Dear Little Girl…The Chair Before Mine

Dear Little Girl,

Before there were Two Chairs...there was one.

Today would have been my mom’s 90th birthday.

For My Mom on What Would Have Been Her 90th Birthday

And today, I finally understood where my own chair began.

Ninety Years Old!

How has it been almost ten years since we said goodbye?

Some days it feels like a lifetime ago.

Other days, I still find myself reaching for the phone at three o'clock.

Because for years, that's when we talked.

Almost every day.

You would be sitting in your prayer chair, rosary in hand, looking out the window at the children walking home from school. You loved watching them. You prayed for them, even if you didn't know their names.

I can still picture you there.

My Mom’s Prayer Chair….legacy of faith.

And I don't think there's been a single day since you've been gone that you haven't crossed my mind.

They say time heals.

I think time softens.

The ache isn't as sharp as it once was, but love has a way of leaving fingerprints that never disappear.

Maybe that's why the saying is true...

The greater the grief, the greater the love story was.

And ours was a beautiful one.

Today is another beautiful day in our family.

It's Alex Foley's wedding.

On your birthday.

He didn't even realize it until I told him.

He smiled the biggest smile.

And all I could think was...

Mom would have loved this.

Yesterday I found myself wondering...

What if God let you come to the wedding for just five minutes?

I can see it so clearly.

You'd walk in wearing that dress you loved so much—the one you wore to Robin's wedding.

Your beautiful red hair.

Your rosy cheeks.

Your little nose.

Your pink lipstick.

Those sparkling blue eyes that somehow smiled before the rest of your face did.

I miss this little firecracker!

You wouldn't rush.

You'd simply stand there for a moment...

taking all of us in.

Then I think you'd smile and say,

"Heaven is more beautiful than you can possibly imagine."

"Trust Him."

“Keep Praying…”

You always trusted Him.

Every single day.

You sat in your prayer chair with that worn prayer pad—yes, I still have it—and faithfully prayed through every name on your list.

People counted on your prayers.

Dad used to laugh and say,

"Your mom has the direct connection."

I believed him.

I still do.

One of the last conversations we had was in the ICU.

I asked if you were scared.

You folded your hands in your lap, looked at me, and quietly said,

"Sure...but we all have to do it."

At the time, that answer unsettled me.

I didn't want my mom to be afraid.

But today...

I think if you could speak to me now, you'd smile and say,

"Don't be afraid, my angel."

That's what you always called me.

Your angel.

I miss hearing that.

I miss your blue eyes.

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of them in Graeme's face, and for just a second...

it's like seeing you again.

I see you in other places too.

I see you in my heart for forgiveness.

In my love for people.

In my compassion.

In my desire to pray before I panic.

And then, as I sat here writing this letter...

I realized something that stopped me in my tracks.

You had a prayer chair…

I have Two Chairs…

I always thought…my Two Chairs were born out of my own heartbreak.

Out of losing you.

Out of losing my marriage.

Out of learning to trust God in the hardest seasons of my life.

But maybe...

they began long before that.

Maybe they began with a little girl watching her mother faithfully return to the same chair every day to meet with God.

You planted seeds you never got to see bloom.

Those seeds carried me through your death.

They carried me through betrayal.

They carried me through grief.

They carried me back to hope.

And now they are carrying other people too.

You never knew your faithful prayers would become someone else's healing.

That's your legacy.

Not because you wrote a book.

Not because you stood on stages.

Not because the world knew your name.

Because you quietly showed up to meet with God every single day.

And a little girl was watching.

Mom...

You taught me about prayer.

You taught me about forgiveness.

You taught me about serving others.

You taught me what compassion looks like.

You taught me to keep showing up when life hurts.

You taught me that faith isn't built in extraordinary moments.

It's built in ordinary, faithful ones.

Fifty years from now, I hope people remember you as the redhead with the faithful prayer chair.

The woman who believed God heard every prayer she whispered.

The prayer warrior.

Her final prayer list…..

The cook who made everyone feel at home.

The mom whose greatest sermon wasn't something she preached...

It was the life she lived.

And today, on your birthday in Heaven, I hope you're celebrating with Dad.

With your family.

And if you're with my baby...

Would you hold that little one close for me?

Tell them how deeply they are loved.

Tell them their mama thinks about them often.

And one day...

We'll all be together again.

Until then...

Know this.

Because you loved me...

I am okay.

I am better than okay.

I am whole.

Love,

The little girl who finally realized her faith began in the chair before hers.

Dear Little Girl…For the Baby I Never Held

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years since I said hello and goodbye in the same season.

Every year around this time, I find myself sitting in the strange collision of two sentences:

Happy Birthday.

And Happy Death Day.

What a strange place to visit year after year.

A place where love and grief sit side by side.

A place where I celebrate a life I never got to hold and mourn a child I never got to know.

It's also a place that can be hard to explain.

Unless you've walked this road, it's difficult to understand. There is a sacred sisterhood made up of women who carried babies they never got to raise. It is a club none of us wanted to join, yet somehow the women in it understand one another without many words.

We know what it means to love someone we barely met.

We know what it means to miss someone whose face we never saw.

And we know what it means to carry both grief and hope in the same heart.

I still don't know if you were a boy or a girl.

And if I'm being honest, I still wonder.

Would you have had blue eyes like your daddy?

Would you have loved sports like Graeme?

Would you have been creative like JP?

Would you have been driven like Will?

Would you have loved dance like me?

Would you have had my laugh? My stubborn streak? My tender heart?

Or would you have marched to the beat of your own drum and surprised all of us?

Sometimes I imagine a little girl in a tiny tutu twirling through heaven.

Other times I picture a little boy running through fields, laughing and exploring.

The truth is, I don't know.

But I love you all the same.

I think that's one of the hardest things for people to understand about losing a baby.

Love doesn't wait for a birth certificate.

It doesn't wait for first words or first steps.

Love began the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, that love remains.

I remember the day I found out you were gone.

Some memories fade with time.

That one never has.

I remember driving to the hospital.

I remember exiting Walnut Hill.

I remember riding the elevator.

I remember the ultrasound technician smiling.

And I remember watching that smile disappear.

"I am so sorry," she said. "There is no heartbeat."

Those words changed everything.

I remember tears streaming down my face.

I remember mascara streaked across my cheeks.

I remember walking through a world that suddenly looked exactly the same while feeling completely different.

I remember hoping they were wrong.

Praying they were wrong.

Believing a miracle might happen.

I didn't want to let you go.

I wanted one more chance.

One more heartbeat.

One more sonogram.

One more miracle.

But it never came.

And so I joined a club I never wanted to belong to.

The club of mothers whose babies live in heaven.

Years later, I learned my Grandma Foley belonged to that club too.

Nobody really talked about it.

I don't even know if all of my siblings know.

By the time I lost you, she was already gone, and I felt very alone.

Because here's what people don't always understand:

I knew you.

I carried you.

I heard your heartbeat.

You heard my voice.

You were real.

And you still are.

If you're reading this and you're part of that club too, I want you to hear me:

You are still a mother.

From conception to death, you are still a mother.

Even if you never held your baby.

Even if you never got pictures.

Even if nobody else remembers.

You are still a mother.

And I am still your mama.

One of my favorite memories happened after you were gone.

Your brother JP was sitting on the top bunk one night and decided you needed a name.

"Trece," he said.

Number three.

The third child.

I don't know if I would've chosen that name myself, but I loved the heart behind it.

I loved that your brother already loved you enough to name you.

And somehow that small moment has stayed with me for seventeen years.

Today, I still wonder about you.

I wonder if you've met my mom and dad.

I wonder if you've met Grandma Foley and the baby she never got to raise.

I wonder what your laugh sounds like.

I wonder what it would feel like to hold you.

I wonder what you smell like.

I wonder if you know how often I still think about you.

I wonder if you know that every June, I remember.

I remember the loss.

But I also remember the love.

And maybe that's what healing really is.

Not forgetting.

Not moving on.

Not pretending it didn't matter.

Maybe healing is learning how to carry both.

The grief.

And the gratitude.

The ache.

And the hope.

Because after all these years, that's what I feel most.

Hope.

Not the desperate hope that asks God to change the past.

But the quiet hope that trusts He is holding what I cannot.

The hope that believes heaven is real.

The hope that believes I will know you when I see you.

The hope that believes love does not end at death.

So today, Baby Berry, I want you to know something.

I never forgot you.

Not for one year.

Not for one day.

Not for one moment.

You are still part of our story.

You are still part of our family.

And you are still deeply loved.

I loved you the moment those two pink lines appeared.

And seventeen years later, I love you still.

Wildly.

Always have.

Always will.

Love,

Your Mama on Earth

Anger, Tinsel, and 1000 Why's

More thoughts from my journal…
I said I would keep writing.
So here I am.
Still grieving. Still healing. Still trying to find light in the middle of all this fog.

July 17, 2025

I don’t know anymore, God.
Today I woke up weepy. My Oura app told me my HRV was low. “Your mind or body has been under strain for a while.”
I screamed at it: “It’s death! It’s Fucking DEATH!”

I guess that’s anger. Or exhaustion. Or both.
I’m tired of the theology people keep handing out like tissues.
I know You didn’t cause this.
I know You weep with us.
I know I won’t know why.

I don’t need reminders today. I need something real.

And yet… the same God I screamed at let me see flickers of good:
In a sash.
In a blanket.
In a quiet dinner from friends.
In mermaid tinsel for two girls.
In a young Mystic counselor choosing pink to honor her campers.

That moment with Nola—putting sparkle in her hair, loving her without needing words—felt like purpose.
It didn’t fix anything. But it reminded me that love is still here.
And that maybe it’s okay to scream and believe at the same time.

I’m still asking why.
I probably will for a while.
But today, I’m clinging to the helpers, the light, and the tinsel.

That might be all I’ve got right now.
But maybe… that’s enough.