​​My tiny dream, surrounded on all sides by dark sadness, misted over with uncertainty in my own worth and ability, its edges tattered by the unrelenting waves of grief. Born out of desperation to make sense of it all and nourished by determination to bring whatever good God could fashion out of tragedy, it glowed in the moonlight of the memories of my babes who existed for a brief moment--a handful of days to a dozen or so weeks. The greedy sea of doubt lapped at this bright spot in the inky blackness. It wanted to snatch it away, to drown it, to bury it in the sand of its miserable ocean floor. But this dream wouldn't budge. It stayed on the shore, cemented in love. And when the weak rays of hopeful sun peeked above the horizon, painting the water pink, this dream shimmered and sprouted. It shook off the last droplets of second guesses. It reached out for that hope, strengthened by the whispers of encouragement as others finally were shown this dream. It was introduced quietly, and the admiration from onlookers, the delight and relief from hurting hearts bolstered this dream. Its roots plunged into the soil beneath, to steady it and remind it of its place when the storm clouds of negativity would surely roll in with a grumble. When the scary bolts of lightning from other's hurtful words flash. When the creeping, thick fog of depression tries to take over and stunt this dream's progress, it will stand firm. It can name the seeds from which it sprung, it can repeat those tiny babes' names, Avery, Asher, Quinn. And it can live. -A