Memorial day is over, but today is another memorial day for me.  Today is the day that my Olivia was born, and her twin sister, Laura, was stillborn.

I had a dream once, a couple of years ago, that I walked into the living room and saw a child who looked just like mine, yet wasn't mine.  She had Olivia's face, and was Olivia's age, but she wasn't Olivia.  She was new to our home, a stranger of sorts.  I realized who she was, and I went up to her and hugged her so tightly.   It was as if she had simply dropped by for a visit.  That's all I remember; the dream faded after that. 

She'd be nine years old now, or very soon, had she lived to delivery.  For an unknown reason, at around 32 weeks, her heart stopped beating.  The doctor suspected it was a cord accident, or possibly genetic.  I have reason to believe the girls were identical twins, so I deem the former more likely.  My doctor induced labor, at my request, right at 36 weeks because I didn't want to carry any longer.  Had she lived, this no doubt would not have been their birthday.

I sought symmetry in naming them.  Olivia and Laura are botanical in origin, the olive symbolizing peace, and the laurel, praise and victory.  Their middle names, Brooke and Blythe, respectively, are at least superfically symmetrical...same length, same initial.  I was so happy to be having twins, but I did not name them decisively until after Laura's death.  I always felt somewhat guilty about that.  She should have been something more than "Baby B" in my heart.

Inscribed on Laura's headstone--a tiny little block of pink granite somewhere in northeast Georgia--is a scripture reference:  Revelation 21:4. 

"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” 

I wrote about our experience with the loss of a twin many years ago for the newsletter published by Center for Loss in Multiple Birth (C.L.I.M.B.).   Their newsletter is a forum, of sorts, for bereaved parents of multiples...a place where they can see their child's name in print and speak freely and remember.  

I can't access the article since our hard drive sickened and died, but even if I could, I would not reproduce it here in full.  The painful part of remembering Laura is past.  What I saw of Laura was her chrysalis, an empty shell.  Her spirit had already flown when I held her body in my arms.  She's not in that grave we left behind in Georgia. 

I have turned instead to the future.  She doesn't "belong to me" in the sense that my other children do.  She doesn't need my nurturing, my sheltering, my teaching, my wisdom and she won't suffer from my mistakes, flaws, sins, or absurdities.  She doesn't need me at all.  That's a good thing.   No tears, no pain, no mourning.  Life so abundant that someone here in the "shadowlands" can only envision it in terms of what it is not.   Imagine growing up that way, in the presence of God.  She is light-years ahead of me right now.  When I see her someday, I will witness a woman with her humanity in full flower.  Mine, still ever-so-slowly unfurling, by the grace of God.

I've always felt a bit of pique when people tell me that death is a natural part of life.  Death is not natural.  Our spirits rebel against it with good reason.  We know in our heart of hearts that it wasn't meant to be this way, and that death is a thief. 

However, the life my daughter now lives is the life God intended for humanity from the beginning...free, direct, open fellowship with Him.   When I think of her, it is always in the "now," and always of her fully alive and awake being.  Not as "my" deceased baby, but as His daughter...joyful, abundantly alive, and free.  She was never "mine" from the beginning.  None of our children are truly ours, except for a temporary sojourn, a brief subset, "childhood," of an only slightly longer sojourn called "life." 

Oh, how we should praise Him continually for his gifts, beyond all that we deserve!  How gracious and merciful and kind is our God.  What a treasure is each being to whom He grants life.  I only wish I were awake and alive enough to perceive the full value of his gifts.  Someday, I will.  Someday, I will be where she is.  I will see His face and know as I am known. 

I suppose, in the end, that I am not remembering so much as hoping.