As I sit here with my piping hot tea, reheated numerous times before I could take the first sip, I think about my word for this year. We are in a new home. The last
There’s something about moving. Every time I think I’m okay, I’ll come across another “artifact” from Florence’s life. It’s like tripping over that tiny Hot Wheels car. You know it’s there but one second later
If you know someone going through something, may I offer a word (or a couple hundred) of advice? Don’t try to fix it. Don’t try to fix them or their marriage or their health. Don’t
These blessings are specifically written for mothers and fathers that have lost children, because this is a grief that is specific to me. However, I also wrote them with medical mamas and dads in mind.
I never wanted to be strong. But from the age of 16, when my spine was fused together with titanium, and my typical teenage problems disappeared into the bleeping of ICU monitors, I was told
As we inch into the second year of my daughter’s passing, I’m finding myself at a standstill. The reality of what has happened to us hits me on a weekly basis. A photo I haven’t
When I think back on our lives with Florence, often in and out of hospital and appointments, I remember being fed. I remember food. Another cup of coffee, an oat bar in a paper bag
I cannot pray. I don’t know how. It’s not that I don’t want to, but words fail me. They come out muffled and fake. They are stale and regurgitated from the days of my youth.
On Saturday we celebrated you, Florence Marigold. It was supposed to rain all day, but guess what? The sun came out! It always has on your birthday party. We wrote in the book that was at
Dear Village, I don’t know how to ask this, without sounding quite desperate. But, the truth is, I am feeling desperate. Desperate to celebrate my daughter and have you alongside me. Her birthday is on
When I get nervous in life or death situations, I start babbling to the people around me. Or I throw up. I do best when strangers surround me for these reasons. Kind nurses with cool hands offering
By Kendra Roehl “Mommy is this right?” My daughter shows me the note she’s writing. There are pictures of herself and her siblings taped haphazardly alongside her printed words. “It’s close!” I reply. “Well, what
