Miracles and Messages: A Butterfly From Abigail

Look at this sweet butterfly I found in the memorial garden we are making for Abigail! It was covered in soil but is quite beautiful after being cleaned off.

While picking up a refrigerator part in Nephi with Bill at the local hardware store, I also bought several packets of flower seeds to add to Abigail's garden.

Right away when we got home, I started planting. I don't know which of these are really supposed to be planted in early spring, but I am impatient to get flowers going in Abigail's garden. I thought I needed to have a little gardening fork, so I walked around the side of the house, thinking about the gardening fork. I laughed when the one that matched the image in my mind materialized on the ground in front of me as a plastic children's toy. That'll work, I thought. I picked up the plastic gardening fork and clawed at the moist soil, so enriched by the winter snows and recent rains. The topsoil came loose easily, and I planted the seeds in various places around the garden. As I prepared to deposit the chamomile seeds beside our Angel Face rose bush, the gardening fork caught on something. At first it was just a clump of metal covered in soil, so I didn't realize how special it was until it flipped over and I saw its shape. It was a butterfly. How sweet is this?

After my post about trying to find a new normal and being like a new butterfly, it seemed especially special. I put it with my special amaryllis that bloomed so beautifully while we were waiting for Abigail to make her appearance on earth, so it's there in my window sill.

I can't wait to see which flowers come up in our special Abigail garden!

Last week we received the photo CD and 4x6 prints of the pictures Common Bonds took for us on the day Abigail passed. There are so many heart-rending photos of her sweet feet adorned with our wedding rings or of Bill holding me up as I stood for the first time after a day and night in the ICU. Some of them are too personal to share. 

But there are also family photos that I had been waiting on. I cannot wait to hang the one with all eight of us together. It is going on a prominent wall in the living room which will be filled with family pictures. Right now there are only paintings. This is the one we decided to blow up on canvas.

And we ordered a smaller one of this one, with just Bill, me, and Abigail.

Costco is having a 20% off deal for canvas prints right now, so that's a sweet deal. I wish we could print all of the pictures on canvas because there are so many beautiful ones. This one of me with my only daughter is very special to my heart.

We are just so blessed to have these photos to remember this precious part of our eternal family. Finding that butterfly today made me feel connected to her, like she is aware of our efforts to remember her and keep her in our hearts. I know as we stay open to these messages and miracles, we will continue to feel this connection with her throughout our lives until we get to rejoin her with God.

Abigail's Due Date 3/16/2020

Our baby was due today. But she came three weeks ago tomorrow. All yesterday I had flashbacks to the day of her birth and flashbacks of the very next day, when she died in my arms. I'm still crying a lot and we are tenderly trying to get her memorial put together and family pictures printed.

I'm so grateful we got to hold her funeral when we did, and my heart goes out to those who are planning births and funerals during this time. I am praying the necessity of quarantining will be short-lived so people can come together for these important moments. 

I know there are many people experiencing personal crises, and that is made lonelier by the social distancing we are being asked to do to mitigate the impact of Covid-19. If you are going through something and need to talk, please reach out to someone you trust. It's more important than ever to reach out by phone or messenger for the sake of our mental health. Take it from the lady who is mourning while raising five beautiful but unruly boys.

Sunshine, walks outside, deep breathing of fresh air, and other healthy habits around sleeping, drinking, and eating can all help us get through what has become a global crisis.

I am staying home on purpose for the most part, but I did go out to the hospital today to take a blood test so I can start donating breastmilk for NICU babies. Last week my husband donated blood with Red Cross. 

Needing to do something to help and to do it in the name of our baby, is a very real drive. 

At the small hospital I visited in Payson for the blood test, they stop you at the door and ask if you've been out of the country recently or if you have fever or respiratory symptoms. If you say no, they give you this green wristband that means you're authorized to move around in the hospital. I was able to go straight up to Labor and Delivery, past the beautiful black and white photographs of newborns on the walls, to Anna's office where she does the blood draws for Mountain West Mothers' Milk Bank. It took less than ten minutes, and then I was back on the road home, talking myself out of any quick stops at stores. Because the truth is I still feel quite fragile postpartum, and probably shouldn't be hanging out at stores for a while.

We already homeschool and my husband has the good fortune of telecommuting for work already, too, so daily life feels pretty normal for us, except for the loss of playdates and any kind of social calendar. The boys all miss Abigail, too, and every once in a while they want to talk about her.

Sam spent yesterday afternoon reading Blaine M. Yorgason's most personal book, One Tattered Angel, about another baby girl with special circumstances, which limited her life but magnified her spiritual brilliance and let her touch many lives. Maybe Sam will tell you about that himself.

Working on Abigail's garden and having family home evenings in, where we talk about her, help with the grief of her death. I'm also painting for therapy.

I had a little paint night with my second son, Layne, last night. He painted a scene from one of his favorite Roald Dahl books, James and the Giant Peach.

I painted an image that has been in my heart a long time: Heavenly Mother coming for Abigail in the hospital.

I had seen some beautiful paintings of parents handing their babies into heavenly hands, but I needed to paint myself holding Abigail until the very end because holding her is all I want to do. I know she has a life and mission with God, but that doesn't change the ache in my arms. Even though I wasn't ready to hand her over to heaven, I needed to paint the beauty of God inviting Abigail home with open arms. It is actually comforting to know she is with someone who loves her even more than I do.

I am praying for people who are struggling as a result of Covid-19, and that is helping me to feel connected to God, too. Life keeps going around us. We are here to help each other. It's the only reason for living.

My mom suggested I watch Frozen II, and then Disney Plus suddenly chose to release it early for all the kids who are now home from school. We watched it Saturday. It is a cute movie and I was enjoying it, in all its silly sweetness, until a scene in a cave when Ana loses someone important to her and sings a heartbreaking song about loss.

One step, then one more step. She sings about walking toward the light out of the cave and it's so deeply symbolic of what it feels like to walk through grief after loss. If you haven't yet, go watch that scene, and you will understand exactly how we feel here at our house. Being left behind, and needing to keep on walking through this life, these are the themes of my life right now. I can't think about it without starting to cry. It's not that food has lost its taste or that I've lost the ability to smile or laugh. I know that happens to some people in grief.

For me, it's a central, core longing. I just want to be with Abigail again. I know I have work here or I wouldn't have come back from the dead. So I keep walking. And there's joy in it. And I feel Abigail cheering us on. And I feel God comforting me. It isn't easy but it's life and it's what life is for. Having purpose and meaning comes with a sense of duty. It is that duty that gives us strength to go on, even without the people we love. Ana says in her song that she isn't looking too far in the future. She is just doing the next right thing. It's not new advice. We've all probably heard it before. But in the context of grief, it is literally all you can do.

We closed Abigail's funeral service with the song, Lead, Kindly Light. I told you she had a hand in picking these songs.

Lyrics

1. Lead, kindly Light, amid th'encircling gloom;
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene--one step enough for me.

2. I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that thou

Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path; but now,
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years.

3. So long thy pow'r hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone.
And with the morn those angel faces smile,

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

                                                        
Text: John Henry Newman, 1801-1890 Music: John B. Dykes, 1823-1876

Abigail's Angel Face Rose

Yesterday Bill planted some beautiful flowering plants in Abigail's garden. A rose called Angel Face is now beside the stairs, and a pot of bulbs already sprouting is in the front. We planted other bulbs in the Fall that haven't peeked above the soil yet. I'm looking forward to all their blooms.

Thanks, Heather L. Crockett, for the rose!

"Seasons may change winter to spring, but I love you until the end of time. Come what may!"

To Be A Butterfly

This is the butterfly symbol the hospital put outside our room on Wednesday to let people know we were grieving the loss of our little one. As we mark two weeks from Abigail's birth, I am thinking about how to carry on. So many kind friends have reached out via cards, visits, gifts, and phone calls. Many have told me I am handling Abigail's death with grace, or gracefully. I think if they could see my process close up, they would not think so. I am struggling. At times I feel bitter. Other times I feel stirrings of God, and of Abigail, and feel grateful. It is strange to be so up and down. Many nights I feel emotionally and physically exhausted from it all.

One of the ladies who helped us make memories with Abigail recently said to me that I would find a new normal, that I am a new version of myself. I thought of this little butterfly. 🦋

I don't feel new. I feel old and worn out. I feel tired and frail. Maybe that's how a new butterfly feels. Maybe flying everywhere is exhausting. Maybe the ups and downs of her new life leave her wings aching. Maybe her new normal is overwhelming to her, too. Maybe those fragile wings feel ominously light on her back, and she wonders how long they will last in the real world she must navigate.

I don't know how a new butterfly feels. But new Katrina feels very much unfinished and weak. I must conclude that if God hopes to remake me, He isn't finished yet. Transformation is painful. We know this from past metamorphoses. But this is by far the most painful.

I look at my husband and see him asking himself what kind of father he wants to be now, after Abigail. He is letting this little girl facilitate change in him. He is letting Christ change him.

I am not locked into bitterness, fear, and longing. But they are part of my experience now. I am trying to be more willing to carry this cross, to let Christ transform me into a better version of myself, to let Abigail's incredible spirit continue to touch my heart. I wrote in regards to my carpal tunnel that it was my intention to heal. What I have to decide every day is how I will move toward that intention to heal. I am physically still healing. I have a big scar to prove it. But the emotional and spiritual healing is not so straightforward as sutures and steristrips. 

I have to continue to hope after an aching disappointment. I have to continue to believe after the biggest "not yet" answer I have ever received from my Father. I have to continue to act in purpose and kindness when I feel crippled by what has happened.

I have to rely on the connection I have spent a lifetime building between me and heaven, because that is the only way I have felt true peace and comfort before. Whatever God has planned for me, I am walking toward it. But walking into the OR to deliver Abigail was easy compared to the fear I am facing now in this walk. I described our journey with Abigail as walking through the fire, because I felt I was walking into the unknown. All I knew then was that it would be painful. I hoped it would also be joyful. It was indeed both.

Now that I'm on the other side of that fire, not unscathed but full of the fire, I feel a little lost. Which way do I go now? What do I do with all this fire? What does God expect me to do?

Finding a new normal may take longer than I like. The only things I know for sure are that God is real, Abigail still lives in Him, and I have been given instructions to live for the Lord. This includes loving my husband and all of my children, serving them with all my heart and strength, and growing the talents God gave me for the building up of his kingdom.

Right now my days are full of rest and healing, honoring Abigail with my husband and kids, and getting set up for donating breastmilk for NICU babies. The honoring of Abigail was made easier by the fundraiser many of you gave to, to help us purchase Abigail's angel memorial.

We are looking forward to receiving and installing it at Abigail's grave, along with the stone we had made that bears her footprints.

Baby steps.

It's all just baby steps to walk forward after Abigail. Nobody is flying yet.

But we made her a promise and it's engraven on her stone. We are living for the reunion we hope to have with her in heaven someday.

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?

A Mother's Feelings One Week Later

Yesterday was the one week birthday of our first daughter. Today is the one week anniversary of her death.

I woke this morning with a heavy grief.

Today they shipped this special gravestone (pictured above) for Abigail Réileen Lantz. It should arrive from New York in 3-5 days. I am still feeling a lot of pain, physically and emotionally, from the birth and death of Abigail. My heart hurts. I ache to hold and touch and kiss her. 

The stone has her perfect little footprints in a heart. I wish we could already afford the marble angel statue I want for her memorial, but that is $1000 out of our reach at the moment. As we get our finances in order, file for a tax refund, and find out how much exactly we owe to the hospital and the obstetricians, we will be able to gauge just how much more we need to purchase the statue. Then we will be able to complete her memorial. 

I love her so much, and I'm struggling against a lot of thoughts of guilt that I couldn't be more present while we were in the ICU together, that I didn't hold her enough, or that I somehow neglected her care. I tell myself I was stuck in that bed with a central line through my neck and a catheter, and that she had around-the-clock care from NICU nurses. That eases the guilt, but the grief is still there. I don't know if I will ever be okay with everything that happened. Her life was just too short. 

But then again, it is a miracle she had a life outside the womb at all. She is a miracle. 

When will I hold her again?

Update: One of Bill's sweet aunts set up a fundraiser for us to be able to get the marble angel statue for Abigail's grave. In just a few hours, friends and family raised the $1000 we needed to purchase our angel memorial. Thank you so much!

Abigail's Angel Memorial Fundraiser

One Week Birthday

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

#oneday

#foreverloved

#aliveinChrist