The Introduction

by Kellie Soper

It happens often, but I'm still not used to it. 

We will be somewhere...an event, a church gathering, that requires an introduction. I'm still not used to saying it all out loud. 

Most recently, we were sitting in a giant circle of tables with other couples, the kids were off playing in childcare. The leaders of the group say, "Please share your name and the parish you attend and how long you have been married."

A huge sigh of relief floods over me. Thank goodness. They didn't ask us to introduce our kids. For this one moment I might just get to feel "normal."

The introductions begin and there is an interruption, "Don't forget to share about your families!"

Luckily we are not the first couple to share, but the panic slowly starts to rise in me. I rehearse it in my head all day, every day. But saying it out loud is something completely different. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. My hands begin to shake, and I can't breathe. I look over at my husband and I see him trying to swallow the tears forming in his eyes. It isn't any easier for him to say it. I actually get to a point where I am seeing spots I am so overcome with nerves.

How do I word it? What exactly do I say? Do I let them know how new this really is to us? 

It's finally our turn. I grab my husband's hand and with tears stinging my eyes, and my voice shaking I say, 

"My name is Kellie and this is my husband, Jason. We have been married 3 1/2 years. We have two perfect kids. Ted is two years old and Lily is nine months old in Heaven."

Everyone nods and smiles and I catch a glimpse of my best friend sitting across from me wiping away tears.

One of my greatest struggles with losing Lily is thinking about what my son has lost. His sister who should be crawling after him and giggling at him as he builds his trains or tickles her. His sister who he should be sharing his room with. His sister who should be right behind him in school. His sister, who should be here on Earth with him.

But these difficult moments that almost swallow me whole, remind me that he is not alone. He is not an only child. He has his sister looking down on him, smiling and giggling at all the silly things he does and he will have her forever. And in my heart of hearts I know that he will be a better man because he has his sister.

So I continue to ask for grace and strength, and with tears in my eyes and a shaking voice I continue to say out loud, 

"I have two perfect kids. Ted is almost 2 1/2 and his sister Lily is ten months old in Heaven. We are a family of four."

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

12 DOC: Day Eight: Kellie Soper

*This post is part of our Twelve Days of Christmas series. You can read more here.*

Almost Perfect Christmas

by Kellie Soper

I love Christmas. Actually I love Christmas Eve. My family does Christmas BIG. They do everything big because there are a lot of us.  

Growing up we spent Christmas Eve at my grandparents. It started out as a quiet evening at home for my mom's first Christmas. My grandparents had seven more kids in twelve years, and it grew quickly. Boyfriends and girlfriends became husbands and wives and then the grandkids quickly grew with their husbands and wives and then the great-grandchildren (thirty-eight and counting)! Now it's so big that we actually have to rent a hall. No one has a house big enough for this party! Quiet Christmas Eve turned into dozens and dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins singing carols, opening presents, family pictures, a Nativity play, games, Santa visiting, food, spirits, and whatever else we can fit in to the night before people head off to Midnight Mass.

I love it.

This celebration taught me early on that Christmas wasn't about presents. It was about presence. Sure, I was excited for gifts and my one uncle loved to rile up the kids with a "We Want Presents" chant. But it was never just about that. It was always about love and family and Jesus.

I only missed it once the year my husband and I were married. We had taken so much time off for our wedding and other family weddings that we could not make it home. I was so sad to miss it and my husband was too. We knew as soon as our son was born we wanted to spend all of our Christmases in Iowa. It would become a priority so our children could feel the joy of family, the love of Jesus, and the magic of Christmas with a big family.

But then May 30th, 2014 happened and everything I once knew changed forever. That was the day we received our fatal diagnosis for our precious daughter. She was not expected to live long after she was born, if she survived at all. Her due date was in October, but she was not born until November 12, just two weeks before Thanksgiving. Our holidays would never be the same again.

We still went to Iowa for Christmas, just six weeks after she was born sleeping, but we missed the big Christmas Eve. I just couldn't spend her first Christmas Eve with my whole, big, wonderful family if Lily wasn't with me. I guess I wanted both of us to miss her first Christmas.

I still want my children to experience that big, wonderful, family Christmas of mine, but right now we are just not ready for that and that's okay. This is our second Christmas since Lily was born sleeping just over a year ago. I think everyone assumes it gets easier your second time through everything, and for some maybe it is, but not for us and definitely not for us this year. 

A newborn sleeps through Christmas. Their only memory is the pictures we take and the stories we tell. But a one year old? They start to see the magic. Their eyes light up when they see Christmas lights. They either smile, or scream and cry, at Santa. They get to dress up as little angels for the Nativity play and show off their adorable Christmas jammies at the end of the night. They let their big brother open all of their gifts and they fall asleep in your lap because they are just too exhausted from all the fun they had with their dozens and dozens of cousins. So as much as my heart was aching that she missed her newborn Christmas, it aches all the more for her one year old Christmas.

But we still rejoice in the season and spirit of Christmas because I know Lily would want us to. We just don't do it the way I always envisioned because honestly, from here on out, nothing is as I envisioned it.

Our second Christmas missing her will probably look a lot like our first Christmas missing her. Only this year, I expect to feel it all a lot more. I'm out of the fog, passed the shock, and I'm aware every day of my new reality. We may or may not go to Iowa. We may or may not go to Christmas parties. We may or may not feel like celebrating or singing at Mass. I just don't know and that's okay.

But, this is what I do know. We will be together as a family. We will decorate a big tree again and a small one just for Lily.

We will hang our stockings with ALL of our names. We will decorate her grave with Advent and Christmas decor. We will laugh together and we will cry together. We will remember our precious daughter. We will smile through tears when our son says, "Merry Christmas Lily!" 

And we will miss her, with every sweet memory we make with her brother, we will long for another moment with Lily.

Last year I said this and it still rings true today and always will for us:

"All in all, it was almost perfect...as close as perfect gets when you are missing your daughter. I don't think we will ever have a perfect Christmas again, but I'll take a few more "almost perfect" ones..."

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Because I Knew You

By Kellie Soper 

I love musicals. I mean really, really love them. The first musical I ever saw was Annie. I think I was 5 or 6. I left a little upset that I didn't get to live in an orphanage and sing and dance while I did my chores. I may or may not have reenacted "It's a Hard Knocks Life" every single time I had to mop the floor - what can I say...I guess I was a little dramatic at times. ;-)

Whenever I need a little pick me up I watch Annie (the original, of course). And when I have a rare moment in the car by myself, it's almost a guarantee I will be belting out show tunes from Rent or Wicked. I always think about what my "soundtrack" would be. 

Several weeks ago, I started rising before the sun to get a bike ride in. Sounds crazy, but in the desert heat, it's the best time to go. The stillness of our city is amazing at that time. 

On my ride home, as the sun was rising, this song came on my iPod. While the song is about two friends, listening to the lyrics, I couldn't help but think of Lily and how she has changed my life. 

Lyrics from For Good

"I've heard it said,
That people come into our lives
For a reason
Bringing something we must learn.
And we are led to those
Who help us most to grow if we let them.
And we help them in return.
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you."

"It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime.
So, let me say before we part:
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you.
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart.
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have rewritten mine
By being my friend."

"Who can say if I've been changed for the better
But because I knew you,
I have been changed for good."

My dear sweet Lily, thank you. Thank you for making me the person I am today.You have rewritten my story by being my daughter and I am forever grateful for that gift. You are a handprint on my heart, never far from my mind. I do believe I have been changed for the better. And because I knew you...I have been changed for good. 

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

The Me I Used to Be

By Kellie Soper

It's been a year since I learned my life would be flipped upside down and inside out. A year since the world as I knew it came crumbling down below me. As our diagnosis day approached, I have thought about what I've lost, what I've grieved, what I've missed out on.

As I sit and ponder this past year and continue to grieve for my daughter, I realized I haven't grieved the me I used to be. I am not the person I was a year ago, not even close. And there are moments I miss her.

The me I used to be loved holding new babies and soaking in all that newborn goodness. The me I am now hasn't held a baby since Lily was born sleeping. 

The me I used to be believed once you made it through the first trimester you were invincible. The me I am now knows that each stage of pregnancy is a miracle.

The me I used to be believed that a strong and perfectly beating heart was enough. The me I am now knows otherwise.

The me I used to be wasn't afraid to see a positive pregnancy test. All she wanted was a big family. The me I am now approaches each passing month with a sense of sadness, but also a little relief.

The me I used to be thought I was immune to statistics. She didn't believe 1 in 1,000 applied to her. She thought the luck of her family and all the healthy babies would just pass on to her too.

I grieve for her and at times I miss her, but then I think about all that the me I used to be missed out on and honestly, I feel sorry for her.

The me I used to be took present moments for granted. She was always looking ahead, never content with where she was in life. She was constantly looking to what would happen next and struggled with being thankful for the gifts she was given. 

The me I used to be didn't know she could love someone so intensely before they were even born. 

The me I used to be didn't know it was possible for her heart to overflow with joy at the sight of her daughter, and overwhelmed with sorrow knowing she would have to give her back.

The me I used to be didn't know she could fall more and more in love with her husband as we continue to grieve for our daughter.

The me I used to be didn't know she had it in her to fight and defend the dignity of all life.

Most importantly, the me I used to be didn't know Heaven could kiss Earth. I didn't know that I would spend the rest of my life cherishing all the sweet and tender moments with my son, and longing for glimpses of Heaven with my daughter. 

The me I used to be didn't know what real love looked like, but now I do, and the me I am now is eternally grateful for these gifts.

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

I Can't Even Imagine

by Kellie Soper

"I can't even imagine..."

I've heard this hundreds of times from people. Before Lily's diagnosis, I even muttered these words myself. These words are often following an I'm sorry with a sympathetic head tilt. Maybe it's because there's usually a silent void following an I'm sorry because I don't always know how to respond. I can't reply "it's okay" because it's not okay. And "thank you" just sounds weird. So there's this weird silence after I'm sorry and I've learned it's often followed by an "I can't even imagine." 

*Let it be known - it's okay to just say "I'm sorry" and sit in the silence with someone.* 

I have heard this from everyone - from strangers, close friends, even family. I have heard it so often it makes me cringe and it makes me retreat further and further away from people. It has turned close friends into acquaintances.

I get it. I really do. I used to be one of those people who had no idea what to say. I used to be one of those people on the other side feeling so much sympathy for someone who lost their child, but at the same time thanking God that it wasn't me. Thanking God that "I couldn't even imagine" because it was not my broken heart but someone else's.

But to be honest, it puts up a road block between you and me. Because the truth is, if you can't imagine what it's like to walk in my shoes, you can no longer truly know who I am. I'm not the person I once was and I will never be that person again. I am a grieving mom who is living the unimaginable. So if you can't allow yourself to be vulnerable enough to "imagine my pain", then we must sever our ties and go our separate ways.

I remember vividly when I was so tired of hearing "I can't even imagine". I was actually still pregnant with Lily. She was so strong and I could feel her moving constantly. Someone said the obligatory I'm sorry and then the awkward silence led to "I can't even imagine what this must be like!" I wanted to scream, "Yes you can! You have kids! You CAN imagine!" But instead, as Lily kicked me in my rib, all I could muster through my tears and wavering voice was, "Me either. I can't imagine this either." It was true. It didn't matter how many times a doctor explained the diagnosis. It didn't matter what the likely outcome was going to be. It didn't matter what I had read or googled because in that moment, I couldn't imagine my life without her either. 

Because the truth is, especially if you have children of your own, you can imagine my pain. You can look into the eyes of your child/ren and imagine them being taken from you. In that moment, you can put yourself in my shoes. You can imagine never seeing their beautiful eyes open. You can imagine missing every. Single. Milestone. You can imagine the hole in your heart from grieving your child. And most likely, the tears will begin to sting and you will need to catch your breath. It will feel like a giant boulder has been placed on your chest. You won't have the strength or even the desire to move it. It will make you rethink gossiping with anyone about"how long it's been" or "shouldn't she be better now?" You may rethink wondering why I'm not handling my grief as well as you may like me to. Because even though you can't seem to imagine it, the truth is you can. 

I still find myself uttering these words..."I can't believe she's gone. I can't believe I have to trudge through the rest of this life without her." Because honestly, I still can't imagine it and I have been living this unimaginable life for nearly two years.

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have three beautiful children, one on earth and two sweet, perfect souls in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. Their youngest daughter is Clare Therese. She met her big sister in heaven after a few precious months on earth with her family. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Happy Birthday, Lily

by Kellie Soper

The words are not coming very easy right now. I have so much to share, but I honestly don't even know where to begin. I've been sitting here staring at this computer for hours and I just don't have the words. So one year later, I'm sharing what was read at Lily's funeral. The first part a dear friend shared with me when I was pregnant with Lily. The second part I wrote about what loving Lily means to me.

Happy birthday beautiful girl. I love and miss you more than you will ever know. Shower us with love and kisses today. I love you Lily girl.

To Love a Person - Adapted from Kathleen Dean Moore

What does it mean to love a person? 


To love - a person - means at least this:


One. To want to be near her, physically.


Number two. To want to know everything about her - her story, her moods, what she looks like by moonlight.


Number three. To rejoice in the fact of her.


Number four. To fear her loss, and grieve for her inquiries.


Five. To protect her - fiercely, mindlessly, futilely, and maybe tragically, but to be helpless to do otherwise.


Six. To be transformed in her presence - lifted, lighter on your feet, transparent, open to everything beautiful and new.


Number seven. To want to be joined with her, taken in by her, lost in her.


Number eight. To want the best for her.


Number nine. Desperately.

Loving isn’t just a state of being, it’s a way of acting in the world. Love isn’t a sort of bliss, it’s a kind of work, sometimes hard, spirit-testing work. To love a person is to accept the responsibility to act lovingly toward her, to make her needs my own needs. Responsibility grows from love. It’s the natural shape of caring.


Number ten.

To love a person is to accept moral responsibility for her well-being.

What does it mean to love Lily?

It means everything on this list and so much more.

It means knowing that labor will hurt and you go through with it anyway even though you don't get to keep your reward.

It means knowing that your heart will be broken for the rest of your life, but holding her for even five minutes makes up for it.

It means watching her lift her big brother off your belly with her amazingly strong kicks.

It means you will be filled with awe, wonder and sorrow as you watch your belly dance before you go to sleep every night.

It means you might not get any sleep at night because Lily wants to dance all night long and that's totally okay with you.

It means you never knew you could love someone so much before you even meet them.

It means your heart will be so full when you see her with her brother's chipmunk cheeks.

It means if you had to...you would do it all over again because those brief minutes held more love than a whole lifetime does for some.

It means you didn't know it was possible for your heart to grow in so much love for your husband through honoring your daughter.

It means memorizing every single sweet and perfect detail so you can meet her in your dreams.

It means you will fight and defend her right to life until your very last breath.

It means that you mourn for your son who doesn't have his best friend to grow up with, but also rejoice in knowing the special connection he will have with her in Heaven.

And most importantly, it means you will never be the same person again, for we are the mother and father of a saint, and we walk with one foot on earth and one foot in Heaven, until we meet our beautiful girl again.

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Lily's Story, by Her Mama

by Kellie Soper

Fear, excitement, anxiety, joy...all these mixed up emotions and so many more when I learned I was pregnant with my second child. 

The fear and anxiety came from worrying it was too soon and would be too much to handle. My son was only 10 months old when I found out I was pregnant. An 18 month old and a newborn?! The excitement and joy came from always wanting a big family and always wanting kids close in age. 

I was so happy to be giving my son a sibling! I had dreams and visions of them being the best of friends growing up. Sharing a room, sharing toys, sharing memories. My heart was so full when ever I thought of their future together.

 My husband and I drove to our 18 week ultrasound. He had taken the afternoon off and we were excited to see our baby and have a lunch date after the appointment. 

They did all the routine measurements, at least it seemed routine. I saw a perfect beating heart, ten fingers and ten toes. It didn't phase me at all that we still hadn't seen our sweet baby's profile when the tech stepped out of the room.

The doctor came in and I was still oblivious...all I remember was that perfectly beating four chamber heart. It was the first time I learned a strong heartbeat wouldn't be enough. The doctor said the very words that left me gasping for breath:

"Your baby has a condition known as Anencephaly."

I couldn't breathe. Unfortunately, I already knew what this meant for my child. It meant that even though she had a perfect beating heart, the baby would not live long after birth (if she was born alive at all). You see, even though my baby's heart was perfect, the brain and skull had not formed properly. My child was missing much of her brain and skull.

My husband put his face in his hands and started weeping. Without looking at him, I asked the doctor to tell us what we were having (we had not planned on finding out).

"You are having a girl."

And then I wept. I was having a daughter, the little girl my heart had always longed for, only I wouldn't get to keep her.

After she let me take it all in for a few minutes, she lovingly put her hand on my arm and said, "We can discuss your..."

I stopped her immediately knowing the word that was going to come next..."options". She was going to refer to my daughter as an option. She wasn't an option, she was mine. For better or worse, she was mine.

My reply, "No, we don't have options. We will keep her." She understood and didn't say anything else. I was grateful for that. In that moment of brokenness and despair I didn't have the energy to defend our "option".

I'd like to say from that moment on I was brave and strong and never questioned anything. But the truth is this, I went home, cried to my God, and begged him to not make me go through this. I begged him to just take her then and not make me go through the next several months. There is nothing brave or strong about that.

The truth is I was terrified. I had no idea how I would endure the next five months, let alone endure painful labor, contractions and pushing a baby out? How on earth could anyone knowingly survive that?

I know the answer now...grace. It's all grace. And it comes from a place deep down inside of you that you never knew existed. 

And that grace carries you through pregnancy. It guides you through labor. It helps you see your beautiful and perfectly made daughter, even though she has a fatal defect. It comforts you when you hold her lifeless body for the last time and it wraps itself around you as you get your last glimpses of her in this life. 

Most importantly, that grace warms your heart with memories that you will cherish forever. And those memories will carry you through the moments of your greatest despair when you miss your child the most.

I can still feel her squishy cheeks on my lips. I can look at my finger and still see her precious hand wrapped perfect around mine. And those chunky thighs that had two extra weeks to fatten up. I close my eyes and I can still see the smile through tears my husband had when holding his little girl.

It hurts. It hurts in ways I never imagined, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I can't imagine the grief if I never had these precious moments to cling to.

Being her mom is the greatest gift God has ever given me. She has taught me to love more deeply. She has taught me what real, unconditional, and selfless love is. She has made me a better wife, mom, sister, and friend. 

I miss her. I miss her every single minute of every single day. I would have done anything to save, but at the same time, I wouldn't trade her for anything in the world. 

And she is worth it, every second, every minute, every hour of every day. She is worth it. She is not an option, she is my daughter. 

She is mine.

My perfect Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. I carried her 42 weeks and 2 wonderful days. You can read more about our journey at www.ladysoper.blogspot.com

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have two beautiful children, one on earth and one sweet, perfect soul in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.

Father's Day

by Kellie Soper 

The most memorable part of my wedding day was the moment I walked up the aisle towards my soon-to-be husband. I had been anxious all morning, but seconds before I walked down the aisle I was filled to the brim with peace. I took my dad's arm and he kissed my cheek. We walked down the aisle to one of my favorite songs. As we got closer to Jason, I noticed he had a huge smile and tears streaming down his face. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.

We planned and planned for months, but nothing prepared me for that moment. Nothing prepared me to see the emotion of that day on his face. In that moment, and so many that have followed, I continue to learn how sensitive and sweet he truly is. And almost four and a half years later, one child here and two in Heaven, it was very telling of the journey we were about to embark upon.

I saw that smile with tears streaming down his cheeks again when our son was born. And just over two years later I saw him cry again.Only this time there was no smile. This time, with a sick and somber face he asked the question I was too scared to, "Is there something wrong with our baby?" Then the answer, and suddenly seeing him bury his face in his hands and weep for our unborn daughter. 

Every dream and hope we had for her stolen from us in that moment. He will never get to take her to daddy/daughter dances. Never coach her in softball or watch her twirl. She will never ride on his shoulders or squeeze his face with her hands. He will never walk her down the aisle to meet her husband.

I grieve and ache for my daughter, but when I think about what my husband has lost too, it's almost too much to bear.

Shortly after Lily's diagnosis, we met with our pastor. He offered his prayers, the support of our church, and two pieces of wisdom I will never forget. 

The first: He told us that we need to remember that we will each grieve differently and that is okay. He said the most important thing is to be aware that we will go through this differently. 

The second: He looked directly at my husband and told him, "You need to talk about this."

We don't talk about child loss nearly as much as we should and we certainly don't talk about the dads much. So often the attention and focus is on the moms, after all we are the ones who carry our babies and for the most part, we may be the ones who visually show our grief.

The dads generally go back to work sooner. They may need to shut off their emotions in order to get through the day. They may put up a strong front to be able to take care of their wife. I'm even guessing people rarely ask them how they are really doing. More often than not, they hear people asking about the moms. I imagine they don't feel like they even have permission to grieve for their child.

The grief of missing Lily didn't really hit me until several months after she died. When the pain meds were gone the fogged finally lifted, and the shock wore off. The waves were washing over me and I could hardly catch my breath. 

And I was mad at my husband. 

  

Because he wasn't going through it like I was. He seemed fine. He could function. He could go to work. He had normal conversations. I was lying in bed one night while Jason was reading and I just started crying and I couldn't stop. Jason leaned over and held me and these four words he whispered was all I needed to hear, " I miss her too." 

We grieve differently.

I am a writer. I write my pain. I write it down and share it with the world in hopes that it reaches the right people for the right reasons. I get it out of me. Sometimes it pretty and sometimes it's not. I close myself off from the world who doesn't understand me or even tries to. I cry. A lot. 

For Jason, the grief builds and builds. It starts out slow and steady and he can handle it for awhile. And when it gets to be too much, he breaks. He cries. And then he talks. Sometimes to me and sometimes to one of the few people he lets in.

We are getting better at it...if that's possible to "get better" at grief. I can see now when it's getting to be too much for him and a wave is about to hit. Sometimes I know it means we need some "just us" time and sometimes I know he needs to talk to a dude. 

But this is just my husband's story, how he is living this life without his daughter. There are many, many other dads out there who are missing one of their children, or several of their children, or ALL of their children. 

And they are hurting. Whether they tell you or not. Whether they show it or not. They are hurting. Underneath that strong and brave exterior is a man who just wants to hold his baby again. And play catch with his son. Or give his daughter butterfly kisses.   

But instead, his arms are empty. His eyes may be dry, but his heart is weeping.

Remember him and remember all the dads who we cannot see grieving.

This Father's Day, all of us at All That Love Can Do wish peace and healing to all the brave daddies who did all they could for their children. You are our heroes!

Please come to our Facebook Page to share the name of the father you're honoring today, and, if you'd like, a photo of him with his special baby in heaven <3. 

~ ~ ~

Kellie Soper lives in Arizona and is wife to her amazing husband, Jason. Together they have three beautiful children, one on earth and two sweet, perfect souls in Heaven. Ted is a wild, silly, and rambunctious toddler. Their sweet Lily Frances was born sleeping on November 12, 2014. They learned at their 18 week ultrasound that Lily had a fatal neural tubal defect the doctors said was "incompatible with life." Kellie and Jason both knew Lily was not a "decision", but their precious daughter and they believe her life was of value, no matter what. She carried Lily with love for 42 weeks and 2 days. They miss her every single day, but are grateful for the honor and privilege of being her parents. Their youngest daughter is Clare Therese. She met her big sister in heaven after a few precious months on earth with her family. You can read more about their family on Kellie's blog, Life and Love.