A Fundraiser for Our Medical Expenses

We never imagined our beautiful daughter would come to us in this way. After being in discussion with the hospital financial aid office, we now know what our final costs are for Abigail's birth via C-section and her one day of round-the-clock NICU care, as well as my ICU stay for one day.

It's big. It's bigger than what we can do by ourselves, so we are asking for help.

Please share our GoFundMe: https://www.gofundme.com/f/baby-abigail-changed-us-forever

When you share, you are doing two things. First, you're helping us to share this beautiful video put together by Mike Crockett that tells Abigail's story, how she spent one day with us, yet changed us forever. Second, you're helping us with a very real and pressing financial need.

Thank you for sharing and for your generosity. We know we can never pay everyone back for the help we have received and continue to receive. But we do believe in paying it forward. 

We have endeavored to be the kind of people who serve in church and community, help people move, and give to GoFundMe and Facebook fundraisers when people have the courage to ask for help. It does feel strange to be so much on the receiving end lately, but we know we must be realistic about our needs and not try to do it all on our own. We also, as I mentioned first, very much hope and believe that this GoFundMe fundraiser can be a vehicle for spreading Abigail's story and influence even more widely. God's will be done.

We love you and thank you for your love and support!

P.S. If you are uncomfortable donating through the GoFundMe website, you can donate via Venmo: @Katrina-Lantz-1

Collateral Beauty and Getting Old is a Gift

Abigail is a gift.

She came like a shooting star, passing through the night sky of our lives, then vanishing from our view. But her beauty and the majesty of her mission stay forever in our minds.

During America's stay-at-home order for the Covid-19 Coronavirus pandemic, which some people have suggested should be known as The Great Pause, many have pondered aloud about the blessings of Coronavirus. Obviously, pandemics are frightening. We worry for ourselves and our loved ones and we feel protective, isolated, and uncertain as we take steps to "flatten the curve" and mitigate the disaster suggested in the word "pandemic." However, many people have seen beauty in the sudden pause, the forced rest, the togetherness of families, the spontaneous and planned acts of charity, the productive and compassionate use of technology to connect and bring hope. It's all beautiful when you look at it that way.

How we look at things makes a big difference in the message we receive from it.

Shortly after getting out of the hospital, Bill and I watched Jumanji II again. It was a movie we had watched twice in the theatre while I was pregnant with Abigail. The timing of the comedian/actors was impeccable and I found myself laughing through the movie both times. We bought it as soon as it came out digitally so we could watch it at home.

This time as I watched it, I tried to remember how much I had enjoyed it before, and how Abigail had kicked up a storm in my womb as I laughed and laughed. There were sweet moments in the movie, too--lessons for the characters to learn and express. Self-appreciation, the importance of leaning on your friends in your vulnerability, and forgiveness.

When I first got home from the hospital, I was relieved to be home and not in a hospital. I was happy to have access to my other children again, to comfort them and enjoy their personalities. And I was driven toward the work that had to be done for Abigail's funeral. Many of the arrangements had already been planned and prepared beforehand. The casket had been made. The funeral gown had been purchased. The burial plot was ready and waiting, and I had written my love note eulogy while still in the hospital. But there were still things to do. I focused on helping Bill to gather his thoughts for what he wanted to say, encouraging our sons to practice the song they were to sing at the funeral: "Families Can Be Together Forever." I focused on welcoming family who came from out of town to help us honor Abigail. All of this felt natural and precious and time slowed down for it.

But after the funeral, I felt physically and emotionally exhausted. It was finally time to feel the backward motion of what can best be described as emotional whiplash. Had it really happened at all? Had Abigail been born, spent her whole life on earth in one day, and gone on to heaven? Had we buried her already? All in less than one week? My head and my heart spun with the surreal speed with which the entire thing had taken place. Time is a luxury we take for granted.

Now that Abigail was gone, I didn't want time. It seemed to stretch out in front of me for miles with no rest stops, an unending march toward my own death so far in the distance. I just wanted to crawl into that hole with Abigail and be buried, too. The fact that I had died, that my heart had stopped, actually gave me a worse case of survivor's guilt. Why was this sweet spirit gone and my crotchety old self still here? I'm 36 years old, but I feel ancient. Life has been incredibly long and more painful than I ever could have imagined before living it. I felt tired. I prayed and prayed and prayed for God to help me to feel like living again. He sent me little messages, in the form of a special card written by a friend or the words to a song, the embrace of a child, the face of my husband.

I could barely pay attention to the movie as we sat on our bed watching Jumanji II. My heart was broken and my will felt so weak. I related less to Danny Glover's cheerful, smiling character who always saw the silver lining and more to Danny DeVito's grouchy old man. His character had just undergone hip surgery and all he would say to anyone who would listen was how much getting old stank. Never get old, he advised his grandson, the main character of the film who was going through his own existential crisis.

Yeah, I thought darkly. Never get old.

But that moment of resonance was only leading me inevitably to the moment at the end of the movie when his character arc would be complete, and when he would say the line that struck me to the core.

As he's playing a video game with his grandson, he starts the familiar phrase he's been saying through the whole movie. "Growing old..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," his grandson interrupts. "Growing old sucks."

But no, that's not how he was going to end it this time. "Growing old," he says instead, "is a gift." Cue the twinkle in his eye. My spirit felt like a live wire inside me, and I knew God was watching me watch this movie and putting that scene in my path so I would experience this moment.

I knew it was wisdom. And I knew, of course, that life was a gift from our Heavenly Parents to us. It just didn't feel like one anymore. Abigail's life had been a gift. I hung onto that fact, and I added to it the message I had felt resonate in my bones: my life is a gift. Living right now is a gift.

Since then, I have continued to receive these little messages all around me, because I've been looking for them. My search for meaning intensified the day we received Abigail's original diagnosis of anencephaly on November 8, 2019. After her death on February 26, 2020, this search goes on. I am especially looking forward to the April General Conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints this weekend because the words of living prophets are a bounty of little messages when you're open to receiving them.

Today, I tell people I am doing pretty well. I cry and I struggle against thoughts of worthiness and worthwhileness. I try to get back that surety that I have felt at various times in my life, the surety that allowed me to walk through the fire with Abigail in the first place. And I watch for messages from the Lord. I need them now more than ever before in my life. I need them just to get out of bed in the morning. They continue to come through my children's hugs and tears, through my husband's words and glances, through scripture, in movies and music and books, through friends and flowers, even a cloudy sky.

We are all walking forward.

Shortly after I came home from the hospital, I moved Abigail's bassinet into my bedroom, right by my side of the bed, under the window. It's where I would have put it if she had lived and we had brought her home. It's where I needed it now, even though she wasn't here anymore. I filled it with a box of 4x6 photos, mostly black and white, of Abigail's feet and hands and my children holding her, and Bill walking through the hospital with her like her sentinel in his Batman shirt.

And I filled it with baby blankets, all the ones she used in her hospital stay and the big one that had covered her throughout the night, the one my mom had crocheted just for her. On the top of the pile I put the preemie sleeper outfit that she had worn throughout that special day of being alive with us. It was a turquoise blue and said "Little Sister" in pink letters. It rested now, lifeless, on top of a swaddling blanket still stained, despite washing, from the piece of the placenta that had been her crown and constant companion in this life.

For the first week, I stopped by the bassinet before getting back in bed, and lifted the tiny outfit and blanket to my face. I tried to inhale whatever of her essence remained in the weave of the fabric. Until one day I lifted it and couldn't smell her anymore. I still looked at it, and held the big crocheted blanket my mom had made. It was almost as big as Abigail, all folded up on itself, and I held it to my chest as if it were her.

After we planted her cherry tree, I looked out the window as I held the blanket and imagined the cherry tree in full bloom with all its temporary seasonal glory.

When my kids came to visit me in my room during my recovery, they sidled past the bassinet and tried not to bump it too much because they knew that would upset me. We had family prayers around our bed, seven people crowded around on their knees with their arms folded as we prayed together each night before bed. The bassinet made it quite crowded on my side.

I knew I couldn't keep the bassinet there forever, but I wanted her blankets and her little owl where I could reach them when I needed them. Thankfully, one night I had a stroke of inspiration. That happens often when you stay up an extra hour lying in bed without distractions. I planned it all out in my mind, and then this bench became the solution.

Before we moved, it was put outside while we tiled most of the floors in our old house. When I asked the boys to keep busy painting the table and chairs white, someone painted this bench, too. It looked like a child had painted it. When we moved the furniture into the new house, there was no place for this window seat. The new kitchen had no outside wall and no window for a window seat. I put it outside by the grill and forgot about it. The other day I pulled out the cordless sander and did my best to add to its character, bring out some of that pretty burgundy red. My body is still very sore, so I only managed to give it a little more character, but I'm happy with my efforts. The bassinet is gone. All the blankets are in this storage bench, and the owl sits on top.

This will be a good place to sit and watch the cherry tree in bloom.

I sent the picture of the bench to my mom and sisters. My mom said, "You're not forgetting, just moving forward." That is right.

*sigh*

This is hard but necessary.

Abigail has been gone a month. I don't think I will ever get over it. But I am getting through it. We all are.

Last week, Bill and I pulled out another favorite movie, Collateral Beauty. I had been afraid to watch it because Will Smith's main character is a man who recently lost his six-year-old daughter to a rare disease.

It hits so close to home, but I needed to watch it again. His journey to acceptance involves writing letters to the three abstractions: Time, Love, and Death. So many of the things he writes to them are poetic versions of my own grief-stricken thoughts. In the case of this film, the title is the lesson, but the audience goes on the same journey as the main character to accept it--because at first it sounds like fluffy nonsense. The stages of grief do not often brook fluffy nonsense. We have to go through all of the main character's conversations with Time, Love, Death, and his ex-wife, before we can believe that there is any such thing as collateral beauty.

"It's there," the ex-wife promises him. And it really is. Bill and I have seen it, felt it, practically swam in it at times.

God is good all the time. There is a Divine Order, as Jeff Olsen says in his book, Knowing. Everything is in Divine Order, though it doesn't often feel that way to us. A simple search of chaos theory on the internet tells us how much we don't know about the way nature functions. What looks like chaos is actually order, and it is designed.

Whatever you're going through, I hope this can be one of your messages for the moment you need it. You are known and loved, cherished even. The way we cherish Abigail times infinity.

God not only loves us each profoundly, but there is a plan for our ultimate happiness. It can't be seen in intricate detail because the future is to be lived moment by moment. So I try to be content with my little messages: the glass butterfly I found in Abigail's garden (or did it find me?); the March snowfall that covered everything in a silent, serene white veil; the pandemic that halted the world for my grief.

There is definitely such a thing as collateral beauty. It's the part that makes life a gift worth living.

What Was Beautiful About Abigail

The moment I saw Abigail, I was in awe of her. I had been prepared for a baby with no face, so to find this baby on my chest who was so developed was a big surprise. It was reminiscent of some of my dreams in which someone was handing me a perfect baby while I lay in a bed. In those dreams I was always confused because we had been expecting the worst. 

In the video of that moment, where Bill is handing me our daughter for the first time and introducing us, you can't hear much of what we are saying. There is too much doctory noise in the ICU. But you can see in my face the wonder I feel, and you can read my lips when I say, "Wow."

What was so beautiful about Abigail was the life force that could be felt from her, the spirit. She was so clearly alive, despite her limitations which made her appear mostly unresponsive to her environment. She had reflexes but was mostly still and slept for much of her life, like a healthy newborn does anyway. Her presence is one I will never forget, though. Maybe other mothers and fathers will know what I mean when I say she had a quiet wisdom about her.

Wise babies, fresh from heaven, so filled with purpose. They are all amazing, aren't they? Abigail had that, too.

What was so beautiful about Abigail was the way she relaxed at the soft touch of love on her chubby cheeks. I could have stroked them forever, singing lullabies and watching her soak in the love.

What was so beautiful about Abigail was the softness of her cry and the wetness of her tears. I had no guarantees of hearing her voice, and the expectation was that she had no eyes. Yet we had the privilege of knowing her voice and her tears. It broke our hearts to know she was struggling near the end of her life. But wiping her tears and comforting her with our voices was part of that deep connection we formed with her during her tiny, brief life on earth.

What was so beautiful about Abigail was the way neither her hands not her feet were matching. Each limb ended with a different kind of hand or foot. The left hand and the right foot were visibly perfect, with a little kissie toe action (syndactyly) on the right big and second toe. But the left foot was clubbed and tiny, due to the amniotic band restricting blood flow, and we called that one her baby doll foot. It still had all its parts with five precious little toes. They were merely smaller and less standard in their appearance. Her right hand was also affected by the amniotic bands so that her pinky on that hand was a third of the size it would have been. Yet there was still a tiny triangular fingernail at its tip. It was my favorite hand. She closed her hands around our fingers when we touched her. Holding hands with my baby girl was another very special way we bonded.

What was so beautiful about Abigail were her perfect little ear lobes. They were so cute and perfectly formed. It was only above her ears that the skull had stopped forming. We loved singing and speaking softly into those precious little ears.

What was so beautiful about Abigail was the round little chin that looked so much like the rest of the Lantz chins. The beginnings of a chin dimple were there, just as all our other children had at birth. It was part of the joy we experienced on the day of her birth for everyone who held her to pick out these little family resemblances.

What was so beautiful about Abigail was the steadiness of her heart and how she fought to the end. Dreams had prepared me for this, but not enough. When her heart stopped beating against my chest and her breaths had been quiet for some time, I wept.

I kissed her ears and her cheeks and her eyes and her hands and her feet and her chin. I told her I loved her, and I rocked her little body, even though I knew she couldn't feel it anymore.

What was so beautiful about Abigail was that she was ours. She would have been ours, even if she had died in the womb or on the table in the OR. But she waited, and helped us to claim her as ours, maybe because she knew I needed that time with her.

My heart stopping in the OR didn't stop us from spending that day together. I responded lightning fast to the treatment of the anesthesiologist, and it's no wonder why. Death couldn't hold me back from her. I wanted to spend that day with her.

Our best day ever.

What was so beautiful about Abigail probably can't even be put into measly words. I'm still basking in her glow, through my grief.

Abigail had a certain glory in her body, but I believe she is even more glorious now. Free from pain and tears, she can smile now. Here she was as fragile and beautiful as a flower but in God's presence she glows with all the love she was created with and all the love we, her family, gave her here.

What is so beautiful about Abigail now is the scope of her impact, the lives she has touched for the better, and the way those ripples of love are still flowing outward into the universe. We will not forget her, the lessons God has taught us through her, or her connection to us as an important part of our family. For us she will always be present, in spirit or in memory.

How can we thank God for so much beauty?

One Week Birthday

Abigail Réileen would have been one week old today. We miss you, sweet baby!

#oneday

#foreverloved

#aliveinChrist

The Day Our Hearts Stop

On Tuesday of this week, my heart stopped, but on Wednesday, it broke. My heart stopped during surgery at the precise moment Abigail was delivered via C-section. She and her dad went into the next room while I was given a shot of epinephrine that brought my heart and breath back. Instead of seeing the moment of her birth, I blacked out and regained consciousness without her or Bill, while a team of ICU nurses and doctors rushed me into the intensive care unit. My first confused questions were about where I was, where Bill was, and where Abigail was.

Was she alive?

They explained to me that she was born alive and breathing, and that she was with her dad. He had been able to join the family in our labor and delivery room. Together with my brother Tim and Bill's dad, Abigail's Grandpa Michael Lantz, Bill gave Abigail a name and a blessing according to our faith tradition. Abigail became a member of the Bill and Katrina Lantz family, a big, loud, loving, and mostly male group. God sent Abigail. She began her work immediately, tenderizing everyone who held her with a feminine spirit unlike anything I have ever felt. She was so soft yet unbelievably strong, fighting for many of the breaths she took in the brief life she was appointed. Her big, beautiful spirit was apparent even in the tiny, burdened body she presented with. I fell in love with her instantly. Abigail was allowed to stay by our side all day in the ICU. Special comfort care was given to her, including feedings through a tube due to her severe cleft palate. She made the sweetest little sounds. Before her birth, there were no guarantees and a lot of guesses. We hadn't known if we would be able to hear her cry at all, but her sweet voice broke my heart and changed it all at once.

Abigail wasn't expected to have eyes, but she had them, sweet little slits that stayed closed the entire time we had her. They had eyelashes and they cried real tears. The privilege of gently wiping away her tears is one I will forever cherish.

Abigail wasn't expected to have ears, but she had them, and we all loved to touch them and sing softly into them. She was sung the words of hymns, love songs, lullabies, and original compositions by five-year-old Daniel.

Abigail wasn't expected to have hair but she had locks of short, dark, curly hair. It was beautiful. In a house full of blondish boys, her hair was just one of the things that made her unique.

Abigail had a sweet little chin like her brothers' chins, and very kissable chubby cheeks, which I stroked softly for hours while watching her breathe.

Abigail's skull ended just above her ears, and her nose and mouth were intermingled due to the amniotic band syndrome that interrupted the head's development. The placenta was sewn into the top of her head. She had challenges because of these things, and the most obvious was that breathing could become very difficult at times. It was hard to watch her struggle, and I was proud of her strength and determination. She lived for one entire day and one entire night.

In her last moments, Abigail's powerful heart slowed gradually to a stop. I held her, skin to skin on my chest until long after her heart stopped. Bill sat beside us, praying and saying goodbye with us. Moments later, Abigail was welcomed into heaven by an even bigger, louder family up there. Breathing was no longer a labor she had to fight through, and the songs she heard then were so much sweeter than even the sweetest lullaby or original composition we could give her here.

On Tuesday, at 8:51am, my heart stopped. But on Wednesay morning at 7:20am, Abigail's heart stopped and mine shattered to expand. I am in more emotional pain than I have ever felt in my comparably long life, but I am also in more love.

Abigail has changed me forever. She has changed all of us in her family, forever.

See God at work. He sent an angel to our family, and we will never be the smaller creatures we used to be. Our hearts are much bigger now. They have room to ache and room to soar, room to love and room to break. Abigail gave us all a super power. Her life and death can make us more tender with each other, so that we never want to hurt each other again. Her powerful example of acceptance in the face of huge trials can make us stronger, so that we believe in our power to persevere through the most difficult challenges. Her quiet but giant spirit and the love that emanated from her tiny being can remind us that God is love and that is so much bigger than any of us alone can fathom. We are eternal beings with eternal purpose. Abigail's life didn't start on Tuesday and it didn't end on Wednesday. Her life stretches before us and after us for eons, and thank heaven for that. Because the world needs more Abigail.

The world needs more tenderness and quiet strength in trial, and love. Above all things, the world needs more love.

I hope I will never forget the way she has touched my heart and shattered it to expand it. I hope my life will bear testament to her sacrifice in coming into that tiny little body with so many struggles. I hope our spirits will continue to be and feel united in that great common cause of godly love. I cannot imagine life without Abigail. I would sooner have to imagine life without joy. But life is joy. I will feel Abigail in the embraces of her dad and her brothers. I will recognize her in every beautiful thing I see or hear. She will be everywhere to me, in a song or a dance, in a flower or a work of art, in a sunrise or a sunset, in a forest or a garden.

She is with God and that love is everywhere.

I cannot forget it while I still feel and breathe it.

I thank God for sending Abigail Réileen Lantz. Hold the gate open for us, baby girl. We are coming, in God's good time.

I have loved you since forever

And now I remember

It aches and it stretches

My heart reaches out to yours

I have known you for forever

And now I remember

It grows and it trembles

My heart knows yours

I have sat with you before

Somewhere far away and long ago

And now I remember

And I will never forget again.

For Abigail Réileen Lantz

Dressing Abigail

Tonight was heavy, but powerful. My husband, my mom, and my sister, Shayna, along with my son, Layne, worked together to dress Abigail Réileen Lantz for the last time. I couldn't imagine anybody else doing it with the love and care we have for her precious little body. She is beautiful in her funeral gown. Tomorrow we will lay her to rest in the Mona cemetery after a funeral at our local chapel. It is surreal for one life to begin and end so quickly. But Abigail's sweet spirit is still with us. I will forever be grateful that she came to our family.

Waiting for Abigail

Waiting for Abigail has been a hard but beautiful time for our family. We have thought more often of eternity and that which is eternal, like love and our relationships and the things we learn here. We have also thought in more urgent and realistic tones about mortality, the briefness of it, and the fact that no time is guaranteed to anyone. We will all die one day, and chances are that it will happen on a day we aren't expecting it.

Today all my pregnancy apps tell me I am 37 weeks pregnant and that my baby will be ready in a few more weeks, but they don't know that she is due tomorrow via C-section. We, her parents and a collection of doctors, have chosen her birth day. But even the doctors do not know for sure when she will die. So we hope. No time is guaranteed to anyone but we hope for time with her.

Time to hold her and smile at her and dance with her and sing to her. I don't know if we will get to feed her. I know there will be time enough to cry over her. We will certainly take pictures of her and memorialize her hands and her feet. We will dress her in beautiful clothes and wrap her in made-with-love blankets. We will introduce her to her five big brothers. She may or may not be breathing when we do.

The only time we are guaranteed to have with Abigail is the time that has already passed with her in my womb. Oh, and I cherish that time! I'm going to miss it so much. Not the aches and pains, but the rolls and punches, and especially the hiccups. Originally the doctor suggested a C-section date a week earlier than this one, at 36 weeks, but at our very next appointment I asked for it to be extended to 37 weeks. I had planned to go all the way to 41 weeks with her if she wanted it, but the risk of my dying was too great for the doctors' liking. Not to mention my husband's. So here we are, a day before the waiting for Abigail must come to an end. 

I'm so grateful for this "extra" week. I know it has made a difference in how we are able to accept whatever outcome we get. I think it has made a difference in how ready Abigail is. She's had hiccups every day, a good indicator of lung/brain cooperative development. I feel there is a good chance she will be able to breathe after all.

Of course, there are no guarantees.

Ready or not, tomorrow morning is the time. This waiting period will end. Her heart has always been so strong, so steady. I have to hope it will keep on beating.

Yesterday I was reading through old journal entries and found one from the day before we discovered Abigail's condition. We were 22 weeks along and I was writing about the difficulty of balancing school with motherhood:

"The fact that I only have a month left of this crazy balancing act is very comforting, though. I know that the tension I feel in seeking this balance is not going to go on consecutively forever. I will get a break next semester. A break to have a baby! And it's a girl! We are all thrilled. We are having a third ultrasound tomorrow, an official anatomy scan to be sure baby is thriving and developing as she should. Her name will be Abigail Réileen Lantz. The middle name is a combination of Renée and Eileen, the first name of my mom and the middle name of Bill's mom. She will be named after both of her grandmothers, which I love! She will likely be our last baby and our only daughter. That's a sad thing to say, but I am getting older and my body can't keep having babies, and the likelihood of getting another girl after this is low, too, seeing as we only have boys so far. Perhaps if we feel so inspired, we can adopt a few girls later on. It's tragic that even in the U.S. sex-selective abortions are done to kill baby girls in the womb and ensure a male baby is born. I will take anybody's unwanted daughters! How can you not want a girl? That's a broken society that can't value a mother in embryo like that.

Deep breath. My mantra with my husband right now is, 'We're going to get through this.'

Whatever we face, we are facing it together. That's the important thing. Nobody knows what tomorrow brings, but growth and adventure are guaranteed."

Growth and adventure are always guaranteed. They are the only thing that is. 

Abigail has already brought so much growth and joy into our lives. Our meeting tomorrow is full of unknowns. But love will be there. Hope will be there. I can't wait to hold her.

Abigail's Shower

We didn't have a baby shower for Abigail Réileen, but we have been so touched by all of your gifts! One of my favorites was from a little girl also named Abigail who came to our house and did a ballet dance for us. 🩰 Made me cry. We've received paintings and pictures, blankets and baby jewelry, a Christmas ornament to start our collection, flowers and other tokens of love and support. Another really meaningful one was the good friend who built Abigail's casket with Bill Lantz. We will always remember your kindness. 

As we begin the countdown from 7 days to Abigail's birth day next Tuesday, I am cherishing every movement and hiccup and hoping for all the memory making we are dreaming of. 

I can't really imagine life without Abigail, but on the other hand, I can't wait to meet her and hold her in my arms at last. 

Lots of mixed emotions. 

Thank you for waiting with us.  Your prayers have given us so much love and strength.❤️❤️❤️❤️

Less Than Two Weeks Left with Our Abigail Réileen

We made it! 35 weeks is considered term. Abigail Réileen is still inside, growing and kicking with those beautiful feet. She is every bit as strong as my other babies. We still have more than a week until the scheduled C-birth. I'm happy for that because we aren't emotionally ready to say goodbye yet.

Our last ultrasound of Abigail at 35 weeks, her right foot from heel to toe

Two days ago we had our last appointment with Dr. Feltovich. She is a doctor of maternal fetal medicine at the hospital where we will be delivering Abigail Réileen. She's the one who diagnosed Abigail with ABS and helped us to plan the right birth for her. Her kindness and understanding have been indispensable over the past few months.

This week I started packing our hospital bags, which I haven't had to do in 13 years! Abigail has a whole bag separate from mine because we have so many special memories we plan to make with her. I'm grateful for that opportunity. There are people from three different organizations coming to help us make memories, just out of the goodness of their hearts: ❤️ Angel Watch, Common Bonds, and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.

Less than two weeks remain.

In the last trimester of every pregnancy up to this point, I have always reached a point of physical discomfort that made the upcoming birth a can't-wait-for-it moment. In some cases, I got so impatient, I took matters into my own hands and tried to spur labor with natural remedies. Of course it never worked because babies have their own ideas. Sam was due on Valentine's Day, which is his great Grandma Joyce's birthday, but instead he came a week early when my water spontaneously broke. Corbin, our current youngest, was due on my birthday but decided to stay on the inside for three extra days, much to my chagrin. The only child who came almost on his due date was Daniel, who was born more or less on his due date, the morning after Memorial Day. We sang Amazing Grace and Danny Boy during the night-long labor.

Five natural births, four of which were home births and one of which was unassisted, have taught me that I am much stronger than I ever could have imagined, and also less patient. Waiting on the baby is one of the struggles of the last trimester. It feels very strange this time to be scheduled for a C-section and to know when that day is going to be. It's also different because, rather than hoping to see the end of this pregnancy soon, I wish it would just go on forever. Even feeling braxton hicks contractions makes me nervous. We are still actively making plans for the birth.

I asked the mothers and grandmothers in the anencephaly facebook support group for children's book titles to read to Abigail on the day she is born. Whether she is born alive or sleeping, we want to read to her on her birthday. Someone suggested the book On the Night You Were Born. My first thought when I saw the title was that she will be born at 7:30 in the morning. I know that. The pattern for most of my children's births is that I labored for a day and a night and they were born near dawn, between 3am and 6am. The one exception was Layne, who was born at 1:30pm, but that was just because he didn't want to go to church that Sunday. (I kid, I kid.)

I think the book I'm going to bring is Love You Forever by Robert Munsch. That's the book I've been reading to my children all along, and it wouldn't be right if Abigail missed out on that tradition. I recently learned that the author actually wrote the song for his own babies who died, and then built the story around the song. Isn't that amazing? The grief and love of one father resonates in a song that millions of parents and grandparents around the world have sung to their little ones!

It goes so well with a message I've been getting from heaven lately, about ripples. I think we all think it would be so amazing to change the world. How many songs are written with that very theme? Change the world! We want to feel powerful and meaningful, like our lives mean something. It's one of the hardest things about infant loss--having a child who has rocked your world and yet nobody else even knows he or she existed. That feels wrong because meaning is meant to be shared. Robert Munsch found a way to do that in his book that has forever enshrined the lullaby he sang to his two sweet little babies who didn't stay long enough to utter a single word.

But the concept of ripples operates on the understanding that it doesn't take a big splash to make an impact. Even a tiny ripple, stretched out across the water, can reach distant shores. Somehow we are all impacting one another in this way, with a smile, a phone call, or a thoughtful gift. Even with a disagreement and forgiveness. We are forever touching each other's lives. Even just hearing about one person choosing a higher path can inspire some stranger to do the same.

On Sunday I couldn't go to church. In addition to my body being just plain uncomfortable at 35 weeks and 185 lbs, I'm getting over some congestion in my sinuses. When my husband came home, he handed me a book, lent by some church friends. It was Blaine M. Yorgason's book, One Tattered Angel.

I read it all on Sunday, finishing it by dinner that night. It's about a baby girl that comes to them as they are serving as newborn foster parents. She has hydrocephalus. The story is all about ripples, how each person who meets baby Charity is lifted and changed by her sweet spirit, and even how preparing to receive Charity as a family brought them closer together. I could relate to this on some levels, though their story is fundamentally different from ours because they are adoptive parents and their journey with her began after her birth.

Also, our Abigail likely won't live nearly as long as their Charity did, and that means that all of Abigail's impact is being made in the very short time of her growth in my womb and her birth. Maybe she will continue to have an impact in our lives, if we are attuned to more spiritual things, since she will be with us in spirit. We take it on faith that this is true. It hurts that Abigail won't have much time to make an impact on others, but I have been touched by the few people who have told me that learning about Abigail's situation helped them to see their own children in a new light.

The way ripples work, we will probably not even know all the people she has touched with her short life and with the stories we tell about her. It's another thing we'll have to take on faith. We do know that every child of God has a purpose, and Abigail is a child of God. She has changed me, and I believe our whole family will be forever changed because she came to our family. If the song is true that claims, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return," then at least Abigail has learned the greatest thing. And any parent who has lost an infant at any stage of development can have the peace of knowing that their babies were loved and that they also learned the greatest thing.

Preparing for Abigail's Birth and Death

Our 7-year-old son loves to brush my hair and play with it. Every day this week our 3-year-old has been on my bed playing LEGO pretend with me. I've had lots of good talks with each of our five sons these past few weeks, but only the older three have been warned about the upcoming surgery mommy is going to have on Abigail's birthday.

We are 33 weeks along in the pregnancy, and the C-section is scheduled for February 25th, 2020. This gives us one extra week from what we initially thought we'd have. She will be born at 37 weeks and be considered full term. All the plans we have made for the birth, commemoration, and graveside service are coming together, but it feels surreal. 

Time should stand still in this moment.

Since time is not actually standing still, I find myself resenting its passage. It doesn't make sense that time should go by in the ordinary way, with breakfast and lunch and dinner, with children's waking and sleeping cycles, and with messes to clean up and obligations to keep.

One special thing that seemed to make time hold still for a moment was meeting my brand new nephew on the 18th of January, when he was about eight days old. To smell newborn baby and touch soft, tiny fingers and toes is to come near to heaven. He was still so sleepy and only opened his eyes for a short time during my brief visit, but it was wonderful to sense the special spirit he carries. I am grateful to my sister for sharing those precious moments with me.

I've been reading some beautiful stories about heaven from people who claim to remember it or to have visited it during a health crisis, attack, or accident. When they talk about the incredible variety of colors in fields of flowers, I cry. I know Abigail must love the flowers in heaven. I hope we can give her something like it here on Earth, in her garden and on her grave. I want to create spaces where her spirit will feel welcome to visit us. I don't know what form her post-earth missions will take, and what kind of work she will be doing, but I believe she will always joy in beautiful flowers.

As life goes on, we spend time each day thinking about Abigail and solidifying plans for her birth and death. Last week, Bill put a wood stain on her casket. I love that he has been able to spend time with this project, and put his energy into something for our first daughter.

Yesterday we confirmed the date of the c-section with the hospital and visited a funeral home to make arrangements. Each step we take toward the birth and death of Abigail Reileen feels like a step closer toward finality. Our relationship with her will forever change. Some people felt even closer to their babies after they passed, and I very much hope that will be the case with us.

We learned that in the same town as the funeral home is a floral store owned by a couple who lost a baby last year, and that to honor babies who pass away, they provide a free floral casket spray for the service. I am touched by all the ways people choose to remember their children and to pay it forward to others who are going through the same thing. At an organization called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, local photographers offer to come take pictures of the family and the baby to commemorate the lives of these special souls who stay so briefly on earth. There are groups of nurses and grievance counselors who are also bereaved parents wanting to comfort those who stand in need of comfort and to mourn with those who mourn. The services they provide are tender and helpful beyond what they can possibly know. I hope we can find ways to use our own talents and gifts to share with those who are suffering through this and similar griefs.

Bill and I are grateful to everyone who has extended expressions of love and kindness toward us during this long goodbye. It is impossible to tally or rate how much these expressions mean to us now and how much they will continue to mean in the future as we look back on these long days and short weeks. Thank you for loving us, our boys, and Abigail Reileen. May God bless and keep you in his tender embrace always.

Abigail's Heart

One thing that has been consistent through the ups and downs of learning about Abigail's acrania/anencephaly and the amniotic band syndrome that caused them is her perfect heart. 

At 18 weeks when we went in to Kicks 'n Giggles to find out her sex, we bought this memento of her heartrate on a whim. We are now so grateful we did. 

When I'm really feeling low, I play back the doppler sound of her heart beating rhythmically. Her heart is still going strong. 

When it stops, we will mourn, but I always want this reminder that she lived and that her heart beat powerfully all the while. ❤️❤️❤️💓

The Journey to the Fire - Discovering Abigail's Diagnosis

I think the hardest thing is seeing online yard sale posts for baby swings, carseats, and cribs, things that just a month ago I was in the market for. At my appointment today (December 13, 2019), I learned that Abigail's specific condition means she will likely be stillborn, though it's not possible to predict for certain. Any dreams I had of laying her in her bassinet are fading. We probably won't get to meet her in this life. The only good news today was that her heart is still going strong and steady. Her heartbeat is perfect. I'm not ready to walk through this fire, so I'm glad she's not ready either. We will just stay like this for a while, connected and in love. 💔

When I came home, this note was tucked inside my door. Not everyone knows about Abigail yet, so I'm not sure if the writer of this note knows of our sorrows or not, but since we've moved to this small town in Utah, we have been visited by so much genuine Christian charity. It has definitely made a big difference in how supported we have felt through this journey so far.

The Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist I saw spent nearly two hours with me under ultrasound. We took one break in the middle so I could get up and walk around for a bit. For the doctor it was an intellectual challenge to decipher the ultrasound images to find exactly what we were dealing with. For me, it was an emotional challenge to lie there and process what I was understanding from our conversation. The doctor was pleasantly surprised when I asked about Abigail's meninges, the covering membranes between the brain and skull in a normal healthy person, and when she found out I had been taking Neurobiology, she was kind enough to talk to me as if I were capable of understanding what she was seeing. This was nice. Even though a fair bit of the vocabulary she used was still over my head, I feel I was able to get a much clearer picture of what is going on in my womb with my precious sweetheart baby.

Remember how I had said that Abigail's body was utterly perfect except for her head? Today we found out that it's not the case. Abigail doesn't have classic anencephaly, which is a neural tube defect where the tube doesn't close all the way at the top and the skull and brain don't form correctly. Instead, something went wrong quite randomly in the earliest days of pregnancy. The condition is called ABS, or amniotic band syndrome. The amniotic membranes around the baby rupture for some unknown cause, and the resulting bands of amnion can wrap around the baby's body, fusing with her skin, and, most importantly, interrupting development. This is what caused her anencephaly/acrania.

We have received much emotional support from an anencephaly support group on facebook for parents and grandparents dealing with the grief and joy of carrying a child to term after this diagnosis. We have so much in common with them because of Abigail's facial and cranial deformities and the reality we face of her impending death. But it didn't take me long at all to realize that most of the other parents on the anencephaly page were giving birth to babies with nearly normal faces, the only disruption being the back and top of the skull which were usually covered quickly by a baby cap after delivery. These babies look so sweet and, as I said, nearly normal. I already knew Abigail didn't have the same situation, and every time I saw the beautiful faces of the anencephaly children, I felt a twinge of jealousy that they could look into their baby's eyes. Before our appointment, we didn't know if Abigail had any eyes. And I knew, after my Chemistry professor handed out earplugs for a particularly ear-shattering classroom demonstration/combustion, that she couldn't hear because she didn't stir a bit when the explosion sounded.

During the appointment, we looked for eye sockets, anything that could be eyes. Even the experts couldn't find her eyes. She has lips and a nose, but the rest of her head consists of miraculously wired but abnormal brain tissue. This brain tissue allows her to move normally in the womb and her heart to beat strong and steady, keeping her alive with me. She is strong and beautiful in her own unique way, but she doesn't have what the rest of us were blessed with. She is blind and deaf. These were sobering realizations for me.

When the doctor saw that her little hand was actually classic to amniotic band syndrome, she began to form her theory. She searched around some more and found a club foot, also tied into the amniotic membrane. It also appears that amniotic band syndrome was the cause of her interrupted cranial and facial development. The skin of her head is tied into the placenta along the wall of my uterus. She seems to have one free hand and one free foot, normally developed, which are active every single day and help me to feel a connection to my child for which I will always be grateful.

When I got home, I visited a support/awareness page on facebook for amniotic band syndrome. Again, I found that Abigail's case is more severe than most. So many of the pictures on that page were not of tiny babies fighting to live but of healthy older children missing whole fingers, or hands, or legs. They used hashtag #luckyfin and were happy and adorable, despite their struggles.




There is even a famous NFL player with ABS who is missing a hand and rocking the football world. But in Abigail's case, the amniotic bands had taken more than a few fingers or a leg or hand. They had interrupted the normal development of her whole head. They had taken her chance to live beyond birth.

As the doctor prepared me for what birth might be like with a child who is so sewn into her membranes, I cried and cried and tried to be brave. She will most likely come out all at once, and she will most likely be stillborn. There is no way to predict for certain because babies have presented themselves to the world in many miraculous ways, despite diagnosis and prognosis. But given what we can see in the 3D ultrasound, it's not encouraging. Abigail has been alive for over six months, and she has less than three months left of life on this earth.

Less than three months to live.

In all the time she has been here, she has been living vicariously through me. She eats what I eat. She breathes the quality of the fresh country air I breathe. She experiences the vibrations and to some extent the emotions that I experience. To know her physical experience precisely would be impossible. There is still so much specialists can't perfectly determine about the function of the normally developed brain. Abigail's one-of-a-kind brain is a whole different story. However, I draw strength from the faithful words of my Neurobiology teacher, that Abigail's "spiritual senses are perfect." I believe that. I believe that she is having a physical experience that is suited and custom-made for her, and that her spiritual processing of that experience will stay with her forever. She will forever be bound to us in the love we share, and she will forever be "bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh." Our heartbeats pound together and settle down together. She is experiencing our family on a physical and spiritual level. She is ours and one of us, and these are the truths that really matter as we gear up to celebrate Abigail's first Christmas with the Lantzes.

Abigail's First Christmas: Getting Ready

It has always been our habit to consider a baby's first Christmas as their first December 25th outside the womb. But the rules are all different with Abigail.

Her life is likely to be entirely within the womb, though we are praying for time with her after her birth, as well. What's true for us is true for everybody: we never know how long we have with our children. But when your child is given a terminal diagnosis, it feels more urgent. You feel there will never be enough time. For that reason, Bill and I are grateful to have received Abigail's diagnosis in the middle of the pregnancy. We had twenty-two blissful weeks of planning and dreaming and hoping for a healthy child, and now we have the rest of the pregnancy, however long it may be, to plan and dream and hope with a different understanding of Abigail's reality. I know there are families who welcome a baby with anencephaly into their hearts at the very moment of birth and, with shock, discover that the baby they have long loved and planned for will not be staying.

Because we know, we have been given the gift of cherished time. Rather than merely tolerating the last two trimesters of this pregnancy, Bill and I are watching and appreciating every moment. The times when Bill puts his hand on my belly and feels her move are deeper and sweeter. The way we talk about her is more reverent. The comfort we give each other is more fervent.

This December 25th will be Abigail Reileen's first Christmas. The name of this blog, Abigail's Stocking, is drawn from this idea. We will be putting up a stocking for Abigail and talking about the intangible gifts we can offer to our angel that will give her what she truly wants, a reunion in heaven with her whole family.

We haven't really started decorating for Christmas yet, as it's Thanksgiving Day. But last Saturday the local Relief Society put on a Super Saturday crafting event, and I signed up to make a bunch of little wooden-and-sticker ornaments, complete with Mod Podge. I arrived a little after ten in the morning and was the only one at my table at first. This was fine because I wasn't feeling particularly social. I came with the hope of making some special ornament for Abigail and some other cute decorations. It had been about two weeks from our diagnosis.

The first day I had been almost proud of myself for handling the news so well, but I was soon reminded forcefully of what I had long heard about grief: it comes in waves.

Over the previous two weeks, I had gone from peaceful acceptance to sobbing unacceptance to anger and self-pity and back to quiet acceptance. On Saturday morning, I felt okay. It was nice to be done with the previous week of school and two very challenging tests, one in Neurobiology and one in Chemistry. And now I was at an event just for women to get together and be creative. What could be better? I quietly began the process of choosing stickers to put onto my little wooden and paper ornaments and Mod Podging them on. There were red and green and gold and silver stickers. Some were pictures of Christmas trees and snowmen, and some were words like "together" and "tradition." I was having a nice time, and then another woman came to sit across from me and start her own Christmas project. We engaged in a little small talk, and one of the organizers came over and talked with us, too. But slowly, as I worked, I began to notice that I kept taking short gasps of air every so often. Sometimes these gasps of air accompanied some thought about Abigail. After all, I was writing out her name in red stickers across a decorative Christmas gift tag. But in general I have found that it is impossible NOT to think about Abigail. Everything seems to direct my thoughts to her.

Lesson in Neurobiology on movement? Abigail.
Little girl shopping with her mother in the supermarket? Abigail.
Facebook post by my friend or cousin, both of whom just brought home twin girls? Abigail.
Sitting on my bed and staring at the wall where I would have put the bassinet? Abigail.

There's no escaping the thought of her. And if I do by some chance get busy thinking about school or reading with my older kids, or some non-Abigail house project I need to get working on, the precious movements inside my womb will awaken me to Abigail once more.

So as I sat there, talking with new friends about Christmas traditions and whether we tell our kids there's a Santa or not, I couldn't do a thing about the random gasps of air. I knew it meant I was suppressing my breathing unconsciously, but I didn't know how to fix it. I tried mindfully breathing in and out. And I hurried up to finish the ornaments I was working on because now I couldn't wait to get out of the stifling indoors. I don't think anybody noticed my mini crisis, and that was good because talking about an anxiety attack does not actually help an anxiety attack. I went to the wall where there was a plug and plugged in the glue gun so I could string my ornaments with the pretty candy-cane-striped string provided in the kit. And I reminded myself to breathe.

It was a slow and painful death-by-anxiety-attack, and eventually I felt close to hyperventilating. I steadied my voice and asked my friend if I should leave the gun plugged in for her. She said yes. I stood up and returned to the table, carefully keeping my ornaments separated in their baggie since Mod Podge tends to stick horribly whenever it comes into contact with itself. And then I explained that I needed to go home. My new friend asked if I was okay. I told her briefly that we had received a terminal diagnosis for our baby and I was having a hard time, but that I just needed to get out into the fresh air. She offered to give me a ride home, but she wasn't even finished with her project yet and I really wanted to be alone, so I declined.

As soon as I was outside in the brisk November air, I could breathe. And as soon as I could breathe, I could cry. I cried all the way home, letting the tears dot my face. I know there's nothing wrong with crying but I prefer to do it out of sight. It was a melancholy day after that, but I got lots of hugs from my sweet husband and my other kids. And Abigail made sure to make her presence known. Sometimes the movements brought tears, but other times they brought a smile.

I'm glad I went out and made ornaments for the tree. I'm glad I have a cute little one with Abigail's name on it.

The more things with her name on it, the better, as far as my heart's concerned.

Waiting for Abigail is no easy feat. But we will fill this time with as many remembrances and special moments as we can.

In the afternoon, we called all five of our boys out to the front yard and asked for their help in planting a bulb garden for Abigail. There were crocuses and giant daffodils and giant tulips.

They loved doing it, and it was good for my heart. There will be Christmas and there will be spring. And Abigail will be there for all of it, either here next to my heart or in heaven surrounded by God, angels, and family. And whether in a Christmas ornament, a stocking, or a tulip, she will always be cherished and remembered.

Peace Like a River

For thus saith the LORD, Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river, and the glory of the Gentiles like a flowing stream: then shall ye suck, ye shall be borne upon her sides, and be dandled upon her knees. Isaiah 66:12

On Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, we grieved for Abigail. My heart broke. Bill's heart broke. We cried and we toyed with hope and then felt hopeless again.

On Wednesday, we went to the temple.

In the temple we do vicarious work for those who have already passed, and the veil is thin there. People have seen visions and felt the presence of loved ones long gone on. As we go through a ceremony of an ordinance for someone else who has left his or her body behind on earth, we also get to remember when we went through this ceremony for ourselves, and it's a beautiful reconnection with God. It's a time when we remember our promises to Him and His incredible promises to us. Bill had a family name, an ancestor whose ordinance work hadn't been done yet, and he brought a little piece of paper with that name to the temple to go through the ceremony on his behalf. I didn't bring a family name, but planned on getting one in the temple. On our way in, we met with a woman who asked me to take one of her ancestors' names for the ceremony.

This was our first time in the Payson temple. We moved up here in July, at the very beginning of my pregnancy and hadn't been able to get all our temple things together to go until now. I looked up at the beautiful building and took a deep breath. Temples have always been places where the Prince of Peace can reach me with His peace. We went inside, changed into white clothes, and met in the temple chapel where we waited with others who were about to perform the ordinance. We met Bill's parents there in that quiet, contemplative room. In the pews, there were book holders containing scriptures, and I picked up a copy of the Book of Mormon, opening it up randomly. It's one of my favorite ways to hear from God. I opened it to Moroni chapter 7 and read:

"Wherefore, my beloved brethren, have miracles ceased because Christ hath ascended into heaven, and hath sat down on the right hand of God, to claim of the Father his rights of mercy which he hath upon the children of men?
....and because he hath done this, my beloved brethren, have miracles ceased? Behold I say unto you, Nay, neither have angels ceased to minister unto the children of men." (verses 27 and 29)

I silently thanked God for these passages of scripture which spoke to my heart and told me it was not at all wrong for me to pray for a miracle.

If you have walked through a temple prior to its dedication to the Lord as His house, you have seen a Celestial Room. It usually has a high ceiling and chandelier, and is like the Holy of Holies of ancient temples, except that instead of there being one priest allowed inside with a rope tied to his leg, all who have come to covenant with God in the temple are admitted into it. The ceremony ended here and we sat on a couch and prayed and whispered reverently to each other. I was happy to see my parents-in-law there, and they spoke words of comfort to us. Abigail will be ours forever. She will not ever be truly gone. And she counts as one of our children. These true ideas had been difficult to get hold of. They kept slipping away from me as I was grieving before. But here, in this holiest place, I felt the truth and the comfort wash over me.

My soul experienced a vast transformation from the sorrow, anger, fear, and deep grief I had been feeling before. The grief was still there, but all fear and anxiety and anger disappeared. That night, I slept sweetly and awoke with words from the ceremony running through my mind. I repeated them in my mind over and over again, cherishing them and turning them into a prayer for Abigail. God's promises are sure. His love is real. His peace is unlike anything this world has to offer.

On the previous Monday, I had stopped by a store to pick up some clothes for Bill, and almost hit a whole flock of seagulls, Utah's state bird, sitting there on the asphalt.

Seagulls are the state bird of Utah for a very special reason. It hearkens back to the days of the Mormon pioneers who settled here and experienced the highs and lows of farm life right off the bat. A whole crop of wheat, still tender in the fields, was being devoured by a swarm of locusts. The pioneers went out with pans and bonnets and anything they had to beat back the swarm in a desperate attempt to save their fields from the devourers. And they prayed for a miracle. God sent an enormous migration of seagulls to devour the devourers and the pioneers were saved.

When I was a teenager, only fourteen years old, my mother made me a gorgeous pioneer dress with a full-circle skirt for dancing so I could be part of a pioneer play called Promised Valley. I didn't play a specific character, but I did get to sing and dance and act, and I will never forget taking off my bonnet and smashing at invisible "crickets" during the scene that reenacted this miracle. Seeing these seagulls at such a moment, when I was in the middle of my worst grief was a small miracle. And yet, I had so much trouble accepting it. It was as if they represented someone else's miracle, not mine. At that point, I was sure I would not be receiving a miracle. Who can argue with an ultrasound image like that? My baby was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it. No amount of healthy eating or daily walking would change what was. Neural tube defects are not something that resolves by itself in the womb before birth. 
It was just a flock of seagulls.

But I took a picture and kept it in my heart.

Sunday, that permission from the Lord to pray for and hope for miracles soothed my soul, and I came to see the seagull as a symbol not just for their miracle, but for all miracles.

Right next to the women's dressing room in the Payson temple is a giant painting of a pioneer woman holding a little girl while looking down at the sunflowers that have fallen from the little girl's hands. The expression on her face held me captive as I passed it, and I stood for several moments just connecting with her in her sense of loss. I knew that she was grateful for the child in her arms but that, all the same, she was experiencing grief. I knew that look because I had been wearing it for the past several days.

Loss looks the same on everybody, I guess.

And yet, there was a quiet strength in her visage, and I drew strength from that, too. Not only did this pioneer woman survive through everything that had happened to her, but she was only just beginning to create the foundations of a beautiful culture in a new land. She had more to give, even though her heart had been broken. There was just so much of the tragic and hopeful mixed in this painting, that I couldn't get it out of my head. The next morning, I was still thinking about it, and talked to my husband about how it had made me feel. Then I started singing a hymn: Blessed, Honored Pioneer. I didn't even know I knew so many of the words to that song. It is rarely sung except on July 24th, for Pioneer Day in Utah. I decided to look up the painting so I could see it again, and was awestruck when I saw the title: Blessed Honored Pioneer.

I cannot reproduce the picture here, but if you'd like to see it you can either visit the Payson Temple yourself or see it on the artist's website. Because it was commissioned for the temple, it is not sold in prints anywhere, so these are the only places you can see it.

Blessed Honored Pioneer

As if this weren't enough communication from heaven, there was more as the day progressed. On my way to class, I began to feel the anxiety creeping in again, and I determined to hold on a little longer to the peaceful spirit from the temple. I turned on the narrator on my Gospel Library app and listened to Moroni chapter 7 read aloud to me while I drove. It was comforting to hear those words again, and in the context of the chapter. It was a letter from Moroni's father, Mormon, to him. My scripture app automatically went to chapter 8 when chapter 7 was finished (it's a long drive) and I was startled to realize that the very next chapter was about infants who die without baptism, or the baptism of infants.

Verse 8: Listen to the words of Christ, your Redeemer, your Lord and your God. Behold, I came into the world not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance; the whole need no physician, but they that are sick; wherefore, little children are whole, for they are not capable of committing sin; wherefore the curse of Adam is taken from them in me, that it hath no power over them...

Little children are WHOLE!

For a mother with a baby that had just been diagnosed with a defect that left her without parts of her skull, brain, and face, these words could not have come with greater power. I was struck by the word "whole." It is comforting to know that my baby, whether she dies in the womb or lives a few hours or days, will be whole in Christ. When I meet her, on this side or the other side, I will see her that way, knowing she is whole eternally because of Christ.

I am thankful for the temple, for scriptures, the word of God, and the power of music and art in communicating to my heart. There is so much to be grateful for, though I still don't understand why this has happened and is happening. I know we are not alone. As my mother keeps reminding me, God loves me and God loves Abigail, and He has a beautiful plan. I just have to believe that there is beauty in this and that one day I will see it.