Momming an Eleanor

I love late November. I love the relief we finally receive from the blazing Arizona heat of the summer that lasts almost until winter. I love pumpkin spice lattes, favorite sweaters and lists of blessings.
But every so often around this time I get hit with an unexpected moment of melancholy. It passes almost as quickly a it came, but it tends to sneak up on me. I wake up with that un-nameable feeling of having forgotten something terribly important. And then I remember our Eleanor.
In November of 2012, two days before Thanksgiving, we sat in our doctor's office waiting for that strong, healthy heartbeat. And nothing. My own heart pounding out of my chest, and I remember begging the doctor to try, "just one more time" to find her.
God has healed my heart since that horrible, awful, no good week. And a whole lot of life has happened in the six years since then. But there are moments, like when I pull out the trunk of sweaters and jackets out of the garage, and I remember how those maternity jeans and sweaters hung in my closet that Thanksgiving, and how much it hurt to put them away. I remember, holding that plastic cup full of punch at my parents' house and wishing with all my might that it was Sangria so that I could get so incredibly drunk and not feel what I was feeling. I have never been drunk in my life, and don't drink at all actually. But I didn't recognize myself that week.
For awhile I wished I could pretend those three and a half months of my life never happened. But now I am so proud that God trusted me to be Eleanor's mom. I have the responsibility of making sure her life mattered, even if some might say it had never begun.
I might not be the most politically conservative friend you have on every issue but I am pro-life. Sometimes I disagree with the tactics used by the movement, feeling that they're often miss-fired shots that lack effectiveness. We each have different strengths and callings and for me, the most pro-life thing I can do is give that love I had for that soul I missed holding, a name. At the risk of making others feel uncomfortable, I can speak that name and remember her life. My pregnancy loss wasn't just a disappointment, or an almost-baby, but rather a death. I didn't just mourn what might-have-been...I mourned what was.
God doesn't cause the evil and sadness in this world. This isn't how things operated in the Garden of Eden. But, I don't believe He wastes anything. God used Eleanors life to shape me. I believe He has made me into someone who values life at all stages, whether it's during those early weeks, nine months before birth or whether it's at three or eighty. I believe He knew, even then, the calling He had for me to work so closely in the faith development of tiny souls and with the moms and dads who I would partner with to do that.
If you're someone entrusted with preserving a memory, by momming an Eleanor...or a Garret, Narissa, Emma or a Charles...or any of the other sweet lives cut short who have impacted mine and yours...bless you, Mama. You are seen and you are loved.