Words fail. But they do help.

A lot of people have written that they don't know what to say.

I know that people don't know what to say.

We don't know what to say.

But I am so, so thankful that they have still written.

I am not much for talking these days.  I don't answer the phone.  I can't talk about Eliza without crying and I don't have much energy for talking about normal things, so I'd pretty much rather not try to do the telephone thing at all.

What I have been doing is reading.  And I am especially grateful for those who have written to me--e-mails, letters, texts.  People who confess they don't know what to say but say they are sorry.  That's all you need to say.  There's nothing else to be except sorry.  Believe me.  We're as sorry as it gets.

Monica told me that our personalities get magnified by grief.  I guess they teach this kind of wisdom in seminary these days?  At any rate, it explains why David has taken on a series of projects--putting away Eliza's things, fixing the roof (with the help of my dad), cleaning, sorting, vacuuming.  His industriousness guilts me into doing laundry, so I suspect that our house appears much too tidy for a couple whose insides are being eaten away by grief.

My inclination is to embrace the antisocial bookworm side of my personality and sit on the sofa under a blanket and read.  I've read all the dead-baby books we have been given, with all of the heartbreaking titles like "When Hello is Good bye" and "Empty Arms, Broken Heart" (I think I paraphrase, but those might be accurate titles).  I've read Joan Didion's A Year of Magical Thinking, about the grief she felt after her husband died suddenly.  I slogged my way through I novel I'd heard about on NPR but didn't enjoy in the least.  And now--courtesy of the Kindle my parents gave me--I'm re-reading my way through the entire Anne of Green Gables series. 

But I am also comforted by reading again some of the cards and letters we've gotten.  Today I cleared off a shelf on the barrister bookcase in our living room and put Eliza's things on it.  A box that contains her blankets, a box that contains congratulations and baby shower cards, a box that contains her clothes, her baby book, and the disks with her photographs on them.  And the huge stack of sympathy cards.  I pulled out a few of my favorites to read through again--sometimes it's the cards themselves that are printed with the nicest things (there must be some people at Hallmark who really do understand loss) but more often it's the letters and notes people have included.

May you find comfort and strength in the deep love you have for one another, and know no more sorrows.

I will keep Eliza in my heart forever.  She deserves it and nothing less.

It is true that friends and family multiply our joys and divide our grief; yours is divided into millions. 

Such sadness may create in you a monument to her--hard, sharp, bright now.  I hope, with time, weathered and softened.  But present.  Real.  Immovable.  And not a place you have to visit alone.

These words--and hundreds others like them--these help.

E-mails, comments on this blog (most of them), and "Thinking of you" text messages--these help.

So thank you for that.

We are so, so lucky to have so many people reach out to us.  And even if I can't answer the phone or reply to the e-mail yet, please know that you are helping us and we are grateful.