My very first memory is the day I became a sister. As soon as the birth of my baby brother was announced, I kicked open the maternity ward doors with my red Keds, singing, “I’m a Little Teapot” at the top of my lungs. He was the tiniest, sweetest, greatest thing to happen to my two-and-a-half-year-old life.
A few years later, I’d be clever enough to replace the words in another favorite nursery rhyme, “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” with my own name and reality, singing,
Mary Kaitlin had a little brother,
Had a little brother, had a little brother.
Mary Kaitlin had a little brother
Who lived in her house too.
I taught the song to my classmates, who’d sing it as I paraded through the elementary school carpool line, hand in hand with my little lamb. Some days I still wake up with this tune stuck in my head, rolling over to realize, yet again, the song’s taunting truth: I had a little brother—past tense. He’s gone now.
In the days following my brother’s death, the influx of sympathy cards, corn casseroles, news stories, pastoral visits, written obituaries, and floral arrangements all sang in unison, stuck on the same line: “Had a little brother, had a little brother, had a little brother.”
Death had stolen my song.
During the funeral, I stood in the first church pew, ready to lace up my red Keds, kick open the sanctuary doors, and go claim my little brother. I decided it wasn’t too late for it to all be a big mistake. I was waiting for Grief to admit it had chosen the wrong family, for Tragedy to apologize, and for Sorrow to pack its bags. It all made more sense that way, because my brother was the kind of guy who’d blush at all this attention and giggle at the amount of formality. Or was he? I was already forgetting.
My thoughts are my most unreliable grief companion, with the capacity to be my sweetest advocate or my biggest traitor. Like having a sore muscle, I become afraid to make the next move, knowing that walking through memories has the power to heal, but it also has the power to hurt.
Inside the front door of our childhood home, there’s a piano, the bench cushion worn equally on both sides. Together, my brother and I had written our own rendition of “Heart and Soul”—he on the bass clef, me on the treble. I sit in the same spot now, alone, recalling all of my notes perfectly, the duet only heard in my head. I remember all of his notes too. And I’m reminded that I am still Mary Kaitlin, but I no longer have a little brother who lives in my house too. I feel like the psalmist, pounded by the waves:
“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your billows have swept over me.
The Lord will send his faithful love by day;
his song will be with me in the night—
a prayer to the God of my life” (Psalm 42:7–8).
Death can steal our song, but it cannot stop us from singing. And while I hold onto the hope of heaven, I am relieved and comforted by remembering God’s faithfulness to me in all things, right now.
When I hear one of our old songs, sometimes I listen, and other times I don’t. But when I’m feeling brave, I begin to mouth the words of that childhood song about my little brother, and I’m reminded of the true root of my grief: love. And that’s something I’ll never forget.
“My thoughts are my most unreliable grief companion, with the capacity to be my sweetest advocate or my biggest traitor. Like having a sore muscle, I become afraid to make the next move, knowing that walking through memories has the power to heal, but it also has the power to hurt.”
I read these words and I connected with them immediately. My heart being filled with so much hurt but also so much hope. There is a trauma I had experienced in my 20’s that still haunts me to this day. Even though it wasn’t that many years ago I blocked it out. Some days I feel so locked in place, so scared to move a muscle that it will trigger a memory or that I won’t be able to make my way out.. but then I shouts Gods truths aloud to myselff and slowly I climb out of that pit of trauma and fear. It had been years of healing. But as I tredge through total and complete healing come ever closer. I just can’t wait for the day when I can figure out how to completely give it to God and just live in his healing.
I’m getting ready to go to Bible College. Me and my husband. I know through this God will bring healing and knowledge. Please pray for me and my husband as we embark on this journey. I will be victorious!!!
What an incredible change of perspective. This study has opened my eyes to such a different way than before. The Lord is good! Joy and grief can be experienced simultaneously.
I have read this word more than once and needed it more than ever today as I lost my first unborn baby at 12 weeks. Thank you for the honesty and truth of this word. I know it can be my strength in the challenging days and weeks to come.
So sorry for your loss, Morgan. Praying for you in this time of grief and sadness. Asking the Lord to bring you unimaginable comfort right now.
– Stormye
I just lost my baby as well. (Measured at 9 weeks but I found out at my 12 week appt three days ago.) You are not alone, Morgan. God hears us both. Loves us both. I love you, too. And will be praying for God’s truth and love to transcend all lack of understanding.
Thank you for this beautiful, open and honest devotional. It was very touching and reminded me that in times of sadness and grief, we really can turn to God and should be praising him even though it can be difficult. There’s a song that has the lyrics, “you taught my feet to dance upon dissapointment” and I really want to strive to be a person who can do this!
Death can steal our song but cannot stop us from singing. Mmm Lord, on the days in which I feel defeated may I remember that we don’t need no music, we can sing in dance with the praises you’ve placed in our hearts.
What a beautiful devotional. I feel like death can taint memories- like how the song the writer wrote about took on a new ‘taunting’ meaning after her brother passed. With my kitty all of a sudden, the moments before he died stand out in stark contrast- “he was curled up next to me in bed just yesterday” etc. it seems so abrupt, almost dream like- but the most painful dream because what seems so wrong and impossible is actually the reality. I think there is something very offensive about death to our hearts- it simply feels so wrong and unjust. And that is what creates the tension- we remember the loved one, and our love for them fondly, and we are still living and loving and experiencing good things, but the loss of our loved one is so searingly painful. To me it feels like a large slash through the picture of my life. And only with time (and Gods help!), can the picture of our lives be sewn back together- but without our loved one. With each prayer and fond memory and tear shed, we slowly stitch our lives back. And though our lives are forever changed, someday the picture will look new and complete again. But we will know how it used to look and that it is not complete in the sense of what it was, but that it is a different picture entirely. When we lose someone, they are gone from our reality- our “life picture,” but never from our hearts or memories. And I must remember that Every picture we see of people – the picture we present to others and the picture of other people’s lives we see is only a bit of the story. So much of our life experience is tucked away in our hearts. I hope to have more compassion for others – knowing we all carry more memories- both sweet and painful-than what meets the eye.
What a perfect description. Thank you for sharing
“Never again will there be in it an infant who lives but a few days…”
My baby boy died a little over a month ago. He was a beautiful five-month-old with a liver condition. I thought of his two older brothers as I read your story. They miss their baby brother terribly. I struggle daily to keep on living for them. To stay focused on God and on them. And to keep anger and bitterness at bay. This study has been helping me. Thank you.
Rachel, I’m so sorry. My only child, my baby girl died back in November. She was only 3 weeks and 5 days old and she had a heart defect. She went into cardiac arrest one day, randomly, and her heart wasn’t strong enough to start on its own again. I struggle with anger right now. It’s like I don’t have very many tears left to cry and then I just get angry that death happens, especially to my precious baby. But it’s amazing to be held by God during this time, and I know he is holding you as well. Even on those dark days, he is right there. I think about all of the other moms who have had to bury their babies – it’s comforting to know I’m not alone in my grief. I’ll be praying for you.
just found this comment section! yes, so amazingly written and heart breaking! so thankful He will wipe away our tears and we will remember no more!