His name was Steffen

I am going to share a story.
It is a deeply personal story,
one that very, very few people know in its entirety.
Until now.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm sharing it.
I just feel strongly led to do so.
So here goes.

Forty-one years ago today,
my first child was still-born.
I was the only one who grieved.

At barely 17 and 18 1/2,
only Al and I knew I was pregnant.
And on May 17, 1974,
just ten days before he was to graduate from high school,
Al was not unhappy that he was not going to have to give up
his football scholarship to become a husband and father.
I didn't understand.
And he didn't understand why I wasn't relieved,
didn't understand my intense grief.
We were so young!

I was in my fifth month of pregnancy when it happened.
We had planned to elope right after graduation.
We had told no one,
but at nearly five and a half months,
it was becoming very difficult to hide my secret.
My father had commented that I was getting fat
and my best friend had noticed my new preference
for the loose-fitting smock tops that were popular then.
But I had kept quiet.
And so, when it happened,
I had no one with whom I could share my loss.

I had not felt well and had stayed home from school that Friday
so was home alone.
It was the only short labor I ever had,
it took only a few hours,
and there he was,
a tiny, tiny little baby boy.

I held him in my hands and touched
his tiny fingers and toes,
felt his transparent skin.
looked at his tiny little face.
I remember holding him to my breast at first,
hoping against hope....
I named him Steffen Fulton.

I very carefully washed him,
wrapped him in a soft fabric,
and decorated a shoe box,
lined it with cotton balls and soft fabric,
and carefully placed him inside and put the lid on.
I wrapped the tiny casket in plastic,
and, still cramping and bleeding,
climbed on my bicycle
and rode 26 miles out into the country
where I buried my baby.

I rode my bike a few more miles to Pizza Hut where Al was working
(home from school and gone to work by the time everything was done)
and told him what had happened.
He was at work and couldn't leave,
and so, I had a wine cooler (it was a different day...)
got back on my bicycle,
and rode the 30 miles across the city back to my house
and cried myself to sleep.
He was not mentioned again for a long, long time.

For many years,
I would go to that spot in the country and sit and cry.
As the city grew,
the country-side where my baby was buried
became urbanized
and eventually a shopping center was built at the site.
I was crushed, heartbroken.
And we finally talked about it.
I learned that Al had grieved too.
He learned I had been angry with him for all those years.
That shopping center was a healing thing.
After that, a May 17th never passed
that Al did not send me flowers or a koala bear
in remembrance.

Al and I talked about a memorial,
but never could come up with anything that felt right.
But when Al went to Heaven,
I added our first-born to the back of his memorial bench.
It felt right.
I think Al would be pleased.

Happy birthday, Steffen!

The Lord is my strength and my shield;

my heart trusts in Him,

and He helps me.

My heart leaps for joy,

and with my song I praise Him.

                                                                 ~~ Psalm28:7 NIV ~~