Divider 1
Divider 2


I’m listening to the early morning sounds of my babies waking up. My parents are here, so I’m given the privilege of sleeping in when they begin to stir. There are whispers of conversations because they know Mommy is sleeping. Or trying to. Soft and tender words spoken just to themselves and their imaginations, unaware and unhindered by self-consciousness. Something about sharing and lunch and babies. The little patters down the hallway rush to get this or that. Faint sounds of electronics let me know they are piled up in the living room — our Mario Bros and Transformer “tech” paired with some intermittent rattling I’m now convinced is a toy mixer. There’s that thick cough I’ve been concerned about. The on-and-off of the air conditioner briefly dims the sounds and now I can hear the Weather Channel forecasting the day. And maybe the dishwasher.

They are the sounds of normal. And so very daunting. I know getting up will get easier. I know moving will get easier. I know the fatigue will lessen and the sleep will become more sound and the rising of the sun will just get easier. But now it’s so daunting.

When I hear these sounds, I’m so intimidated and overwhelmed to face them. Yes, it’s intimidating to think of dealing with their grief in whatever unexpected ways it comes out and the sadness I know they feel. But, more than that, it’s their overwhelming normal-ness I’m not sure I’m ready for. They are SO glaringly normal. Their blessed youth and innocence of this life makes normal so much larger for them and unquestioned. They are still young enough to be a little confused by time and place. And absence. And so today is just Saturday, like most Saturdays. A new day.

They deserve this day. This new day. They deserve that great luxury called normal. And as I continue to listen — someone’s winning a race with Bowser and Baby Girl has chosen another puzzle — I can almost know the sound of normal in my own spirit. It’s only a faint rumble. And it brings this strange guilt and shame and sorrow and loss. Which I know is all, yes, normal. Hearing it, I can almost be ready for this day. This ridiculously normal Saturday. I can almost be excited for this new day with them. Almost. And almost is something. It’s something.

“The Lord’s mercies indeed never cease. They are new every morning. Great is His faithfulness.”


  1. Haley, I am not sure of any of us really know what normal is but I pray that you receive some type of normalcy to you and your children’s lifes in the near future! Please know you continue to be in my prayers! I hope you keep on writing. YOu are really talented and I truly believe writing will help you to heal! Love to you all,

  2. Your writing and strength amazes me. Your words are so elequent and heart wrenching. I wish and pray for the ‘best’ normal for you and your babies.

  3. It was my children that gave me the only normal that I ever new in my life… I alway praise God for giving me 3 children… not one but three before I became a single mother… They gave me a normal life as normal as i could have as a single mother… after the grief… you will see your children and of course our Lord is what is your Normal… He will get your through… your are amazing… you keep writing our precious Haley…

    Love Ms Evelyn with all my prayers

  4. Haley, I just want you to know that you and your children are always in our prayers. The service was beautiful. I was so glad that the minister closed with your amazing words. Your strength and faith will get you and your children through these difficult days; and with children, there will always be those normal moments that make it all so special, even the difficult days.

Leave a Reply

Divider Footer