Seven days, four babies.

A week ago, I learned that a sweet, sweet woman I go to church with was having he second miscarriage. She struggled. Vented a little. Asked for a little advice. I prayed. Did my best to share her burden.

On Thursday, a baby girl named Annette entered her eternity after fighting the same genetic cancer that took her sister Madeline. Her last moments were peaceful, pain free. I have been praying for her. Prayed this last week especially for her parents, and her big brother - he's so young to have to comprehend why his "dinosaur nest" wasn't enough to make his sister better.

That night, another sweet woman who has walked this infertility journey along side me for the last three years, felt her 26 week old daughter, Rachel Marie, kick unusually hard. The next afternoon, an ultrasound confirmed "K.'s" worst fear. She delivered her baby peacefully, silently, and in heart-wrenching sorrow yesterday.

Yesterday, a little girl - a baby, really - turned ten. It was a victory, a mile stone. She has been fighting brain cancer since 2004. I've been following her story, praying for her and her parents, for nearly three years now. This morning, she left this earth and entered her eternal destination. Her mom, her dad, and her little brother were with her. Her last breaths were peaceful. Pain free. Without fear.

And so, it would seem tonight that my heart is somehow heavy.

Please, please pray for these mommies and daddies. We are not supposed to bury our children. Parents are not supposed to hold their child's hand as he or she breathes that last, quiet breath. Caskets aren't supposed to be tiny. Tenth birthdays shouldn't be the final milestone in any one's life.

Tonight, that's all.