The problem with remembering

Today is Emily's birthday.  Due to our chosen professions, both my husband and I have some flexibility this time of year, so we had to decide if we were going to work today or not.  We were stumped.  How do you know if you want to do the people thing on a specific day? What does the date on the calendar mean?  What are we "supposed to" do with the birthday of a child who is not here to open gifts or eat cake?  There just is not a handbook for this one.

As I've tried to sort out my own feelings on today, I dug and found the problem with a day we are "supposed to" focus on remembering her- We never forget.  How do you remember something that is a constant part of your life? How do you consciously remember something that you couldn't forget if you tried?

A lot of people have decided to use this day to let me know that they remember her, and that truly means the world to me. My biggest fear after losing her was that she would somehow become forgotten and that her life would somehow stop mattering.  It matters to me that she mattered to others.

But, for me, I don't need today to remember her.  So what does that mean for me today? It means that I use today to remember how much she matters to us.  Since her death, our lives have taken some big turns. We've gone in a different direction than we were headed when I was pregnant with her.  We've done career changes, moves, and lifestyle changes.  Strangely, though, as I reflect on the things that we talked about when we first got married, I realize that we are, right now, where we always intended to be.  Back when we were dating, my husband and I talked about wanting a house full of music, kids, and intellectual activities.  I wanted to teach English and he wanted to farm.  And, most importantly, we wanted to have that house- the one that kept its doors open to children as a fun place to play and a soft place to land.

Yesterday afternoon, I climbed into my bed to snuggle up with a book about French literary theory, I could hear my husband handing out marshmallows to a group of neighborhood kids who had gathered to make marshmallow structures.  They had one hour to finish up before we would be leaving for violin lessons and a swim meet.  I heard him encouraging them and a table full of giggles (and a few groans from older siblings), and I realized that this was it.  We are where we always intended to be.

To be honest, we lost track of that for awhile, while we tried to be what we thought we were supposed to be.  Emily's short life redirected us onto the course we always wanted to be on.  While it isn't perfect, it is good and happy.  So, I'm going to drop trying to figure out what to do on a day where we are "supposed to" remember her, and, instead, remember that this life isn't about meeting the expectations of others.  It is about living the life God wants us to live.  And, as our creator, that life is the one that is most authentic to who we truly are.  For Emily, the life that she choose was short, but had a great impact on those around her.

To honor my sweet daughter, today I will study, grade papers, play with my kids, and talk to the neighbors.  I will do what I do every day, with the added gratitude for the impact that Emily's short life had on me.  That's really the only thing I know how to do with the grief that I carry with me every day.  It is what I do with it every day.