On February 17, 1998, my nephew died . . . before he even breathed his first breath. He was 40 weeks gestation, full size and full term. I was 16 years old -- full of nothing but myself.
The magnitude of the grief I felt -- unfamiliar to me -- paralyzed me emotionally. The magnitude of grief I witnessed seared my soul. It felt all wrong.
As my sister buried her infant, the layers of the loss became deeper and deeper for our family. February 17 is a day of sorrow, mourning a child who never tasted air. We remember all we lost in losing him, wishing the story was different. February 17 is a day death won.
So imagine my shock on March 7, 2011, when I received the most life-changing phone call: "Congratulations, it's a girl!" This was followed with all the pertinent information, like her birth date: February 17.
Thirteen years to the day after Kyler left this world, the most life-filled little girl entered it. She is a wonderfully constant reminder that God hints at His redemption and restoration in all kinds of ways, in all kinds of ways that reach to the most tender corners of our heart.
February 17 is a day of sorrow and celebration. We cry a good hard sob, and we sing "happy birthday" to the top of our lungs. Ashes and beauty. Death and life. Loss and hope. That is the truth about February 17.
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