Song of the Little Battalion



Yesterday was Palm Sunday. The bittersweet of love and death. The hope of deliverance and the painful roads we walk to get there.

Palm Sunday 2012, we carried a tiny box to church. I had miscarried 13 week old, Francis Xavier. He fit in the palm of my hand. I had spent the night on the couch, not wanting him and the box with the angels on the cover more than a foot from my head. We said prayers at church. The choir sang, “can a mother forget her baby, or a woman, the child within her womb.” Tears splashed my fingers as I played the piano.

Palm Sunday, 2013, we went to church hollow. The choir sang the same song. We had learned the day before that the baby who was healthy inside me at 9 weeks, was now dead, also at 13 weeks. My miscarriage of Baby Grace was a nightmare I try to forget. Nothing  beautiful except her and her name.

Sometimes the babies I have lost are far away, not somebodys as much as something that happened and I remember I was sad about it at the time. Other times, Grace and Francis especially, are so close we almost touch. Like I can see a tiny finger reaching out to mine and I put my finger out to meet it. Only the thinnest of cloudy glass barriers separates us. For tiny bits of time we see each other, albeit dimly from my end.

Leading up to Palm Sunday this year, I ached a bit. For the hope that was them. The reality that is me. A nameless grief sang softly. But a sweetness too. I sensed their love. Their prayers. My lost little ones are a secret army fighting unseen on my side. I feel them smiling, hoping for me this week. Little fingers poking out to lift my grumpy chin.

I forget that love is stronger than death. I panic regularly about losing the people I love. But they don’t seem to.

Somewhere in the heavens it was decreed one day, that for me, Palm Sunday would be everything it ever was and more. That it would hold something especially for me. Hidden. Quiet. But very, very real. A persistent cry of Love. Like the daffodils pushing up through ice cold mud, year after year.

16 Comments to Song of the Little Battalion

  1. Carol Ann says:


    I will pray alongside you, if you need an extra shoulder. Daffodils are the first sign of Spring where I’m from.

    • Michelle says:

      Thanks, Carol Ann. They are our sign too and they are finally here, poking up their green promises.

  2. Danielle says:

    I have thought sometimes of Beth, you and I and all the children we are waiting to see one day. I have wondered if they have met and I imagine them playing together and looking down on their earthly family. I also lost one right before Easter which is why we called her Anastasia (Greek for resurrection). We planted a magnolia tree where they are buried. It is blooming now in time for Easter, celebrating life, renewal, beauty, hope, continuing to grow and blossom as the Creator intended. These children born straight into the arms of God – we will see them one day and it will be a joy.

  3. connie macmillan says:

    Beautiful, Michelle.

  4. Too holy for tears to be held.

  5. powerful words of Palm Sundays being all they were meant to be ring holy

  6. dad says:

    This is a wonderful piece…so well done to say nothing of its intimacy.


  7. marjorie says:

    Keep writing, its beautiful.

  8. Jane Parker says:

    Thank you for sharing your grief, your pain, and your hope. It helps.

  9. Dear Michelle,
    Thank you for sharing your journey in grief, hope and love. A parent’s grief is pure love poured out. I too lost a son David who was 17-years old in 1987 from a car accident. My journey of grief changed me from the inside out and helped me cling to my Jesus through it all. I too know that I will see my child again in heaven. I belief David too is in heaven praying for us here and joining with your two little ones. When I hear someone has lost a child whether through miscarriage or after they are born, it still bring tears to my eyes and I want to reach out in love to the mom and dad. Indeed Michelle please keep writing you are touching others with your words of healing, laughter and love.

    • Michelle says:

      Thank you for writing, Connie. I cannot even imagine the grief you have born with the loss of David. God bless you.