Hope is the Anthem: Reflections on Grief After Infant Loss

by Mariëtte Strydom

We took a short overdue holiday at the end of April. A much-needed break and a big breath before the final stretch of studies for my husband's Master’s degree kicks off.

We were driving around the coast with the gorgeous backdrop of mountains to our left. I could slowly feel a bit of relaxation settling in.

When we got to our accommodation, there were big green lawns surrounding our cottage just as the pictures on the website depicted. The kids started running around immediately, stretching out their 'car' legs.

What the pictures on the website didn't show was that a short walk away from the green laws was, what my daughter calls the enchanted forest. But due to wildfires a couple of months prior, the forest was reduced to a barren field and black trees. The shell of a tortoise that couldn't get away fast enough, a stark reminder of how relentless fires are; it gains pace and engulfs everything in its path.

While looking at this destruction it felt so familiar to me; a physical representation of what the last 3 and a bit years felt like.

Since we heard our daughter was going to die it felt like a fire blazed its way through our lives.

There is the obvious pain you expect (yet can never imagine the depth and intensity of) when your child dies. But there were the other things: the so-called secondary losses that I didn't consider beforehand, the smaller fires that joined the main one. Loss of self, identity, peace. Whoever I was the day my daughter died; that person died as well. I changed, my husband changed, our marriage had too as well. Due to this instant change, every single relationship we had also changed. Some better, some worse; all different. In an instant certain places, scenarios and people became unsafe. As grief took up the space where my daughter should've been, I quickly realized the importance of boundaries. I had to step back, say no, unfollow and avoid things I wouldn't have thought about twice previously. Grief takes up tremendous time and energy and you have to give it the space and attention it deserves; otherwise it will still take it, but more forcefully so. Even now, there are things that will instantly make me feel sick – walking past the baby's section in a shop, driving past a cemetery, pregnancy and birth announcements, doctors’ appointments, certain songs, birthdays, holidays. Some days you can pre-empt this and plan your day around it, other days it hits you like a ton of bricks. Grief is a lot of things, but it's certainly not linear.

Often (most times) after Lydia died, everything feels like this barren burnt out field. Often (most times) I feel like that tortoise; just a shell remaining. But, somehow, I still make it through the fire every day. Somehow, I am able to drag myself and my family through the blaze every day, just to repeat the exercise the next day.

I say somehow, but I know how. When standing in this field I saw a tiny purple wildflower. Majestic in its presence among the darkness. "Hope is the anthem of my soul." I feel the whisper in my soul. A song that I clung to during my pregnancy. But what is this hope really? What I've learned is that it is not the superficial hope that the world – and even Christian culture – sells us. The version of hope that is handed out as platitudes of "silver linings" and "at least…" and "just be grateful.” Or the ones that sound Biblical but are not: "Everything happens for a reason," (It doesn't; we live in a fallen world, often/most times horrible things happen for absolutely no reason at all) and one of the most misquoted Bible verses, "God wouldn't give you more than you can handle" (no one can “handle” the death of a child).

No, this hope is a deep hope. One you have to dig for and relentlessly pursue and cling to when you find it. It's the hope that doesn't offer solutions, but that does offer that the One that has all the solutions is with you throughout. It's the hope that says even when something horrible happens to you, God can still use this for good (Rom 8:28). It's the hope that says that you will not be "tempted beyond what you can bear" (1 Cor 10:13) even when you are in a situation that is more than you can handle. The hope that He will "provide an escape that you will be able to endure it" (1 Cor 10:13).

I often wonder, why, when we could tangibly feel God in the delivery room the day of Lydia's birth, have the days following her death been so hard and unbearable. We've experienced something rare, this side of Heaven, but the days after have mostly felt like Hell. It's another thing I often feel guilty about. But then I'm reminded that while we experienced Heaven, we stayed behind. That dealing with the death of a child is just that hard. That trauma will impact you and grief is part of the process of moving forward. With the purple flower a reminder that the Peace of that day is sufficient to sustain us on every other day. That even when everything burns, new life starts again, oftentimes stronger and more beautiful. That God invites us to lament with Him, which is just as beautiful and a powerful form of worship as a joyful song.

So, 3 years on, this is where I stand, and I recently read this quote which sums it up perfectly:

“I used to try and wrestle myself out from under this great pain. And then I just came to terms with the fact that I am a woman who carries grief. I am a woman who has absorbed immense sorrow – that will always be woven into me. I have memories that will never NOT hurt.

I don’t have to paint myself a different color. Happiness isn’t holier than grief. God has created space for both. We can be both. We can be all of it.” (Nightbirde)

Meet the Author: Mariëtte Strydom

Author Bio: Hi, I'm Mariëtte; mom to 3 kiddo's, two residing on earth and one in Heaven. Our Lydia passed away a couple of hours after birth following a life limiting diagnosis, 3 years ago. Since then we have been figuring out living life alongside grief. We live in beautiful Cape Town, South Africa.

Connect with Author: @miss_brink