A few weeks ago, one of my friends hosted a clothing swap party. For those of you who’ve never heard of one (this was actually my first), its pretty straightforward. Women come together and bring old clothes they no longer fit into, want or need. Then the swap begins! And hopefully each guest is able to find something new they can bring home. All the remaining clothes are then dropped off to a local charity.

In a world filled with growing social isolation, I think its such a beautiful way for friends to come together. It provides a glimpse into what community life could be like and I had been looking forward to this aspect of it quite a bit. However, there was also a huge weight that hung over me as the event drew nearer and I started to go through the clothes I may want to bring.

While many things (including other clothes) in my life have come and gone since Nate has passed, there is one pile that I struggled with the courage to touch. This one pile that not only represents a great hope, but also a great loss and change of dreams. My maternity clothes.

I have dreaded going through that box and have carefully bypassed it each time I worked on minimizing. These were clothes that I have held onto for over 5 years now with the hope that one day I would wear them again. Clothes that I bought when I had such a hope and joy for a future full of children. Clothes that I wore with Nate for my baby shower, for my birthday, and quite honestly, for most of the moments we were married for. These were the clothes that I wore after Nate, the outfit I threw on the day he was murdered, the dress I wore to his funeral, the clothes that were covered in tears as I lay in desperate sorrow. These clothes once held such a sweet promise and hope, but now seem to hold such heartache.

And this heartache has double meaning now. For initially, it was hard for me to go through them because they provided such a deep reminder of my loss. Yet now, they serve as a harsh reminder that even though God has blessed me with a new love, He has not blessed us with new children. This is a raw deep pain that I have carried for the past 2 years. It has been agonizing at times.

As I pulled out each piece of clothing, I gave myself a moment to pause and breathe. I began a litany of breathing, remembering, and farewelling. As I held each piece, I ran my hands through the fabric and reminded myself that these memories were contained in my heart, not in the item. And then I said goodbye. It was heartbreaking and healing. Giving up the hold that I have had in my desire to wear them again was freeing in a way. Now we can look to other options to grow our family – perhaps the plan God has had for us all along.

Showing up at the clothing swap was both exciting and terrifying. While I was eager to see my friends, I also worried that I would break down in the middle of it. I wondered who would take the clothes that held such deep meaning to me. For no one else would ever know the story those threads contained. No one else would know how difficult it was for me to show up with that box. All they would only see was the outside layer of the piece, but when I looked at them, I saw so much more than that.

I have realized lately that it was easy to share about my pain when Nate died, because the world already knew about it. This is a new pain that I have talked very little about. Yet I know I am not alone, and these things need to be talked about more often. If nothing more than to serve as a reminder that we do not suffer alone.

I remember years ago, when I was engaged to Nate, listening to a homily about a mother whose son was born with many complications. Her young son’s first year was filled with numerous surgeries, consultations and trials because of his poor health. During the homily, the priest shared that sometime towards the end of the first year, the mother found some time to put away her maternity clothes. And while she did so, she wept. As she held each item up, she couldn’t help but remember the joy and dreams she had for her little one when she had last worn it. She was so grateful for her son and loved him so deeply, but the loss of dreams she had had for him was particularly painful when looking at the clothes she had once worn with him inside, never knowing the suffering the next year would hold. I remember as I sat there listening to the story, how incredibly difficult that would be.

Now quite honestly, though I remember the anecdote, I forget the rest of his homily. But as I reflect on this woman’s tale, along with my own, the word I keep coming back to, is hope. My journey the past 5 years has taught me so much about hope. I have learned that despite my hope and desire to have more children in this life, I also know that my ultimate hope does not rest there, but in Christ. He has given me this life and these struggles, and they are not to be used in vain, but as a way that I can grow closer to him. My hope rests in my desire to see heaven. In this, I am able to place my trust in Christ’s promises. Keeping my hope in Christ has given me the ability to find joy even in the darkest of times. This doesn’t always make it easy. I have shed more tears the past 5 years than I thought were possible. As a mother, one of the greatest gifts I could give my daughter is more siblings, and yet for no known reason (other than God’s own plans), I have been unable to. Yet I know that truly the greatest gift I could give her is her faith and hope in God.

I often remind myself what St. Paul had to tell the Romans, we are to rejoice in hope and to be patient in tribulation. As we near the Christmas season, this hope feels even more alive in a way. For He is coming! And he wants us to be ready to greet him when he does.

And so as I enter my morning prayers, my prayer today is that we may keep a steadfast hope in Christ and desire above all, to meet Him one day in heaven.