A Name.

After two years and eighteen days, we named our baby. This is why:

Our child is a person. Present tense. Right now. Forever. Sometimes I feel like I have to fight for my child's humanity. A name makes that truth so much more of a reality for us and for others. 

Everyone has a name. The Lord calls us by our names-- the names that our parents gave us. And the Lord calls our Children by the names we have given them. And even though it has taken us this long, the Lord has called our child by his or her name from the day that he or she first existed. Isn't He amazing? Isn't it odd that an infinite, sovereign, powerful God lets us choose what He will call our Children? In the midst of the grief and loss and waiting that are beyond our control, the Lord has allowed us to choose this one thing. 

At first we felt odd about choosing a name for a child we never met. It didn't help that I generally hate gender-neutral names and was not going to give my child a name that I didn't like. And when you don't know the gender of your child, and never will this side of eternity, those are your only options. Because (sorry, not sorry) you cannot just decide what gender your child is. We believe that our child is REAL and HUMAN and EXISTS. And after 2 years, we realized that our child needed a name.  And, WE needed our child to have a name. And I finally found the one name in the universe that is gender-neutral and that I love and that is perfect for our child. I always thought that if I saw it, I would know it. And I did. 

You don't refer to your grandparent's death as "the heart-attack," you refer to it as "when grandpa died." So why on earth do we refer to the death of our child as "the miscarriage?" Well, because we didn't have a name. But using this terminology contributed to diminishing the humanity of our child. Having a name lets us call it what it is.

If you think you're never going to need a name, then you don't pick one. But after two years, it occurred to us that this child is a part of our EVERY-DAY-LIFE even though they aren't here to share it with us. There are days that their absence is nearly as noticeable as their presence would have been. There are moments when it is equally so. Today, for the first time, we've given that missing piece of our lives a name: Brighton Grey Pinckard will be a part of our family that we will cherish forever, and we will look forward to the day when we finally meet face to face.

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           Brighton                                         Grey                                  Pinckard

     (One Who Is Loved)                 (Both Dark and Light)                  (Our Family)

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A Grief Reflected Upon

"I'm very sorry to have to tell you this..." I can't remember what she said next. I knew what it meant; there wasn't a need to listen very closely to anything else. I'd spent the last two days praying that those wouldn't be the words I would hear. Where three days earlier the beating heart of my seemingly healthy baby had been, where two days earlier I saw his or her heart struggling for each too infrequent beat, there was now nothing but hollow, biting, grief.

How can it be two years ago when I remember it like it was yesterday? How can it be two years, and yet it still threatens to knock me off my feet; still occasionally doubles me over in tears out of nowhere, still burns my throat on a nearly daily basis? How is this the third year running that I don't have a child to put presents under the tree for?

Miscarriage is a bitter lot. So is infertility. The fear that I may never give birth to a living child plagues my thoughts. The knowledge that I nearly had the thing that I long and pray for on a daily basis, the thing that I've dreamed of as long as I can remember having thoughts, is best described as hopeful tragedy. Hopeful because I'm told that it means that I should be able to get pregnant again. Tragedy doesn't need explaining.

I'd like to tell you what I've learned through this, but honestly I don't really remember what life was like before. But I do know the realities that pervade my everyday life now.

1.The reality of a completely broken world. Souls and bodies are not meant to be separated. Even in a fallen world where death is inevitable, parents are not meant to outlive their children. This is not the way things should be, and we are in desperate need of a savior to fix it. His name is Jesus and He is my greatest comfort and hope day in and day out.

2. The reality of heaven. Even at the size of a pea, my child was a child of the covenant. And the promise is for me and my children. Each and every day with our savior is immeasurably better than the best day that I could have ever given my child here with me. I had hoped to introduce my child to Jesus. We prayed that he or she would know Him and love Him with their whole being. I wasn't able to introduce my child to their savior, He introduced Himself. And someday I will be there with them. (sidenote: this song by the Gray Havens is incredible and I love it and it makes me cry almost every time but, like, happy/sad tears)

3. God's sovereignty and His love for us. When I went to the hospital the first time, my brother told me that God loves our children even more than we do. I knew that in some way, but I needed to be explicitly told and reminded. Of all of the things that anyone has ever said to me in the midst and aftermath of miscarriage, these words have brought me the most comfort time and time again. When I struggle and wonder why, I remember that God loves him or her more than I ever could. And I love them a whole freaking lot. The Lord gives GOOD GIFTS to His children. He cares for us and loves us. God redeems the tragic for our good and His glory. The Lord does what is good for us and brings Him glory. If the best thing for me was to have that child, or to have any child, I would. I don't know why the Lord has withheld these things, but I know that he is steadfastly good and He has never failed to provide everything I need and no less.

4. It's still tragic and heartbreaking and really, really hard. That's the reality of my everyday. I know that the Lord is good, and I know that my child is in the presence of Jesus and that's exactly the place that I prayed they would be allowed to enter one day through the grace of God. But it is still hard. Every single day holds a hundred reminders that my child is not here and a hundred more that I don't have any children here. Every spontaneous date night reminds me that we don't need a babysitter. Every morning that I sleep in reminds me that I would have woken up to cries or shouts of "mama!" at an hour I would have considered way too early. Every friend's pregnancy announcement is a reminder that I never got to make mine, and that this month wasn't it either, even though I take medicine that makes me feel horrible every month so I have the best chance I can get. Every time someone asks if I have children, I want to say "YES!" but that would be weird, so I just say no, not yet, and smile politely while I cringe inside because my child means the world to me, even from a world away, but I can only really share them with a few people who are really close to me.

5. Love is Brave. A while after the miscarriage, I ordered a necklace that says this, and has a December birthstone. I didn't quite realize what that meant yet. But Love is brave. I love a child who I will never meet in this life. This is the easiest and hardest thing I have ever done. It's 100% natural, and it's incredibly painful. I know that if I do get pregnant again someday, I will love that child with my whole heart, even though I know that the deeper that love, the more it will hurt if I lose them too. People kind of think we're crazy for doing foster care, but honestly, I've spent the last two years loving a child who I lost. I've spent the last two years as a pseudo-parent; not a parent, but not not a parent either. I know it's hard. I also know that every child should be loved regardless of the risks. And I know that God loves my kids (biological, foster, or adopted) more than I ever will, and time and time again we will welcome them and treasure them for as long as the Lord allows us to have them, and then we will trust the Lord to keep them and care for them when we no longer can.

There are probably a million other things I could say reflecting on the last two years. I'll end here for the night though.

Loving With Empty Arms

Excuse my honesty. I haven't talked about my miscarriage much, but, decided that I would finally put a lot of the last year's journey into words. Read if you like, don't if you don't. This is more for my sake than anyone else's anyways. Maybe I'm unique in the way that I have processed and experienced grief, but I'd bet that I'm not. Most days I feel so much pressure to be okay again, to be myself again, to be happy and move-on. But that's not how grief works. Not for a miscarriage, and not for any traumatic loss. To be real, pretending not be hurt is when it starts to hurt the most.

I have decided that I am unapologetically not myself again, not okay again, and NOT over it. I'm a little hollow. And a part of me probably always will be. I expect that with time and effort that space will continue to shrink from what it was when I found out there was emptiness where I had seen my child's heart beating strongly only three days earlier. But, as my child should have grown and changed, the sense of hollowness grew and changed too. And it spread. From my own body to the extra bedroom that we called a nursery for a few weeks, the living room without toys, the Christmas tree without presents under it, to our car without a car seat, our vacations, conversations, spontaneous date nights, and unplanned trips to the grocery store (where I avoid the baby section if at all possible); I am constantly aware that there is a hole where my child would have been. And even another child will never truly fill it. It is a feeling you learn to coexist with. You learn to fill it with your prayers and tears and little remembrances. Even when you are happy. You learn that it seems less painful to ignore it, but the pain of forgetting is just as bad. And you feel that if you don't remember, the world will forget, and your momma bear heart just can't let that happen. Maybe there will come a day when I am not painfully aware of the hollow space in my heart, but that is not today. And that's okay.

Some days are easier than others, but every day is a battle. A battle not to let grief and bitterness overwhelm me. A battle to pray for peace and joy, when I just want to wallow. A battle to be happy without forgetting. A battle to be "normal." A battle to be authentic without being a burden to those around me. A battle to have my child recognized without making others feel uncomfortable. A battle to remember who I am when my life feels defined by the hole in my heart and my empty arms.  A battle between having a momma's heart, and no tiny hand to hold. A battle to live in this reality and not the one that "should have been." A battle to remember that God is good. He is ALWAYS good. A battle to reconcile that life is easier in some ways without, but I would have given everything to have it the hard way, which is what makes it so hard. A battle between being ashamed of my emotions, and in love with the fierce, undying love I have for my child. It would have been easier not to love so hard. But love is hard and love is brave, and life is precious, and Baby, I will ALWAYS love you. I couldn't stop if I tried!

I don't need people to be constantly grieving with me or talking about it (although, acknowledging it means the world to me). I don't need people to walk on egg-shells around me. I just need you to know that I'm still trying to figure out how to live with this hole in my heart, and I need your patience. I need you to know that miscarriage is almost as big a part of my life as motherhood is to those with children here on earth. I need you to know that I have not forgotten my baby, so maybe you won't either. I need you to know that I'm not ashamed to still be sad, and I need you to be okay with that. I need you to know that I choose to wear my baby's birthstone because sometimes it's easier to carry my love and grief around my neck than it is to hold them in my heart. And I need you to know that it's a December birthstone, not August for the due date, because my baby was born on December 9, 2016. He or she was born into presence their heavenly Father, and that is my single greatest comfort. My baby is real, even if no-one on this earth ever saw him or her for more that a few seconds on an ultrasound or held him or her outside of my body. My baby is in heaven. My baby is real. And so is my pain, even after all this time, so please, be patient with me. And maybe keep some tissues handy.

And y'all, this has been so hard, but God has been so faithful. He has been patient with me in my anger and bitterness and rage. He has held me as I grieved and brought me comfort. His truth has comforted me in ways that niceties and clichés could never do. He has moved mountains for me during this difficult journey to bring hope and healing. He is SO good. Parent's of miscarried little ones wait for their rainbow babies: the promise after the storm. But with faith in Christ, I have not had to wait for another child to have hope because I have had the promises of God every step of the way. It has not made it easy. It has not taken away all the pain and confusion, but it has taken some, and it has given me comfort during my darkest days because my hope is not found in a child in my arms, but the Child in the manger: born to bear my burden and take my sins. I trust in Him who gives and takes away, and I know that he holds both me and my child in his arms.