I still remember the day Anne said, “Hey, I’ve got someone I’d love for you to meet. Can I bring my friend over for lunch one day? She helped take care of triplets in NY and could really be a great resource for you.”

You met me when I was terrified, bearing within me three of God’s most precious gifts to me. You made me smile immediately. You made me feel like you’d been part of my life forever.

My babies came. You rocked them. You changed them. You fed them. You played with them. And everyone saw how well you cared for them.

But I also know how you cared for me.

You sat on my couch one day while I laid over on your shoulder with tears burning my cheeks. I was tired and scared and being assaulted by post-partum depression. I told you, only you, that I didn’t think I could do this. I couldn’t be a good mommy to three babies at one time. And you held me there and whispered, “Yes, sweetheart, yes you can. And you won’t ever have to do it alone. I will always be here when you need me.”

And you were.

Even after we moved “our” babies 8 hours away, you never let any of us out of your heart. You visited us. We visited you. There were long phone calls and beautiful notes. And by now you weren’t just part of us. You were part of my parents’ lives as well. We all loved you so much.

I was a bit in denial about your recent illness. Anne  told me how sick you’d gotten. I cried so hard when I got off the phone with you last week. Hearing you sound so very weak was jarring to my soul. You. The energizer bunny. The woman who folded tiny baby clothes with such gusto it looked like they’d been ironed. The one who could chase three giggly toddlers tirelessly for hours without ever missing a beat. I couldn’t even picture you as weak.

So when Anne  called me yesterday with the sad, sad news that you hadn’t made it, I was broken.

You know how I gently laugh at those who over-romanticize ideas of heaven or who say well-meaning but foolish things to grieving folks, but I admit it…I became one of them yesterday.  The only comfort I found was in the image of two of my “church nannies” up there now loving on my babies that I never got to hold here. So do that, please, because I worry about them.  I cry into my pillow worrying about them sometimes. But if I can convince myself that they’ve got you, then it’s all better. Because you, Ms. Betty, are amazing.

Possibly Related Posts:

• Same but Different
• I Know it Isn’t Normal to be Like This
• One Step at a Time
• Between Merry and Melancholy
• There Simply is No Way to Understand

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