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."

Warning: Slight "Tangled" Spoiler.

Okay, I admit it. I'm a complete sap. Movies really affect me; they always have, and animated Disney movies are no exception.

I took Ely to see the new Disney movie "Tangled" today, and even though it had a happy ending (what fairytale doesn't), it had some really sad and moving parts. Having gone several days without experiencing the consistent deep, stabbing pain of loss, I was hardly anticipating that a trip to the movies would break my streak. But it did.

In the movie, every year the people of the town release flying lanterns to celebrate the lost princess's (Rapunzel's) birthday. On Rapunzel's 18th birthday, there is a scene where the king is crying because he desperately misses his daughter. Cue the tears. Yes, I know I'm identifying with an animated fictional character, but I couldn't help myself.

Then, in the same few minutes, Rapunzel and Eugene sing a song that kept the tears flowing. The main line in the song is "All At Once, Everything Looks Different Now That I See You." I thought of Stella. I thought about how I had a hard time becoming attached to her while I carried her and how I worried that I wouldn't bond with her after she was born. Having decided against prenatal genetic testing, I had no idea what she would look like and the types of deformities she might have. What if she looked strange? What if I was scared by the way she looked? What if I didn't think she was beautiful?

Oh, but if only I had known how I would feel about her. I saw her for only thirty seconds after she was born, but "All at Once, everything looked different now that I saw you." I had an immediate, intense love for Stella that I did not experience with my boys. And she didn't look "normal," but gosh, she was beautiful. And seeing her changed everything.

My whole world looked different the day Stella came into my life, and my whole world still looks different. I cherish moments with my boys, with my husband, and even with complete strangers in ways I didn't before. My perspective has shifted to much more of an eternal perspective than an earthly perspective. I feel so deeply, and my heart has been tenderized, not just to my own pain, but to the pain of others. I'm so much healthier spiritually than I've been in a long time. Nothing matters more than glorifying God with everything I do.

I'm trying to be a better mother, to remember and hold dear the sweet and bittersweet things my boys say and do. I know that God is teaching me through my boys. He is using my boys to both help me hold on to and to let go of my precious Stella. I think their worlds look different, too, now that their baby sister is gone.

Today, I was priveleged to see more of a glimpse of what Milo is feeling (and a little later on, Mike, too.)

Every year, I buy an ornament for each boy that's representative of something from that year. We have a Christmas ornament that's a milk bottle for Ely when he was one. Thy boy loved his milk at that age and did up until about six months ago. It was the end of the world if we ran out of milk. While the boys were decorating the Christmas tree, Milo became enthralled with the milk bottle ornament. He gingerly lifted it from the Christmas tree and brought it over to me.

"I need some of this, mommy," he told me.

"You need some milk, Milo?" I repeated after him.

"Yes," Milo explained, "because I want a baby."

Mike and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes and extended bottom lips.

I noticed that Mike's sad expression hadn't left his face an hour after he and the boys had finished decorating the tree. I encouraged him to talk to me. It's a rare occasion that my introspective husband takes me up on this offer, but this time, he did.

"I was looking at the ornaments, at all the ones with the boys' names on them, and it made me sad. The hardest is the letter ornaments." I couldn't remember what letter ornaments Mike was talking about, so I asked him. He walked over to the tree and showed me his M. "These ornaments. The cookie cutter ones. We all have one. An M, J, M, and an E." And I filled in the blank. No S. "They're on the other side of the tree so I don't have to see them from the couch," Mike finished. More eye welling and protruding lower lips.

As Mike was tucking the boys in tonight, and they were praying together, I heard Milo mention baby Stella. When Mike returned from the boys' room, I asked him what Milo had said. Mike interpreted Milo's prayer to his best understanding. Milo had thanked God that Stella was with him. Oh, Milo. My little three-year-old boy was again echoing his mommy's heart. Glad that our Stella is with God, but so hoping for a [healthy] baby.

"All At Once, Everything Looks Different Now That I See You." Everything looks different for all of us now that we've seen and met our baby Stella. Everything looks different now that we've seen and met God. And He's met us.