That may be what I tell myself, but it certainly isn't what I feel as I clutch his tiny hospital blanket and listen to the howling wind. During the summertime, the wind chimes we were gifted helped me to imagine him giggling beside his sisters as they played in the backyard. Now, their chime reminds me that I am inside my warm and cozy home while my baby rests outside in the bitter cold.
He's not there.
As Nativity scenes have grown commonplace over the last few weeks, the image of the Blessed Mother holding her newborn son evokes a newfound pang of guilt within my heart. What had once been an image of comfort and joy now reminds me of the son I've lost. This Christmas, Joshua would have been around three months old. He'd have likely been smiling, lifting his head, and rolling. He'd have been in our arms and surrounded by his older, doting sisters. Instead, he was delivered on Good Friday this past spring after a late miscarriage and, rather than being postpartum, I am currently 33 weeks pregnant with his younger brother.
Despite the glittery Christmas displays and cheerful holiday songs multiplying over the airwaves, I just want to curl up and hold my baby boy again. He won't be celebrating his first Christmas with us. He won't have his own monogrammed stocking, a festive onesie, or an epic spit-up during Christmas Eve Mass. Feeling my second son's kicks and rolls and anticipating his healthy birth this February does not take away from the fact that I miss my Joshua. I miss knowing his face and his personality. I miss being able to watch him grow up and see him play with his sisters. Shortly after his passing, a well-intentioned friend reminded me, "Well, surely you knew him," but I didn't. I don't know what he would have looked like or how his personality would have blossomed. I don't know his gifts, talents, or struggles. I feel as though I'm neglecting him; I should be changing his diaper, watching him grow, and bonding with him, rather than driving past his cemetery from the warmth of my own car. Such a thought never would have made any sense prior to his miscarriage - how could I possibly neglect a baby I wasn't allowed to keep?
My work as Joshua's mother is done. Because he's a saint in Heaven, he doesn't even need me to pray for him. When Chiara Corbella Petrillo, Servant of God, passed away in 2012 after a valiant battle with cancer, her widowed husband reflected, "When my wife died, many people told me, 'Don't worry, Enrico, you will feel her close, you won't miss her.' I have never felt her close, and I have always missed her." I don't feel Joshua with me. I've never felt his presence. I barely even know how to talk to him within my heart. In the quiet, still moments of the day after everyone else has gone to sleep or before they've awakened, I imagine the fuzzy newborn head that should be in my arms or the tiny breaths that should be coming from the co-sleeper bassinet. Sometimes, I even imagine the weight of a sleeping baby upon my chest, but he's not there.
I have three beautiful, healthy girls and another healthy son on the way. My first son is in Heaven. My husband and I share a loving marriage and we are beyond blessed with more than we could ever need. I have no reason to feel heavy, and yet I do. I miss my baby boy, and every time I see Mary holding hers, I simply ache. As my to-do list begins to dwindle during these last few days of Advent, an uncomfortable silence is setting in. I am running out of distractions from the fact that Joshua will not be with us on Christmas morning, or any morning. The silence is coupled with a sense of dread, because it was on Christmas Eve of last year that we first learned of Joshua’s presence. Now, all of the Yuletide cards, gifts, cookies, and crafts cannot fill his void. However, it is precisely because of Mary's baby boy that mine lives eternally and that I will one day hold him and kiss him again. Because of this baby born in Bethlehem, I will know my son more intimately than I ever could have on Earth. I will hold him, kiss him, and feel his baby hair against my cheek without ever having to say goodbye again.
My child never suffered. He went straight from the warmth and comfort of my womb to the everlasting warmth and comfort of Heaven. After my miscarriage, a friend shared with me that the very first thing Joshua ever saw when he opened his eyes was the face of Christ. How beautiful. The Christ Child suffered so that my son wouldn't. Jesus was born in the piercing cold, in a lonely stable far from home, and shortly sent into impoverished exile in the land of Egypt, to say nothing of the Passion and Death He would endure. With that in mind, Christmas has a new, richer beauty this year. When I see the Christ Child, I see my son. My baby boy is with Jesus. I will always miss him and wonder what it would have been like to have him with us on Earth, but because of what started with Christ's incarnation, I will be with him again. These lights, gifts, sounds, scents, and joys of the season are just a glimmer of the true joy of Heaven that awaits us. What's more, I am reminded that, just as Christ gave His life for my son, so also did Joshua give up his life for his younger brother. My little baby is a saint, and even though there are still occasional tears and I will always, always miss him, the words of the priest who celebrated his funeral ring true: there is an undercurrent of peace and joy knowing our son is with the Lord.
Throughout this Advent, many of our friends and family members have endured deep and tragic crosses. Even without the Covid pandemic and all of its ensuing chaos, there is much suffering in many hearts, perhaps in your own. If so, then I am truly sorry and want to simply remind you that the same Baby Jesus who signifies my son's eternal life also brings glad tidings of eternal peace and joy to you, too. Maybe not this Christmas, and maybe not even this side of Eternity. Some things will just always ache. However, our Emmanuel, "God with us," is there with you in your cross and came into the world to give you His peace.
Just the other day, I realized that, perhaps, we should have arranged a Christmas wreath at Joshua's grave, as my family has frequently done for my beloved grandmother. As I considered it, however, the idea felt hollow. Something about a wreath at his grave just felt empty and unnecessary. I wrestled with these feelings, wondering why I should ever hesitate to honor my son's resting place. Then, it hit me: he's not there. We don't need to place a wreath beside him because he rests in Heaven, not in the ground. Hopefully one day, we will, too. Joy to the world, indeed.
