Have you heard of the “Five Love Languages”? I’m a big fan. Jonah and I grew so much in our relationship when we discovered that he thrives on Words Of Affirmation and Physical Touch while I feel the most loved through Acts Of Service and Quality Time.

It’s difficult to speak different love languages. In fact, it feels impossible sometimes. I have spent whole days cleaning the house and planning out a distraction-free evening for Jonah and I to enjoy together only to have my gestures go completely unnoticed. In the same way, there have been many times that Jonah will hug me from behind as I’m making breakfast or ask me to dance with him in the middle of doing laundry. I often see it as a distraction and tend to get annoyed rather than realizing that he is trying to show me love.

As difficult as it is to express love to someone who speaks a different “love language” than you, it doesn’t even compare to trying to express love for someone who has died.

And that’s the struggle I face every single day.

I was looking through some old social media posts from when I was pregnant with Miriam and I found one that absolutely brought me to tears. I posted, “We got to hear Miriam’s heartbeat at our appointment today! It never gets old…I love being pregnant but I cannot wait to hold her in my arms. <3”

For 36+ amazing weeks, I got to love on my baby girl every single moment of the day. She was always with me. I could feel each wiggle and hiccup and I enjoyed every bit of it.

But, all of the sudden, she was gone.

No “slow fade”.
No “We need to monitor her for a little while…”
No warning whatsoever.

She was just…gone.

And all of my love…every fiber of my being that cared (and still cares) so deeply for my daughter…suddenly, it all turned into grief. From that moment on, all my love could only be expressed through tears, pain, and a longing to be with her again.

For the past 11 months, I have had a constant internal battle. On one hand, I want to be “strong” and prove that I have “faith” and show everyone that I am trusting God through all of this. On the other hand, I just want to cry. I don’t want to get out of bed. I want to turn back the clock and bring Miriam home with us instead of laying her tiny body in a casket that shouldn’t have to exist.

It’s impossible. Each day is impossible.

But I have learned something recently that is slowly becoming my motto. It’s okay to experience the pain of the present while still having hope for the future.

I don’t know why these things have been so hard for me to intertwine.

With every “hope for tomorrow,” comes this twinge of guilt that I’m not honoring Miriam’s life and death as much as I should. With every bit of pain and grief, comes the shame of not having “moved on” with my life.

I have finally come to realize that guilt and shame do not come from God.

God himself experienced grief all throughout the Bible. When Jesus was on earth, he also grieved the death of his friend.

Here’s what I have come to focus on recently: we were designed to live in a place where babies don’t die. We were designed to live in a place where grief, pain, and tears are unnecessary. We were designed for perfection. But, after our first parents sinned, God–in his infinite wisdom and mercy–gave us the unspoken 6th love language, grief. He gave us grief as an outlet for our love. And my grief will be ever-present until the day I am reunited with my baby girl and my heavenly Father in perfect paradise.