It had, mercifully, been four and a half years since I last named a baby I would never hold. For the last 3 years, "miscarriage" was a word that belonged to the past, the before, the then. And then the worlds collided. I have struggled this last week and a half to put words to my grief in a way I never have before. Not in the sense that my grief is greater than before. It's sudden return was shocking, and came at a time when I was already emotionally and physically at my limits. And yet, it was an old friend, and we sat in silence taking in each others company again. Not necessarily uncomfortable, but a constant companion whose presence I have long since accepted and even welcomed. The lessons of my past flooded back to me. The ways that, over many difficult years, I had disciplined my thoughts and feelings to stay in line with what is true and what is helpful were pulled from the files in the backroom of my brain. Dusty, but there, ready to be called upon. In the past, Grief has often brought her unsavory friends along; Anger, Bitterness, Guilt, or Shame. But not this time. This time, it was just grief and me. It was steady, and pure. She's been coming and going the last few days. I know from experience that in time she'll be gone much more than she comes around. The door is open for her to come and go; sometimes I see her coming, and sometimes she drops in unexpectedly, but this time, I haven't asked her to linger, nor have I felt guilty for her absence when she's away.
I used to think grief was something to be "dealt with" and privately at that. I used to think there was shame in tears. And then I learned that grief is love with no place to go. Tears are a spilling out of that love that cannot be poured into the child I have lost. There is nothing more natural and right than the love of a mother for her child. To grieve deeply is to love deeply and to keenly feel the brokenness of the world and of our own bodies. Love in a fallen world and fallen bodies... there's a reason I have a necklace with my lost babies' birthstones with the inscription "Love is Brave"; to love is to risk becoming acquainted with grief. But I no longer fear grief. So when I am inevitibly asked how I am doing; I am grieving, and that's ok. I am crying, and that's ok. This is a sorrowful moment in time, but I am putting one foot in front of the other, and believing that better days will come, even as my old friend Grief joins me on the way. Better days will come; in this life, and the next, when I finally stand next to all of my children and worship the Lord with them fully, even as I worship him here and now in the midst of earthly trials.
Eilian Brennan. My fourth child gone before I ever had the chance to hold them, whose existence was discovered during one of the most chaotic and stressful weeks of my life, and yet dearly and deeply loved and wanted and rejoiced over. And so, so missed.
"When through the deep waters I call thee to go, The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow; For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless, And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie, My grace, all sufficient, shall be thy supply; The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine."
May the Lord use this child to further sanctify me and draw him to himself. May he be glorified, even by the brief moment of time that this child lived inside me. May he continue to use this child and my story to bless and encourage others in their own times of distress. May he help me to love and grieve this child well.
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