A cold wind blows across the valley as I waddle from house to house stuffing fliers into my neighbors doors. It is March. April is just 10 days away. I have to get word out about the annual Easter neighborhood block party today. I have to give my neighbors a few days to RSVP before I have my baby at the end of the week.
I am hoping all the walking will put me into labor now. I would love to have a baby today ... or tomorrow. The sooner the better as far as I am concerned. But all my walking only seems to make my pelvis hurt and I feel no contractions. Bummer. Oh well, at least I got the fliers delivered and the baby will come in four days ready or not.
The tulips I planted last fall are beginning to bloom in my back yard. Camille's flower, blooming to signal that her birthday is also coming up. We will celebrate it as a family a few days after the block party. Then a few days later we will celebrate Easter.
I miss my little girl. But the hole in my heart she left when she died is no longer the open wound it once was. It is a tender scar. A memory of my greatest pain. A reminder of why Easter is the most hopeful holiday, of why life is so precious, of how important it is that I be the best mother and the best Stephanie I can be.
And perhaps more than this, that scar is a reminder to me of the healing power of the atonement. I am moved to tears just thinking about the miracle of it all. How is it possible that such a wound could ever feel healed? I don't know. And yet somehow, the Savior has made me feel whole again. Whole despite the hole. That doesn't even make logical sense. And yet my heart feels that way. But then feelings don't always follow logic now do they.
And so as I sip my hot chocolate and warm my insides after my cold walk of the neighborhood, I am filled with love and gratitude for my blessings. For the blessing of the life that will imminently join our family. For the 14 months I was privileged to mother a celestial soul. For the friends, family, and neighbors who held me up through my greatest trial. And for the Savior who in His own time and His own miraculous way healed my heart.
Spring, in my book and in my heart, is a season for celebration.
