting today. I

Against every doctor’s advice, I became pregnant with Whit four months later. Through losing Matthew we discovered I had a blood clotting disorder, and the fact that I had safely delivered John was nothing short of a miracle. Whit’s pregnancy was hard – full of fear, complications and prayers whispered almost every free moment of every day. But thirteen months after losing Matthew, I held another perfect boy in my arms. He patched a hole in my heart that I worried might never heal.

For years, grief defined November 22nd. Lighting the house with Christmas on this day began as one single spark in complete darkness, and it slowly grew into a tradition of honoring him with light. This morning, I sit in the glow of the tree and realize something beautiful: sadness has gently, quietly softened into gratefulness. His short little life changed every single thing about the way I live and parent. It rewired my priorities. It ripped away worry and fear. It taught me that tomorrow is not guaranteed and that the ordinary moments are the holy ones. We celebrate everything. We say yes as often as we can. We travel, we laugh, we stay up too late, we go and see and do and taste and experience. We are so grateful for every day we get.

I always imagined a big family – a chaotic house full of noise and laundry and laughter and mess. It took years to accept that the idea I once had of my life wasn’t the story God wrote. I am now closer to being a grandmother than to having another baby, and while that realization is tender, I am genuinely at peace. I am profoundly blessed.

Little Matthew lived a very short life, but it was one filled wholly with love. He never hurt. He never wanted. He never knew unkindness or anger. Just love. And that is exactly how I remember him. My precious boy is in heaven with Jesus, and one day I will know the joy he already knows.

I share this story every year for two reasons:

Because on November 22nd, I could never write about anything else. This day changed everything about who I am.

Because I pray, with all my heart, that these words find someone who feels alone and show them that they are not. If you need someone who has walked this road, if you need an ear or a hand to hold, I am here. The loneliness is the hardest part, and it doesn’t have to be. I had the incredible blessing of talking to one of you on the phone last month. I think about you and pray for you every day.

My cup runneth over.
Happy 18th birthday, my sweet boy.
Until we meet again.

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