"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.
