Lily Dee

I was almost six months pregnant when my sister called to tell me she was also expecting. We talked about how fun future family gatherings would be with the little cousins playing together. I could also picture sisterly phone conversations as we passed through the motherhood phases together.

My sister's doctor recommended bed rest when her baby was nearly full term. Because her husband was serving in Iraq, I packed up my baby girl and went to stay with her as much as possible.

It was nice to just be together. I became addicted to HGTV. And when TLC had a "Clean Sweep" marathon, I was suddenly a couch potato.

I took a picture of my sister standing in the pink nursery with a rocking chair and a crib all made up behind her.

On one of her appointment days, I went home. I wish I could go back in time and change that day. I wish I would have been there with her when the doctor told her that her baby was going to die.

The next week was like a foggy dream. I longed for the right words, and the intuition to hug her at the right moment. Instead, in trying to help, I felt completely helpless.

I took her phone and talked to people so she wouldn't have to. I tried to give her space so she could cherish the time she had left with her daughter.

I was not there when Lily was born. I did not want to intrude on that private moment between my sister and her husband, who was able to come home for a couple months. I was on the way there when my dad called me. He said, "Lily didn't make it." It was Valentine's Day. I thought of the first time my baby looked at me. I cried bitterly, knowing my sister would not have that experience now.

My sister gave birth without the aid of pain medication. At birth, the baby never took a breath, but she was warm, small, and beautiful. I arrived not long after. When I walked into the hospital room, I put my baby, asleep in her carseat, in the corner. Then I went to admire the delicate features of my lost little niece. My sister asked where my daughter was. She asked to see her. My sister's love for my daughter never diminished, not even in her deepest anguish.

The funeral was a few days later. After the tiny pink coffin had been lowered into the ground, I watched as my sister bent low to the ground, almost reaching. My dad knelt on one side of her and held her hand while my mom held her arm on her other side. It was the first time in years our parents had been anywhere near each other. They came together for my sister. That moment was so painful, but somehow it was also beautiful.

I don't know many things, but I know that we are eternal, and I know God loves us.

I think it is fitting that Lily's Day will always be the day the world celebrates love.