For our final week of this year's Walking With You series, we focus on "Finding Hope and Healing (With or Without a Rainbow)."
"For this post, we will share our experiences with longing for another baby to fill our empty arms. Some experienced a subsequent pregnancy after loss. Some may be fearful of embarking on that journey again. Some may not be able to have another child, whether due to infertility or other reasons. Some may have found that having another baby, however precious a gift, was not the key to healing the grief. Can you experience hope and healing…even if there is no rainbow after the storm? Lori Ennis will be guest posting on this blog and I will share some thoughts as well. We hope many of you will also join in, linking your own posts."
Healing and hope after losing Elena have come gradually, and it was often one step forward, two back. I knew God is there with me, I knew that He can use tragedies to bring glory, I knew that He is good. But that knowledge does not just magically take the hurt away overnight (or even over months or years). We become better equipped, I believe, to manage the pain and over time are able to carry it more easily and with more grace, but it is still there. I think complete healing occurs when we are reunited with our sweet babies and meet our Savior face to face. At least that is the way I see it now, about 21 months away from Elena. Maybe I will have a different thought on that as more time passes.
My doctor arrived at the hospital after Elena had already died. He was compassionate, hugging us, telling us he was sorry, sharing that his wife and he had lost a child as well. Before he left, he strongly encouraged us to wait at least six months before making any decisions about future children. He reiterated that at my post-partum check up several weeks later. I believe it was wise advice, for our family at least. We needed the time the focus on grieving, to investigate options if we did decide to continue growing our family, and to decide if we could emotionally do it again, especially with the increased risk of another loss. Additionally, Elena was so premature that six months was not too much past her due date, and I could not stomach the thought of being pregnant with another child when I was still supposed to be pregnant with Elena. It was an unbearable thought to me, it felt like a betrayal of her. So we waited. We grieved. We began the long path of healing.
I believe our older child was more important in my initial healing than the dream of a rainbow. While having a toddler at home certainly posed a challenge to my grief work, I always felt so incredibly lucky and thankful for him. He was both a good distraction and a good point of focus. Life could not possibly be all bad when I had a beautiful, curious, in-love-with-life, sweet little boy with me. Yes, I ached. I felt pain that I had never before (and never since) experienced, but I still had a very important reason to live. And he kept me busy. And honestly, he was a very important motivation to even want to heal. I knew he deserved a mother who could care for him and who could teach him how to react to trials of this life. I felt an overwhelming obligation to be a model of how to deal with tragedy. I was so afraid of scarring him, of shaping him in a manner that he could not be resilient in difficulties, that I knew I could not allow myself to stay broken forever. So I tried to teach him to love and to heal, to hurt and to grow, to mourn with the hope of heaven. Even when I did not want to do it myself. I wanted him to love and remember Elena while continuing to love life and be full of joy and hope.
We did start talking about growing our family again. We had always wanted more than two children, so Elena was never supposed to be our last. There were days when the fear of loss was intense and I would think that maybe we should be happy with our one living child and call our family complete. But I did long for another baby. In fact, I had some pretty crazy thoughts about another baby. I've never admitted these before, but I've shared so much in these Walking with You posts that I will go ahead and admit to them now. A group from church was traveling to an orphanage in another country shortly after Elena's death, and I let myself fantasize about their return, calling me with the news that they had brought back a baby and would I consider adopting her. I had phantom kicks and movements. I secretly wondered if perhaps the doctors had missed it and Elena was actually a twin - maybe I would give birth again on Elena's due date, this time to her twin sister. Even though I did not get bigger and it was obvious that I was no longer pregnant, I was actually disappointed when her due date rolled around and I did not go into labor. I daydreamed of a baby being left on my doorstep, of someone knowing a pregnant teen looking for an adoptive family and would we help her out. I even fantasized about God bringing Elena back to life, months after she died, and just giving her back to us. Crazy, irrational thoughts. Yes, if I was honest with myself, I absolutely wanted another baby, almost as badly as I wanted Elena back.
After much discussion, we decided to try again (oh, how I HATE that phrase "try again," as if it is something that with enough practice can be perfected). We decided to try to have another baby. We were blessed with a rainbow pregnancy quickly, and I was overcome by hope, joy, fear, and, to my surprise, grief. I was hurled backward in my grief. I struggled with it my entire pregnancy. My emotions were everywhere. Being pregnant seemed to make me miss Elena more intensely. I felt like I was going backward in my grief. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for my pregnancy - I was absolutely grateful and thanked God every morning I was still pregnant and every evening I went to bed still carrying my Rainbow. But my pregnancy did not make my pain of losing Elena less. It did force me to deal with my grief on another level, which I believe helped my healing even though it was difficult.
By the grace of God, our Rainbow arrived full term and healthy. He cried loudly, and I cried too...tears of joy, tears of sorrow...such joy interwoven with regret and relief and grief and longing and hope and love. So many emotions. Nothing seems simple anymore - everything in my world seems layered with so many emotions. And I'm discovering that at the core of them all seems to be love. Just as I was surprised by the intensity of my grief at our pregnancy, I was again surprised by the intensity of grief after he was born. I loved holding him but found it difficult at the same time. I desperately wanted to hold ALL of my children, and Elena's missing somehow seemed even greater. I looked at his chubby cheeks and thought of how unfair it was that I didn't get this joyous birth with Elena. I watch him and am reminded of everything I did not get to experience with my daughter. I look at him and see how perfect he is, and I know how incredibly blessed I am, and I sometimes still feel that twinge of guilt that I was able to carry him to term when I wasn't able to do that for his big sister. And I remind myself (again) that I have no need to feel guilty, and I focus again on how blessed we are with our two amazing boys in our earthly home, and our precious girl waiting for us in our heavenly home. I'm still trying to heal, to find a way to live in joy while honoring our daughter's life, to balance all of the emotions. Thankfully, God is faithful, and He is good. He remains with us even when the road is long and rocky; He walks the path with us. "The Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you" (Deuteronomy 31:6 - NIV). And He welcomes us and our broken hearts. "Heart-shattered lives ready for love don’t for a moment escape God’s notice" (Psalm 51:17 - The Message).
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Thank you for joining me during this Walking with You series. I appreciate you reading my story, remembering my sweet Elena, and providing support and encouragement. And I appreciate those of you who have shared your story and your precious babies with me. Much love and many prayers to you all.
Thank you to Kelly and Sufficient Grace Ministries for all you do for those of us in the Baby Loss community and especially for hosting the Walking with You series. I struggled with many of these posts, but I do believe they helped me to grieve, to learn about myself, to grow, and to heal more. They have also grown connections with some beautiful mommas, and I am grateful for those new and deepening friendships. You are such a blessing, Kelly.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Walking With You 2013: Mirror, Mirror ~ The Comparison Trap
The Walking With You topic for week 5 is "Mirror, Mirror ~ The Comparison Trap."
"Mothers often fall into the trap of comparing ourselves to one another. This is a trap many women fall into. We compare our families, mothering styles, fashion sense, careers or lack thereof, bodies, etc. Even mothers with babies in heaven compare the way we grieve our children. I know…sad…but we do it, if we’re honest enough to admit it. So, how can we find freedom from this? Sharing is a start…telling the truth…admitting the struggle. I think, then, we will see that we all love our children, regardless of how we choose to remember and honor their lives…whether publicly or quietly…with big parties or simple moments of remembrance. Be real on this week’s post, and let’s free ourselves from the trap of comparing!"
Kelly has encouraged us to "be real," so I am going to try to be open, transparent, to share how I felt and how I feel, even when it is difficult for me to admit it to myself. We have the expectations of how people are "supposed" to act in the face of loss, especially a loss so great. We look at what other bereaved families have done; we listen to what others, even those who have not lost a child, say about grieving. Many times we have heard people say that they "couldn't survive" the loss of a child, that we must be incredibly strong because they couldn't have done it. I have found myself feeling guilty for even surviving, for being able to continue breathing after Elena died. As if I am the One with power over life and death.
I have often wondered if I grieved the "right way," if I made the "right" choices. I remember feeling so guilty about eating the first few days after Elena died. EATING. Really??? I felt guilty for being aware of feeling hungry. Aren't people who are in the depths of sorrow supposed to stop eating? How could I think about food when Elena was gone? But I did feel hunger, and I ate, and I felt guilty. What would people think if they knew I wanted to eat and that someone wasn't having to force me to eat, to force me to take care of myself? A friend came to check on me later that week and said she was happy to see I had showered, that she wasn't sure what to expect when she arrived and had been prepared to make me take a shower if I hadn't bathed in days. I know she didn't mean any harm by it, but then I started feeling bad about bathing. Why was I able to hold it together enough to take care of the basic things? How could I even get out of bed and shower when my baby was dead? Didn't I care enough about Elena to be so devastated as to not be able to function after she died? Looking back on it, it would almost be comical if it were not so incredibly sad. The pressure we sometimes put on ourselves is so intense and so unnecessary.
I compared our final decisions for Elena with other bereaved families. Did they bury their child or choose cremation? What did that mean about them, and more importantly, about me and my decision to cremate? I still question my decision when I am around moms who chose burial. Did I make the right choice or did they? As if either choice is "right." There are no "right" decisions when our babies die, only hard ones. None of the choices are ones we want to make.
And it didn't stop with burial vs. cremation. Of the families who chose cremation, what did they do with the ashes? Are they scattered or displayed proudly in an urn or tucked away somewhere, treasured but unseen? How do other families remember significant dates around their children's lives - birth dates, death dates, due dates? Did they have birthday parties? Did I love Elena as much as those who baked cakes and invited extended family and friends? Was it enough to just release balloons with her dad and brother? Did I talk about her, share her story with others as much as the other moms in my support group? Was it wrong to not immediately start a blog like so many of the moms in my support group, like all the moms I found online sharing their baby? Maybe I was not doing enough to keep her memory alive. I did not post about Elena on Facebook as much as lots of my baby loss friends did, but on the other hand, I posted about her more than some of the others did. Always looking to others to see what they did. As if any of it matters, as if how we grieve somehow is a measure of our love for our children. I wrote last post about not putting any blame on other bereaved families, but still blaming myself. Similarly, I didn't think that any bereaved parents loved their children any less by how they celebrated holidays or how publicly they remembered their babies, but somehow I thought that the way I grieved would (should?) be a reflection of my love for Elena. I know with my intellect that it is simply not true. Again, getting it to my heart has proven more difficult.
In writing this post, I realize that not only did I (and sometimes still do) compare my grief to the grief of other bereaved mothers but also to some imaginary "ideal" of what grief "should" be. This also causes me to worry about other people judging the way I grieve and the way I remember and that somehow they will interpret my grief as a gauge by which to measure my love for my daughter. I believe that those comparisons and those concerns of judgment are significant sources of guilt (which may explain why this post seemed so similar to me to the last one). I think I need to pray more for release from comparing myself to others and from worrying about what others think.
Despite our differences, we (bereaved parents) all have the most important things in common: we love our children beyond words, we love our children beyond death, we love our children forever, and we always miss them. How we grieve them, how we remember them, how we celebrate them are not measuring sticks of our pain, our missing, our love. They are only indications that we are different people from different backgrounds with different needs and abilities and different ways of expressing ourselves. But the love is the same.
"Mothers often fall into the trap of comparing ourselves to one another. This is a trap many women fall into. We compare our families, mothering styles, fashion sense, careers or lack thereof, bodies, etc. Even mothers with babies in heaven compare the way we grieve our children. I know…sad…but we do it, if we’re honest enough to admit it. So, how can we find freedom from this? Sharing is a start…telling the truth…admitting the struggle. I think, then, we will see that we all love our children, regardless of how we choose to remember and honor their lives…whether publicly or quietly…with big parties or simple moments of remembrance. Be real on this week’s post, and let’s free ourselves from the trap of comparing!"
Kelly has encouraged us to "be real," so I am going to try to be open, transparent, to share how I felt and how I feel, even when it is difficult for me to admit it to myself. We have the expectations of how people are "supposed" to act in the face of loss, especially a loss so great. We look at what other bereaved families have done; we listen to what others, even those who have not lost a child, say about grieving. Many times we have heard people say that they "couldn't survive" the loss of a child, that we must be incredibly strong because they couldn't have done it. I have found myself feeling guilty for even surviving, for being able to continue breathing after Elena died. As if I am the One with power over life and death.
I have often wondered if I grieved the "right way," if I made the "right" choices. I remember feeling so guilty about eating the first few days after Elena died. EATING. Really??? I felt guilty for being aware of feeling hungry. Aren't people who are in the depths of sorrow supposed to stop eating? How could I think about food when Elena was gone? But I did feel hunger, and I ate, and I felt guilty. What would people think if they knew I wanted to eat and that someone wasn't having to force me to eat, to force me to take care of myself? A friend came to check on me later that week and said she was happy to see I had showered, that she wasn't sure what to expect when she arrived and had been prepared to make me take a shower if I hadn't bathed in days. I know she didn't mean any harm by it, but then I started feeling bad about bathing. Why was I able to hold it together enough to take care of the basic things? How could I even get out of bed and shower when my baby was dead? Didn't I care enough about Elena to be so devastated as to not be able to function after she died? Looking back on it, it would almost be comical if it were not so incredibly sad. The pressure we sometimes put on ourselves is so intense and so unnecessary.
I compared our final decisions for Elena with other bereaved families. Did they bury their child or choose cremation? What did that mean about them, and more importantly, about me and my decision to cremate? I still question my decision when I am around moms who chose burial. Did I make the right choice or did they? As if either choice is "right." There are no "right" decisions when our babies die, only hard ones. None of the choices are ones we want to make.
And it didn't stop with burial vs. cremation. Of the families who chose cremation, what did they do with the ashes? Are they scattered or displayed proudly in an urn or tucked away somewhere, treasured but unseen? How do other families remember significant dates around their children's lives - birth dates, death dates, due dates? Did they have birthday parties? Did I love Elena as much as those who baked cakes and invited extended family and friends? Was it enough to just release balloons with her dad and brother? Did I talk about her, share her story with others as much as the other moms in my support group? Was it wrong to not immediately start a blog like so many of the moms in my support group, like all the moms I found online sharing their baby? Maybe I was not doing enough to keep her memory alive. I did not post about Elena on Facebook as much as lots of my baby loss friends did, but on the other hand, I posted about her more than some of the others did. Always looking to others to see what they did. As if any of it matters, as if how we grieve somehow is a measure of our love for our children. I wrote last post about not putting any blame on other bereaved families, but still blaming myself. Similarly, I didn't think that any bereaved parents loved their children any less by how they celebrated holidays or how publicly they remembered their babies, but somehow I thought that the way I grieved would (should?) be a reflection of my love for Elena. I know with my intellect that it is simply not true. Again, getting it to my heart has proven more difficult.
In writing this post, I realize that not only did I (and sometimes still do) compare my grief to the grief of other bereaved mothers but also to some imaginary "ideal" of what grief "should" be. This also causes me to worry about other people judging the way I grieve and the way I remember and that somehow they will interpret my grief as a gauge by which to measure my love for my daughter. I believe that those comparisons and those concerns of judgment are significant sources of guilt (which may explain why this post seemed so similar to me to the last one). I think I need to pray more for release from comparing myself to others and from worrying about what others think.
Despite our differences, we (bereaved parents) all have the most important things in common: we love our children beyond words, we love our children beyond death, we love our children forever, and we always miss them. How we grieve them, how we remember them, how we celebrate them are not measuring sticks of our pain, our missing, our love. They are only indications that we are different people from different backgrounds with different needs and abilities and different ways of expressing ourselves. But the love is the same.
Walking With You 2013: Overcoming Guilt and Embracing Joy
Okay, I am really behind on the Walking With You series. I'm sorry I have not kept up, but here goes. Week 4 focused on "Overcoming Guilt and Embracing Joy."
"One area so many mothers struggle with is guilt, especially those who experience the loss of a baby/child. We want to address this struggle in this post. It will help mothers quietly battling guilt for living life and experiencing joy to know they are not alone. Other moms silently battle this as well. Whether it is the startling first time you really laugh after losing your child, or whether you have experienced the healing balm of joy for years, share your thoughts on this week’s post."
When it comes to Elena, I have definitely struggled with feelings of guilt and still do. After all, I am her mother. It was my responsibility, my job, to protect her, to keep her safe. And I didn't do that for her. My body failed her...failed her miserably. She was perfect, and I couldn't even give her a chance at life. Intellectually, I know that it is not my fault. I know that I would have done anything within my power to save her, but it's still so hard not to blame myself. I think of other baby loss mothers, and never for a millisecond do I think they deserve an ounce of blame, and I know that I do not either. Making myself believe what I know is a different story altogether, though.
In the very early days after Elena died, the guilt was particularly intense. I shouldn't have gone shopping and walking around the store for so long searching for a gift, I should have called my OB again sooner, I should have insisted that something was not right, I should have pushed for a cerclage from the very beginning, I should not have taken that shower in the hospital, I should have stayed lying flat, the list goes on and on. I even struggled with guilt over the way I prayed (see my Clinging in the Pit post). What if I hadn't carried my sleeping toddler to the car that day? Was God punishing me for something I had done? My wonderful husband stopped me in my tracks right there. "You know God doesn't work that way," he told me lovingly yet firmly. And even then I knew he was right. I do not believe that God takes our babies because we screwed up. I think it is just our human nature to grasp at anything to try to make sense of something that just doesn't make sense. And the fact that babies die just doesn't make sense, at least not this side of heaven. We also want to believe that we have much more control over our lives than we actually have. I sometimes still fall into that line of thinking, that if I had just done something different I could have saved Elena. And I have to remind myself that I don't blame other baby loss moms for their babies' deaths, and I don't need to blame myself either. I loved Elena, still love her, with all of my heart, and I did the best I could with the information and abilities that I had at the time, and that is all I could have done.
After the guilt that Elena's death was somehow my fault came the guilt that I could continue to live after my baby had died. And then the guilt that I could actually smile, laugh, find a little enjoyment here and there. I really struggled with a vacation we had planned. We had been planning for months to join three other families for a week at Disney World that happened to coincide with my toddler's second birthday. I was really looking forward to going. Then I started having complications and my doctor advised me not to go, so we changed our plans to stay home. Then Elena was born and died just weeks before the vacation. We wrestled with what to do about the trip. I hated the thought that the only reason we could go was because Elena had died; however, we finally decided at the last minute to take the trip, largely because I wanted my son's birthday to be special and I was not up for planning and hosting a party for him at home. I had immense feelings of guilt over that decision. How could I even entertain the idea of going to "the happiest place on earth" when I was (and should have been) miserable and mourning. I enjoyed it (I also had lots of sad moments, cried every time I saw a pregnant woman, and sobbed myself to sleep each night, but there were moments of real happiness there). It's taken me a long time to admit to taking that trip because of my guilt over it. But I realize that feeling happy does not mean that I don't love Elena any more than feeling sad does not mean that I don't love my living children. Of course I love them all - I love them all always, through all of my emotions.
The early feelings of happiness, the first smiles and laughter, were often followed immediately by guilt and breakdowns. I'm not sure when those tears and that incredible guilt over having joy subsided. It was a very gradual and tender transition. I think many things helped me to finally let go of that guilt (for the most part, anyway, it still pops up its ugly head from time to time). I had to force myself to listen to my logical reasoning when my heart was not on board. I had to trust that what I knew in my brain held value, that there was no logical reason to be blame myself for feelings of happiness, that my range of emotions were not an indication of my love for my daughter. I also looked at others who had lost children, who loved those babies so very much, and who still smiled, laughed, seemed happy despite the awful hand they had been dealt. They were not monsters. I did not blame them or think any less of them for their joy. So logically that meant that being happy did not make me a monster either, and maybe, just maybe, no one would think less of me either. I saw that others could love their babies and think of them everyday and still be happy. It was okay for me to do that too. I made a conscious effort to choose to focus on the positive memories, to remember the moments of joy during my pregnancy, the tender moments we were allowed upon her birth. Feeling happy about ever having had the opportunity to be Elena's mother, knowing what a beautiful blessing she is and experiencing joy over her was a good start to being okay with feeling happy. And knowing that our separation is only temporary allows me to rejoice. "Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him." (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14)
"One area so many mothers struggle with is guilt, especially those who experience the loss of a baby/child. We want to address this struggle in this post. It will help mothers quietly battling guilt for living life and experiencing joy to know they are not alone. Other moms silently battle this as well. Whether it is the startling first time you really laugh after losing your child, or whether you have experienced the healing balm of joy for years, share your thoughts on this week’s post."
When it comes to Elena, I have definitely struggled with feelings of guilt and still do. After all, I am her mother. It was my responsibility, my job, to protect her, to keep her safe. And I didn't do that for her. My body failed her...failed her miserably. She was perfect, and I couldn't even give her a chance at life. Intellectually, I know that it is not my fault. I know that I would have done anything within my power to save her, but it's still so hard not to blame myself. I think of other baby loss mothers, and never for a millisecond do I think they deserve an ounce of blame, and I know that I do not either. Making myself believe what I know is a different story altogether, though.
In the very early days after Elena died, the guilt was particularly intense. I shouldn't have gone shopping and walking around the store for so long searching for a gift, I should have called my OB again sooner, I should have insisted that something was not right, I should have pushed for a cerclage from the very beginning, I should not have taken that shower in the hospital, I should have stayed lying flat, the list goes on and on. I even struggled with guilt over the way I prayed (see my Clinging in the Pit post). What if I hadn't carried my sleeping toddler to the car that day? Was God punishing me for something I had done? My wonderful husband stopped me in my tracks right there. "You know God doesn't work that way," he told me lovingly yet firmly. And even then I knew he was right. I do not believe that God takes our babies because we screwed up. I think it is just our human nature to grasp at anything to try to make sense of something that just doesn't make sense. And the fact that babies die just doesn't make sense, at least not this side of heaven. We also want to believe that we have much more control over our lives than we actually have. I sometimes still fall into that line of thinking, that if I had just done something different I could have saved Elena. And I have to remind myself that I don't blame other baby loss moms for their babies' deaths, and I don't need to blame myself either. I loved Elena, still love her, with all of my heart, and I did the best I could with the information and abilities that I had at the time, and that is all I could have done.
After the guilt that Elena's death was somehow my fault came the guilt that I could continue to live after my baby had died. And then the guilt that I could actually smile, laugh, find a little enjoyment here and there. I really struggled with a vacation we had planned. We had been planning for months to join three other families for a week at Disney World that happened to coincide with my toddler's second birthday. I was really looking forward to going. Then I started having complications and my doctor advised me not to go, so we changed our plans to stay home. Then Elena was born and died just weeks before the vacation. We wrestled with what to do about the trip. I hated the thought that the only reason we could go was because Elena had died; however, we finally decided at the last minute to take the trip, largely because I wanted my son's birthday to be special and I was not up for planning and hosting a party for him at home. I had immense feelings of guilt over that decision. How could I even entertain the idea of going to "the happiest place on earth" when I was (and should have been) miserable and mourning. I enjoyed it (I also had lots of sad moments, cried every time I saw a pregnant woman, and sobbed myself to sleep each night, but there were moments of real happiness there). It's taken me a long time to admit to taking that trip because of my guilt over it. But I realize that feeling happy does not mean that I don't love Elena any more than feeling sad does not mean that I don't love my living children. Of course I love them all - I love them all always, through all of my emotions.
The early feelings of happiness, the first smiles and laughter, were often followed immediately by guilt and breakdowns. I'm not sure when those tears and that incredible guilt over having joy subsided. It was a very gradual and tender transition. I think many things helped me to finally let go of that guilt (for the most part, anyway, it still pops up its ugly head from time to time). I had to force myself to listen to my logical reasoning when my heart was not on board. I had to trust that what I knew in my brain held value, that there was no logical reason to be blame myself for feelings of happiness, that my range of emotions were not an indication of my love for my daughter. I also looked at others who had lost children, who loved those babies so very much, and who still smiled, laughed, seemed happy despite the awful hand they had been dealt. They were not monsters. I did not blame them or think any less of them for their joy. So logically that meant that being happy did not make me a monster either, and maybe, just maybe, no one would think less of me either. I saw that others could love their babies and think of them everyday and still be happy. It was okay for me to do that too. I made a conscious effort to choose to focus on the positive memories, to remember the moments of joy during my pregnancy, the tender moments we were allowed upon her birth. Feeling happy about ever having had the opportunity to be Elena's mother, knowing what a beautiful blessing she is and experiencing joy over her was a good start to being okay with feeling happy. And knowing that our separation is only temporary allows me to rejoice. "Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him." (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14)
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