Rain showers and sunshine. Joy and sorrow.

From our home in Hawaii, I often see afternoon rainbows while I stand at our kitchen sink. If I searched the sky, I could probably spot a rainbow every single day since Hawaiian weather mixes sunshine and misty rain clouds perfectly. I love the way that the sun frequently shines brightly while a sprinkle of rain falls at the same time. A friend told me it’s called “pineapple rain.”

I’ve been living in this pineapple rain, a mixture of grief and joy, since our baby died just weeks before he was supposed to be born. This entire new year is not what we expected. Daily life has changed – I am not snuggling a new baby or learning how to navigate daily life with two children. My husband did not get to take paternity leave from his job, and therefore we postponed our travel plans. Later, when we take that trip to visit our families, we will be saying goodbye, instead of hello, to our baby.

A friend recently shared a description with me that is perfect in our situation as we adjust to our loss. I’ve often heard that a baby born after a miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant death is called the “rainbow baby.” When I commented that our daughter brings such joy and life and normalcy amidst our grief, my friend told me that the child born before a loss is called the “sunshine baby.” That phrase suits our little girl perfectly – even though we grieve and we are adjusting to life without our son, our daughter is a bundle of joy and energy, bringing sunshine into our lives all day every single day.

My grief reminds me of the rain showers we experience on our corner of Oahu, Hawaii. Sometimes, the tears (and rain) fall all day. Many days, it’s just a sprinkle here and there. Both tears and raindrops fall unexpectedly at times, and other times not at all. We have rainy seasons and dry seasons here. My emotions feel the same way.

“The sun still shines in Hawaii,” is a phrase I’ve often uttered in relation to how I’m doing in the weeks following our stillbirth. Yes, we’re sad, yes, we’re adjusting, yes, it’s difficult, but I look out my window and see blue skies. I step out the door and feel the glorious warm sun shining down on me, and I know that I am okay. Just as the rain represents our grief, the sunshine represents joy.

Our little sunshine baby is going full-speed ahead, singing, playing, convincing her older parents to run down the street with her or to play “freeze dance” in the middle of a parking lot. We still have a whole lot of joy in our lives!

What we’re experiencing these days is like pineapple rain. Grief and joy. Sun and storms. Laughter and tears. Sometimes one more than the other. Sometimes both. Sometimes it’s just quiet for a while. I personally feel sadness about the loss of our son the most when the sun isn’t shining. At night, when our sunshine baby is sleeping, the sun has gone down for the night, and my memories of baby Noah are most alive. It was at that time of day that I interacted with him most, feeling his movements as he listened to my voice. It seemed that he enjoyed my full attention once his sister slept. I notice his absence the most when I lie down at night, and he’s not there. He’s not inside my belly, and he’s not sleeping nearby. And I sure miss him.

Grief and joy. We’re living in that place of “both” these days. And that is okay.