I made peppermint mocha cookies today, but not to celebrate Christmas. No, I made them for my firstborn's birthday. It may seem an odd choice, but I can explain.
Two days ago I scrolled through my facebook memories and came upon this one from 6 years prior. It read:
"It
took two ruined bags of chocolate chips, a temper tantrum, and a trip
to Wal-Mart, but I finally figured out how to melt white chocolate and
finished these darn cookies."
I didn't really need a facebook reminder; that night, and the following days are burned deeply and forever into my memory. The "darn cookies" in question were Peppermint Mocha Cookies for the seminary's Women in Ministry Christmas cookie exchange and contest. Matt loved these cookies, but I can’t even think of them without a flood of sad memories, because for some reason in my mind, this exact moment was the beginning of the end of life as I’d known it. The temper tantrum I had was because I was 6 weeks pregnant, I was exhausted from early pregnancy, had come down with a cold I couldn't take anything for, and was nannying 6 month old twins, yet I had chosen to participate in the cookie contest at the last minute because “moms have to make fancy Christmas cookies” and since I could not for the life of me get the darn white chocolate to melt without seizing, I was clearly a failure as a mother in my mind.
The next day we saw Brighton’s heart beating. The day after that, 6 years ago today, there was silence and hollowness and excruciating physical and emotional pain where there had just been life and joy. I had much bigger problems than seizing chocolate, but it still feels like it all somehow started with a finicky cookie recipe and 2 ruined bags of white chocolate chips.
I haven't made those cookies in 6 years and 2 days. I couldn't even think of them without feeling angry and sad for 5 years. But when I thought about them the other day, I decided I would make them today. I wanted to take a painful memory, appreciate that it is one of the few earthly and replicable things that reminds me of my child, and redeem it. After all, the only reason I ever made them to begin with was for Brighton as a
totally unnecessary attempt to say “I’ll be a good mom to you.” and suddenly it seemed like a fitting way to honor Brighton's life.
This cookie recipe is one of those finicky ones that takes most of a day. Usually that bothers me, however, I didn't mind it today; I typically take December 9 to spend reflecting and grieving and loving, but with two little ones at home it was very business as usual today, so having to take time throughout the day to work on these cookies gave me moments to remember and reflect and pursue an act of love, however symbolic it may be, and as I did I realized that just
like the first time I made these cookies, being Brighton’s mom didn’t turn out how I expected;
something that should have been sweet and lovely turned out a big mess
with frustration and anger and tantrums, and in the end, after a long, difficult, confusing process, it was a whole lot of
sweet after all.
Yes, there is still grief. This was our child, and they aren't here with us, it's not the way things ought to be and it stings, sometimes it's still more of a stab than a sting, especially as I see my living children grow and realize all that we have missed through the death of our first three children. But there is a deep and rich sweetness as well that I've recognized this year more than ever. The grief I feel is really a mother's love and that love looks a lot different when the object of it is not here to receive it; that's why we find ways honoring Brighton, Keelan and Addison's places in our lives. I find that the more we do that, the less I feel the grief, and the more I feel the content, easy, every day love for them that I experience with my living children. Baking cookies for my kid's birthday is one of the most normal things I've ever done out of love for this child, and this year this date passed with an easiness that it never did before, so much so that it made me uncomfortable when I first realized it. For so long heavy grief was the way I showed my love for this child and the way that I defended their humanity to myself and others. But I've reached a point where I no longer need to convince myself, my husband, my family or my friends that this child was and is real. I've spent years advocating for my child's humanity. Today, I rested in that reality and in my and the Lord's love for my child and channeled that into making them some cookies, knowing that heaven is far, far sweeter than even an award winning peppermint mocha cookie, which it is, by the way; because after all of the mess and the tantrums, I won best overall cookie at that Christmas cookie contest.
Happy sixth birthday to my beloved Brighton Grey. I don't have to wish, it, I know it's true, for there is no greater joy than Christ in whose presence Brighton lives each day.
"We must judge concerning the will of God
from his Word, which declares that the
children of believers are holy, not by
nature but in virtue of the covenant of
grace, in which they are included with their
parents. Therefore, God-fearing parents
ought not to doubt the election and
salvation of their children whom God calls
out of this life in their infancy."
-The Canons of Dordt, Article 17
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