Trigger warning: This post discusses infant loss. 

I don’t know what it is, but I have a really big issue with lying—at least when the lies, great or small, come from me.

It’s hard for me to “fib” to my daughter about why she can’t have a piece of Mama’s fancy chocolate because “They’re all gone,” when in actuality, I have two more precious pieces rationed and hidden away on top of the refrigerator for emergencies.

I absolutely cannot lie to my husband about anything because it makes me feel so convicted—even if it’s something small like “I didn’t have time to do the dishes today,” when I spent some quality moments resting in the recliner and keeping our toddler alive.

But, I remember a couple of months ago when I blatantly lied to the bagger at the commissary.

I don’t know, maybe this is kind of a confessional of some sort for me. I just need to get this off my chest. Or perhaps it will be a form of encouragement for you.

A few months ago, I went to the commissary for my weekly trip. In typical fashion, as we were walking to my car, the bagger tried to strike up a conversation with me. Of course, the opening question was, “How are you doing today, ma’am?”

I squeezed out a muffled “Oh, you know, I’m doing okay.”

I think the bagger took the hint, because not another word was exchanged as we shoved my groceries in my car. I plunked some cash in her hand, spun on my heels, and plopped into the driver’s seat of the car…then promptly burst into tears.

Everything was not okay.

Not even close.

And that commissary bagger barely avoided some unexpected emotional word vomit of epic proportions.

It was one of the hardest weeks of my time as a minister and milspouse. My husband and I were facing a major transition with an upcoming PCS. Pretty normal, right? Right.

That same week, I had just returned home from a trip to the Midwest to see my family. Also pretty okay. However, when I arrived from the airport, one of my best friends in our church home group called me and asked where we were. She told me I needed to get to the Army hospital immediately.

My heart dropped. Another dear couple in our home group had their baby that afternoon, prematurely at 26.5 weeks. However, when I boarded the plane in Kansas City, Baby Jona was here and doing pretty well.

Somehow, in  a matter of hours, that all changed. By later that night, Baby Jona had passed away. And our world seemed to come crashing down.

What that bagger at the commissary didn’t know was that my husband and I had spent all week walking side-by-side with this couple who lost their baby. We were heavily involved in the funeral planning for this little infant. I helped with her “Angel Baby” photoshoot after she passed, which I now call one of the most heartbreakingly beautiful experiences of my life.

Oh. And three days after this sweet girl went to heaven, hubs and I found out I was pregnant.

Dear readers, we say that honesty is the best policy. And I still try to live by that. But sometimes, it’s okay to lie to the bagger at the commissary. Instead of dumping my emotions on that innocent bystander, I had my weekly appointment at our Family Life Counseling Center. That was where I could share my true heart.

I firmly believe that all of us need someone in our lives that we can be completely, totally, 100% honest with. Maybe that is a spouse, a best friend, or even someone professional who just listens to us for an hour each week.

Do you have that person? Who is it? Please feel free to share and leave a comment below.

As for the family who lost their little baby, they continue to walk down the path of healing. They will never be the same—and honestly, I won’t either. I will never forget those moments, but I’m grateful for Army community that comes together in moments of crisis, be it to bring food, hold someone’s hand, or even tell us that, just this once, it’s okay we lied to the bagger at the commissary.