I sit down to write feeling energetic. I have a plan. A purpose. And with the house quiet, it is time to start working.

A cloud fell over my spring plans for chicks and ducklings and goslings and the garden when an order of chicks got left in a sorting facility rather than sent on and all the chicks arrived dead. We were defeated before we began and I wondered how many more springs I could look forward to by telling myself, “This year will be different.” How long before I give it up and accept that everything I do will be marked by failure?

But then the responses started coming in about our little road trip for Tiggy’s House and I was busy trying to juggle schedules for stops in Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas. And so many people asked us about heading east that we’re already sketching out possibilities for September. It’s a good busy. And a reminder of why we are here.

So I close my eyes to my own feelings of failure and determine to move forward with the plans that have been made.

And then I walk by the incubator and see a chick. And an egg cracking. And suddenly all of our dreams for this property seem possible again.

So I sit down to write, feeling more energetic than I remember feeling since before that night. That horrible night that robbed the present of its life, the past of its warmth and the future of its promise. I sit down thinking how to put down in words that moment when I felt I could say, “I’m looking forward to . . . ”

I want to capture that moment somehow, if only in a few words written late at night while thinking of other things.

But I am interrupted by little feet coming up the stairs. And then those eyes . . . so lost. So hurt. So alone. And little LE leans her her head against my shoulder.

“I miss Tiggy.”

And the tears begin to flow. Her whole body shakes as I hold her and my own tears begin to fall.

I don’t know what to tell her. There are all the things I’ve said a thousand times before, but I still don’t know what to say. I want to take this burden from her, cry out to take this burden as mine and mine alone and scream that this just isn’t fair. So I hold her and don’t say anything at all.

But Mookie has something to say. He slides down out of the chair next to me and hugs his big sister. Peering around her side, he looks up at her tear stained face.

“Hi?’

He says in the gentlest, most loving voice.

“Hi?”

And she looks at him and he smiles softly.

“Oh, Mookie,” she says, and gives him a hug.

He catches the edge of her pajama top and tugs until she starts to follow. He leads her in a circle, around and around until she smiles.

“Where are you taking me, Mookie?” she laughs.

He stops to giggle and clap. They’re both giggling now.

And I never knew you could hurt so much and feel so blessed all at the same time.

The baby naps, Bear and Mouse watch a movie, Bug and LE are having a picnic, the house is quiet. The stillness of the house makes the churning in my stomach grow louder. I wander a bit from sweeping the front room to making the bed to filling the sink with water to staring out the window. Our property and the adjacent field is bathed in golden light and I decide to take the dogs for a walk.

And I think back on last year. On the hours spent playing board games with the kids. On the hours spent pacing through the house. On the hours spent staring out my window. On the moment life became a prison sentence. And this churning in the pit of my stomach knows no end.

I think of the conversations I have had with other mothers who tell me the second year was harder than the first. To the counselor who told me it can take years to really recover from the shock of losing a child unexpectedly. But I don’t have years. I have children. Children who need more than a mother who is coping.

But I know it has gotten better. It doesn’t always feel like it has, I think because so much of last year was lost to a haze I can scarcely see through. I don’t really remember what it was like. Not clearly. But I do know that a year ago I would not have stepped outside. To feed the chickens, yes. If the children called me out, maybe. But because the property was bathed in a golden light and I thought I might find some peace standing in its midst? Never.

A year ago, I was dead inside and I didn’t really care if I ever felt anything else. Now, there is just this churning, this continual anxiety that rests in the pit of my stomach and never quite takes over and never quite goes away.

“Lord, please . . . “

I ask. But I don’t quite know what I’m praying for. My soul pleads, but there are no words so I turn toward the cemetary where I can see the cedar trees lining the northern edge. The dogs stop at the edge of our windbreak, waiting to see if I’m going to walk to the pasture or just stand there and then I see it.

A beautiful rainbow stretching across the sky. One of the most beautiful I have ever seen.

And the tears begin to flow and my chest heaves with its sobs. I know what the rainbow means, but I want those promises for me. I want to know my children will come through this. I want to know that Micah won’t struggle because so much of his early life was dominated by his mother’s grief. I want to know that this won’t happen again.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

I hear Bug calling from the windbreak. I struggle to regain my composure as she runs up to me.

“Mommy! Mommy! Do you see the rainbow? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, it is sweetheart. It’s very beautiful.”

I say it without looking. My back to the rainbow, I look at her shining face.

“Look, Mommy! You have to look!”

I turn, and I look, and I see. A double rainbow.

And the knot in my stomach eases just a little bit.

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Julie is looking to possibly head up our first book discussion if there is any interest. If you would be interested in joining in a discussion of the book “When Life is Hard” by James MacDonald, pop in and let her know!

I started a community. A support group of sorts. For anyone who is hurting and would like encouragement to seek out joy. Why would I do such a thing?

This Christmas season has not been easy. I find myself pacing through the day, unable to settle my thoughts, unable to concentrate. Nights bring an anxiety that rests in the pit of my stomach, driving sleep from me and leading me to watch shows I’m scarcely interested in until even hulu asks if I maybe need a break.

And it reminds me of last year when, after several months of shock, I decided to take a small step forward and join a few support groups online. Only it really wasn’t a step forward. Not for me. I cannot begin to express the level of despair I felt talking to women years ahead of me in this journey who seemed to wear their grief like a badge of honor and a sign of loyalty to the child they lost. Who seemed to turn every conversation into a competition for who was hurting the most.

That’s when a woman hurting after a miscarriage and fearing that she might not be able to have children said to me, “At least you got to hold your baby.” And I didn’t really know what to do with that, so I left.

And I realize that what I want is a small space where people who are hurting can come together and share their burdens so they are easier to bear and where we can encourage one another to seek out joy a little bit each day. So I decided to try to create one and I guess we’ll see where it goes from here.

You don’t have to have lost a child to join. You just need to want to seek out joy even when it isn’t easy.