Yesterday.

Three years ago today, Hannah passed away in my arms at sunset.  With every milestone for her, I’m in awe of both how long ago she passed, and also how recent it was.  I realize now that time is a very elusive thing…we think we have a grasp of past, present and future, and yet we really don’t.  Our minds have ways of managing things for us.

This is our first time not being home for this milestone event.  We’re on a different island, far across the Pacific.  And yet we’re hoping to hold some of our dear, sweet rituals for her, and for us.  This morning I went on a super long walk, listening to my favorite music while I thought about the past 3 years – the people that have entered our lives, in many ways because of our sweet, sweet baby Hannah.

It seemed that my Pandora Station knew EXACTLY what to play – each song felt like it was talking to me.  The first song that came on as I started my walk was a medley of Blackbird and Yesterday by the Beatles.  Two songs that I listened to countless times during Hannah’s life.  I reached the end of the beach, where the lava rock takes over and you can cautiously pick your way across the tide pools.  I started going on the rocks, and then stopped in my tracks when I looked up and saw a dad and his daughter at the edge of the pools, looking out to the sea.  She was likely about 4 or 5, exactly Hannah’s age.  She reached up and grabbed her dad’s hand as they looked down into the tide pool below the rock they were standing on.  I took a few photos, enchanted by the sweet moment, realizing what life could have been like if our sweet girl had been in a healthy body.  And I felt the grace of getting to have our big guy with Greg at the pool, and a wonderful baby minutes away taking a nap, who will wake and play and delight in everything around her.

I stepped off of the rocks, and continued my walk down the beach, stopping at a secluded area of sand to write Hannah’s name and send her my love.  Just as quickly as I’d written it, a big wave came up and wiped it away – isn’t that life!?!

As I walked, I listened to lyrics of many songs in ways that I rarely do these days. The song that stood out for me – which shocks me – is Pompeii by Bastille.  I think of this as an uplifting, happy song.  But sung by Jasmine Thompson, it is hauntingly beautiful and meaningful.

Listen to her version on the link here.  POMPEII

I was left to my own devices
Many days fell away with nothing to show

And the walls kept tumbling down
In the city that we love
Great clouds roll over the hills
Bringing darkness from above

But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You’ve been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?

We were caught up and lost in all of our vices
In your pose as the dust settles around us

And the walls kept tumbling down
In the city that we love
Great clouds roll over the hills
Bringing darkness from above

But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You’ve been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?

Oh where do we begin?
The rubble or our sins?
Oh where do we begin?
The rubble or our sins?

And the walls kept tumbling down
In the city that we love
Great clouds roll over the hills
Bringing darkness from above

But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
You’ve been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?

If you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

In so many ways, it does feel like we’ve moved on – life continues, we bring new people in.  And yet we are forever changed by those moments – the ones we love and the experiences of being human.  Every single day I think of Hannah.  I thank her for her gifts to us, and I wish she could be here, living the life we’d dreamed for her as she grew in my belly.

So from this distant land, we’ll gather at sunset and send up our love and messages to her, and I know she’ll get them.  Below is the photo of sunset that graced us on the night she departed, taken by our friend John from the ferry.  Love that baby.  Here Comes the Sun.