It sits. Encased in glass and filled with rounded stones.
Each stone marked with a name. A name that means loss. A name that is treasured. A name that is honored, in this small way.
The babies we lost have no grave marker. They have not been buried. Their bodies did not recieve last rites.
But they were mourned. And they are loved. And they are remembered.
I cannot say why this happens to us. I do know that God knows much more of the picture than I do, and that my loss is in His plan. But this is sometimes very cold comfort to my heart.
I don't believe you ever get over the loss of a baby. I know that in my life, I have absorbed the loss. It has become part of me. One that I speak of openly. I love my Joshua. He is still part of our family. He is a part of my story as a mother.
The face of pregnancy and infant loss cannot be pictured. It is the 60 year old nurse holding my hand and crying with me as I have an ultrasound searching for a heartbeat. It is the young mother with 2 small children that still remembers the one who came before the ones she now holds. It is a grandmother mourning for her unborn grandchild. It is the husband holding his sobbing wife.
It has no face, the loss, because it is everyone of us. We are all touched by it.
So whether the loss is openly worn, or something quiet and secret in the heart, it still exists.
In my house, in my room, is a jar. It holds the names of the babies my friends have carried and lost. It is my way of remembering not just mine, but also yours. It is a tangible reminder of the unseen little one I still hold in my soul.
(If you have lost a baby, and want me to remember your baby with you, please leave a comment with the name of your lost one, and I will add them to my jar.)