Now that we're in the midst of the holiday season, coping with our grief from losing Stella has gotten both easier and harder. We are all looking forward to spending time with family up north, and I'm especially looking forward to the boys being distracted by new playmates and new toys. The way the boys are currently dealing with losing their sister has been very hard on us.

Milo still thinks Stella is coming back. This past Sunday night, on the way to watch the Children's Christmas program at church, Milo said to us, "Mommy, we put Stella in a pot?" Confused, I looked at Mike, and he whispered, "He means casket." Patiently, we explained to him that Stella's body was in the ground, but her spirit is in heaven. Then Milo asked, "After I go to heaven, Stella come back?" Well...technically, that's correct, but explaining the principles of death let alone revelation to a three-year-old is impossible. So, I told Milo, "No, sweetie, Stella isn't coming back. She is with God forever."

Reminiscing about the two very short visits he spent with Stella, Milo says emphatically, "And I touch her hand!" Smiling sadly, I affirmed his sweet memory . "Yes, Milo, you touched her hand." Then,sorrowfully, Milo says, "I wanted to tickle her." Aw, my loving little Milo. He wanted to be able to play with her. I could feel my heart breaking. I tried to encourage him and told him that someday he would get to play with Stella, but that we would pray for another baby to play with here on earth. As painful as it is, I am thankful that my little Munch continues to remember his sister. I hope he will always remember his sister.

Ely has been harder to read in his grief. A few weeks ago, we were talking in the car about Ely's shopping list for Santa's Secret Workshop . This year was the first year Ely got to shop by himself for Mommy, Daddy, and Milo. (I can't wait to see what he picked out!) Mike asked Ely, "Besides Mommy and Daddy, is there anyone else you'd like to buy a gift for?" Ely thought for a few seconds, and then said, "Tasha." Surprised, I asked, "Do you have a friend Tasha, or do you mean Mommy's friend Tasha?" He replied, "Your friend Tasha." He continued, "We need to take the presents to the hospital, because her baby's at the hospital."

I was blown away by the heartfelt generosity of my big man. He wanted to help someone who wasn't even technically his friend (not one of his classmates or friends from church his own age). "Ely, that is really sweet, but Marissa (Tasha's baby) isn't at the hospital anymore. God healed Marissa, and she is at home now." Even though Ely was in the back seat and I couldn't see his face, I knew his head drooped and his eyes lowered when he replied sadly, "But not our baby." I told Ely that God had healed our baby Stella, too, just not in the same way and that she was healed and was with God forever. I asked Ely if he still wanted to bring Tasha a present even though Marissa wasn't still in the hospital, and he said that he did.

After this conversation with Ely, even though he has shown thoughtfulness toward others, I have begun to notice that he is sad and confused (and I think also a bit angry) about why his friends have gotten to bring their babies sisters home and he did not. That same night, Ely also talked about Aidan and how Aidan's mommy got to bring home her baby. We can explain over and over that Stella is in heaven and that God is taking care of her, but we can't change his little heart or make him understand. It is so painful to watch him suffer the loss of his sister, and it is even more painful to watch him be angry with God.

Tonight at dinner, the boys brought up how much they want another baby. Ely loves thinking of names for his hypothetical brother or sister. His first suggestion tonight was "pink," and after we gently rejected that one, he wanted to use the name Stella. We explained to Ely that we can't use the name Stella again because he already has a sister named Stella. Ely's response was, "I had no sister." Okay, now I can handle a lot of questions and responses, but for Ely to deny his sister's existance brings a new level of pain that I cannot even describe. Ely turned away from us in his chair and crossed his arms. Mike said, consolingly, "Ely, Stella will always be your sister." Ely said (as he often does these days), "nuh uh." No matter how we tried to phrase it, Ely refused to acknowledge that his sister had been with us.

Please continue to pray for us, but please pray specifically for Ely. He has become angry and defiant at times and has changed from the boy who wouldn't let anyone else say grace at meals to the boy who doesn't want to say grace at all. He doesn't want to go to church or talk about God. It seems he is blaming God for the loss of his sister.

Please pray for us, too, that God would bless us quickly with a healthy baby. I have walked the road of infertility twice now, and I just don't feel strong enough to walk it again. We will allows love our sweet Stella, but we are hopeful that a new little one will help us continue to heal.

Losing my daughter has forever changed me; I will never be the same, and I don't think my life will ever be what other people classify as normal. I've read several meaningful and encouraging stories by godly women who have lost children, and they all describe life after tragedy as their "new normal."

The past few days have been particularly difficult for me as I adjust to my new normal. It's been harder than usual to find joy in the mundane routines like going to work and even in the more exciting events like going on a date to see Harry Potter (it was a MUST GO, by the way). Not that I don't enjoy doing these things; I do. It's just everyday normalities remind me that she's not here. I don't have a choice but to tackle life with an intensity of mixed emotions that just plain wears me out.

My new normal is having an emotional battle every time we go out for dinner. Going out to dinner is one of my favorite pleasures, but it also causes me to miss Stella a lot. When I'm in a restaurant, I think about how the Eber family wouldn't be going out to eat if we had a newborn at home. I'm saddened by how our "party of four" should be a "party of five." Ely reminded me again of this thought tonight, while we were eating dinner at The Olive Garden (thank you, Aunt Rosie!) We were seated at a round five-top table. The empty chair next to Ely prompted him to announce, "Somebody's missing. A girl's missing. Know who's missing? Baby Stella's missing!" This is one of the only times that I've seen Mike visibly upset in public. Little did he know, but Ely was echoing how I feel all the time.

My new normal is always having the feeling that somebody's missing. It's a little like the feeling when you lose your phone or your keys, or maybe even your dog, but multiplied by a million. And, on top of that, you'll never find what you lost, not in this life anyway.

My new normal is crying all the way to work every day. I feel ashamed that I ever complained about having to go back to work. While I do love what I do, I love my daughter even more, and I would have gladly given up my job to take care of her. During my one-hour commute, inevitably, 104.7 The FISH will play at least several of the songs that deeply touch me, and I'll have tears streaming down my face. I've never really been one to cry much, but let me tell you, the tears flow easily now, even when they're not visible. Now I long to do something more meaningful than web design, something that touches the hearts of those who are hurting. Though, as we sang in church two weeks ago, "Take my life and let it be consecrated Lord to thee."

My new normal is having life and death conversations with my kids on a daily basis and hearing about them having life and death conversations with their friends. While my dear [pregnant] friend Jennifer was watching the boys last night, her daughter pointed to her mommy's belly and told Ely, "Mommy has a baby in there." Jennifer told me Ely lowered his head and sadly replied, "My baby died." Jennifer and her parents cheered Ely up by reminded him that Stella is in heaven. My sweet, sweet boy. At times, my heart breaks more for Ely and Milo than for myself, knowing how desperately my boys wanted to be big brothers. Ely, in particular, is very good with babies. Baby girls have a special placein his heart, and he'll gladly abandon favorite friends and toys to sit on the floor with their baby siblings to roll a ball back and forth or make silly faces.

My new normal is having a room in my house that I can't yet bear to use. Last week, after telling Ely for the umpteenth time that Stella isn't coming back, he reminded me, "but we still have her room." I replied that yes, we did and asked him, "Would it be okay with you if we redid her room?" Ely shyly and sensitively responded, "when you can handle it, Mom." Sometimes I really think God speaks through my boys.

My new normal is navigating the waters of friendship with those who have been blessed with healthy babies. I praise God that not for a second have I been angry, bitter, or resentful toward any of my friends who have recently had or is(Lord-willing) soon to have a healthy baby. I do find myself frustrated, though, when friends complain about what I consider insignificant problems like what room to put the baby in or not having enough help after the baby comes. Yes, these are valid concerns. But, what are these concerns in comparison to the blessing of having a perfectly healthy, beautiful baby?

My new normal is trying to figure out how to answer the question, "How many kids do you have?" Do I say two and not have to go into all the details about how Stella came into this world and left in six short days, or do I say three and explain everything? Two weeks ago, at the Children's Imagine It museum, I was faced with this question, and I just decided to say, "two boys" to avoid the follow up questions. Now I regret what I said.

My new normal is having the incredible burden that God allowed this to happen for a reason, and that I must not waste one single moment that I could be sharing the hope and faith that God has given to me. I keep going back to the line in Matt Maher's song that says, "This is the first day of the rest of your life." Every new day is the first day of the rest of our lives. I don't see the point in living without salvation, and I so desperately want others not to see the point either. I am so human, though, and I fail so often. But I want this part of my "new normal" to stay a part of me.

My new normal is anything but "normal." But it's my life now, and I can't turn back time. Please pray for me as I continue to climb uphill on this new terrain called "my new normal." Although I am spiritually the best I have been in a long time, I get so tired emotionally. My body feels the weight of my emotions, and I'm still having trouble healing physically.

Aaron Shust - You Watch Over Me
"You watch over me in the darkest valleys
You watch over me when the night seems long
You help me to see the way before me
You watch over me; You watch over me"

Psalm 34:18
"The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."