Christmas is different when your baby is in heaven.
It’s gifts never opened.
It’s holiday-themed pajamas unworn.
It’s a death date scrawled across a glass bulb rather than a birth date.
It’s a first Christmas that ended up being canceled.
It’s an empty space in family photos.
It’s twinkling lights that seem dim.
It’s a silent night, but far from peaceful.
It’s an empty stocking.
It’s love given that can’t be received.
It’s greeting cards unsent, because really, what is there to say?
It’s uneaten candy canes.
It’s babies everywhere—except for your own.
It’s tears and grief and sorrow too profound to give words to.
It’s a reminder, a deep, searing reminder that there will always be someone missing from the celebration.
It’s laughter and joy drowned out by your tears.
It’s arms carrying everything that you now know doesn’t matter—and arms absent of what does.
It’s praying to just get through it.
It’s knowing the Christ Child, but not knowing your own child.
It’s clinging to hope in a way you never have before, a grip tighter than you ever before knew to be necessary.
It’s feeling like the pain will never end, but knowing and taking slight comfort in the promise that it will. Eventually.
It’s waiting for heaven while trying to make the best of earth, imagining the day when you’ll be reunited with your precious, perfect, eternally loved baby.
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