In the Middle of Dates That Matter

There are parts of grief that are so big they take your breath away, and then there are the parts that are so small they almost feel silly to say out loud.

They're the tiny details that no one else notices. The dates. The names. The little intersections of someone else's joy and your deepest sorrow.

When we lost Hope, my niece was born on her due date.

When I was pregnant with Haven, my best friend and I dreamed about raising little girls just a few months apart. Haven's due date was November 19. Her daughter was born on the 19th of a different month. They would have been just three months apart, growing up side by side.

And just recently, I found out another friend from church is due on October 11.

October 11.

The day Haven was born.

The day she died.

The day I held her for the first and last time before entrusting her to Jesus.

It's strange what grief does to you. Now, whenever someone tells me they're pregnant, I can feel myself bracing for the next question.

"When are you due?"

Before they answer, my whole body feels like it's holding its breath.

Will it be one of my dates?

A due date?

An anniversary?

A day that already belongs to one of my daughters?

Most people hear a date and think about seasons. I hear a date and wonder if my heart is about to flinch.

My chest tightens.

My stomach drops.

And before I've even had time to think, grief has already remembered.

Logically, I know these are coincidences. I don't believe God is sitting in heaven assigning due dates to make my grief harder. I don't believe He delights in rubbing salt into wounds that are already impossibly deep.

But if I'm honest...Sometimes it feels like one more slap in the face.

Not because I'm upset that these babies are coming into the world. Quite the opposite. I genuinely rejoice with their families. I pray for healthy pregnancies, safe deliveries, and long, beautiful lives.

It's just that every time one of these dates resurfaces, it reminds me of the story that didn't happen.

The conversations I imagined. The birthday parties I planned in my head. The first steps I won't celebrate. The friendship that never had the chance to begin. The little girls who only ever grew up in my imagination.

Sometimes I wonder why these dates keep finding me.

I know God is good. I believe He is.

But there are days when life feels so painfully random that His goodness becomes harder to see than it is to believe.

We love stories where every detail ties together in the end. Where every painful moment eventually reveals its purpose. But grief doesn't usually work that way.

Sometimes there is no explanation. Sometimes there is only the choice to trust a God whose ways are higher than mine while admitting I don't understand them.

That tension can be extremely uncomfortable.

Some days I whisper, “Really, God?"

Not because I think He's cruel but because I'm hurting.

I've spent a lot of time wondering if questions like that dishonor Him.

Yet Scripture is full of people who brought their confusion to God instead of hiding it from Him. David did. Job did. Martha did.

So maybe faith isn't pretending the dates don't hurt. Maybe faith is bringing the hurt to the One who already knows it's there.

I still don't understand why certain dates seem destined to become intersections between my grief and someone else's joy.

But I do know this: Those dates will always belong to my daughters.

October 11 will always be Haven's day. November 19 will always remind me of the birthday we never celebrated and the future I imagined for her. July 18 will always remind me that Hope existed, that she mattered, and that she forever changed me.

Other babies can be born on those days.

Other families can celebrate those dates.

And I will celebrate with them. Because their joy is not my enemy.

But quietly, somewhere beneath the smiles and congratulations, I will also remember the daughters who made those days sacred to me.

That's the tender middle I keep talking about.

Holding joy and sorrow in the same hands. Celebrating babies while quietly remembering my own. Trusting God without always understanding Him. Believing He is near...even when my whole body is still holding its breath.