Diagnosis

I lost Brighton one day after seeing a healthy heartbeat on an ultrasound. I remember sobbing in the shower with the distinct impression that my body was killing my perfectly healthy baby. They tell you that's not the case. They tell it's "chromosomal". They tell you there's nothing you could do. It turns out I was probably right though. My own broken body, my own blood, is what's been killing our babies. In all likelihood, they could have been perfectly healthy, happy babies, had it not been for this thing called "antiphospholipid syndrome." And it turns out, it could have killed me too.

Doctors call it "sticky blood". In short, it means my blood clots very easily; too easily in some cases. And if it's not treated during pregnancy, they believe that tiny blood clots cut off blood flow to the baby causing miscarriage. If this doesn't happen, then, as pregnancy progresses, it increases the risk of blood clots forming in arteries and risks stroke and pre-eclampsia, and pre-mature birth.

It's scary, and it's sad, and it's comforting to find this out. We always look for reason in our suffering. We want to know why God has allowed things to happen in the ways that he has. To be able to see that he was protecting me from great harm gives some meaning to the tragedy of it all, though I would of course have risked my life for any of my 3 kids in a heartbeat. But that wasn't his plan. Now we know though. We can take precautions, we can treat it, we can take away most of the danger for me and our future babies, but it won't be easy. Every time that we want to get pregnant from now on will have to be well planned and well prepared for. It will involve 3 different doctors, and 5 medications administered 3 different ways, two of which are contraindicated, and one of which is a daily injection for the entire pregnancy, and a 6th medication if I'm as sick the next time as I was with Keelan. As much as I desperately long to be pregnant again, I'm also dreading it. The joy and excitement will be there, I know they will, but my first reaction will have to be to take a deep breath, thank God for the next precious life, and pray for the strength to face my fears. On top of concern for my next baby's well-being, it feels like it's all riding on these treatments, because it's everything we know to do, and if it doesn't work, I'm afraid nothing ever will, and not only will we not have that baby, we may never have a biological child at all until we meet our children at the throne of Jesus Christ.

But that's exactly where I find my peace in all of the medical jargon, and odds and percentages, and the depths of googling: the throne of Christ. Brighton and Keelan and Addison remind me to keep my mind turned heavenward, towards my true hope for them and for me and for all our future children.Though I am extremely grateful for them, my hope is not ultimately in medical treatments but in the unfailing savior, Jesus Christ. This truth is the difference between crippling anxiety and unnatural peace. No matter what happens, I will have joy and peace in both the happiest and most desperately trying of times, because, as always, everything is in the hands of our God who reigns sovereign over all of his creation; over my life, over their lives, over bodies and blood clots, over placentas and hormone levels, over thyroids and umbilical cords, and every cell in our bodies, and even over death itself.  We are thankful to him for this diagnosis, the treatments that are available for it, and the ability to move forward with genuine hope, regardless of the outcome. To him be the glory, great things he has done, and great things he will continue to do. Amen.

Having Hope

"I will rejoice and be glad in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction; you have known the distress of my soul and you have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy; you have set my feet in a broad place. Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye is wasted from grief; my soul and my body also. For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my iniquity and my bones waste away [...]. But I trust in you, O Lord; I say "You are my God." My times are in your hand." -Psalm 31:7-10, 14-16a

Every once in a while someone will say something to me in this season of life that I know I'll never forget. Often it is something that stings, but occasionally it's something profoundly helpful, and, often, profoundly simple. I went to an endocrinologist last week to sort out my malfunctioning thyroid and as she looked through my records, she spoke with genuine compassion when she said "3 pregnancies and 3 miscarriages, that takes my breath away. I'm so sorry."

Sometimes I underestimate the toll that saying goodbye to 4 beloved children (including foster love) has taken, and continues to take, especially when 3 of them were in as many months. This grief is a long, slow burn. The longing to fill our home with family is physical; I can feel it in my chest. The brokenness of death and of foster care still captures my thoughts, I still cry, I still lay in bed instead of doing the dishes, and I still wish them back, even though I know they don't belong here. I still have sorrows and I still sigh, and even with how open I try to be about all of it, I still feel shame in that sorrow. I fear making others uncomfortable with my story and the reality of my grief. I fear being a burden to someone. I fear that I sin by my sorrow. But if it takes away the breath of a stranger, of a medical professional who sees hard things all day long, I'm reminded that it's allowed to take my breath away too.

I'm not doing this grief thing perfectly. But I'm so grateful for the license that this Psalm gives me to deeply, painfully, grieve and sigh. And to know that not only does it take my doctor's breath away, not only does it knock me down, but that God has seen the distress of my soul, and he has seen me sin in that distress, and yet he has been steadfast in his love and gracious in his dealings with me, showering me with his his provision and forgiveness. I recently had a few weeks that were very hard for me; I felt like I couldn't get my head above water, and I felt like my soul and body were "wasted in grief." The longer I let it go, the worse it got, and the more upset with myself I became over it. And then, suddenly, God has set my feet on a broad place the past few days. I feel a spring awakening in my soul. I have a rekindled love of God's word and of God himself. He has not handed me over to self-pity and shame and despair, but has rescued me from my own deceitful heart and manipulative attitudes. My grieving doesn't cease, and there are days that I quip that God has been teaching me patience for 3 years, and I can't wait for him to be done with it. But I know that "my times are in his hands" and I can trust in him, his plan and his love: he sees all my grief, he sees the depths of my heart, he grieves the brokenness of this world, and desires to set it right. What a good and gracious God.

Let me say here, that my husband is such an incredible example to me of God's love. I know that I've been a downright miserable person to be around the last month. I have grumped and griped, and blamed, and belittled, and not once was he harsh towards me in return. He faithfully did the dishes, and brought me water, and snacks when I didn't want to get up off the couch, and spoke kindly towards me with more patience than I know I could have mustered in the same situation. When I realized my attitude and mean spirit, I had to seek his forgiveness, which he gave freely and immediately, asking nothing in compensation and he has not spoken of it again. In an even greater way, God has been gracious to me in ways I do not deserve and in more ways than I can count or even know; the greatest of which has been his complete forgiveness freely offered, and the second greatest of which has been giving me a husband after his own heart to walk through each day with.

I hope and pray that these hardest days are coming to an end. The doctor told me something else the other day: "we're going to treat this, and we're going to have hope." We've discovered that I have a thyroid disorder that can prevent pregnancy and cause miscarriage, and it's easily treatable. We've also found that I might have a clotting disorder that causes miscarriage and serious conditions that are life-threatening to both me and an unborn child, that can also be managed with great success. And so, though it's hard for me to really believe after so much loss, we have real hope that we will soon be on our way to welcoming a child into our arms to stay. What a beautiful, beautiful thought.

Whether or not we have children, we will still have hope. We will have a hope that is not difficult to believe, because unlike our experience with pregnancy and parenthood, we have not once been failed by the hope of Jesus Christ. Come what may, I will rejoice and be glad in his steadfast love whether I have joy or sorrow, excitement, or disappointment; for I always have Jesus and his everlasting love for me. I have the hope and knowledge that he will glorify himself in me and my circumstances. He will give grace and strength to not just face another day, but to be content and seek his glory in it, if only I ask. May he make it so.

Addison Jordan

"Whate'er my God ordains is right: here shall my stand be taken; though sorrow, need, or death be mine, yet am I not forsaken. My Father's care is round me there; he holds me that I shall not fall: and so to him I leave it all."

For the third time, I found myself pleading with the Lord for the life of my child. For the third time, that prayer was not answered in the way that I hoped, and our precious Addison Jordan entered the presence of the Lord. For the third time, I remember that "whate'er my God ordains is right." Not just because he is God and he does what he wants, but because he loves and cares those whom he calls his own. Whatever circumstances I find myself in, I find his care and love there with me, and the greater the sorrow, the more powerful and deep I find them to be. The more grief I face, the deeper I find myself needing to be rooted in his word and the truth of who he is. These are his words that I have been dwelling on these past few days:

Philippians:8-9 "Finally brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me-- practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you." 

Peace in the midst of grief and turmoil can seem unattainable, and yet, here are instructions plainly laid out for how to find peace as I face the loss of my third child: fix my thoughts on these things. Each of these things describes the Lord, so I fix my eyes on him. There are people and circumstances, and things that even in a painful and difficult situation fall under these categories, so I thank the Lord for those things as well. It's not that I am barred from also thinking of the grief and the pain, but one of my greatest temptations is to fall too far into my own mind and my own feelings and forget to remember what is true. There is a war for my thoughts that must be fought minute by minute, and when I can think about these true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, and praiseworthy things alongside that grief, that battle is won and there can be peace. Having spent far too much time living in anger and bitterness after my first miscarriage, this peace is such a beautiful and treasured gift from God that is worth fighting the battle for.

Psalm 55:22 "Cast your burden on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved."

After 2 miscarriages, it's hard not to see another one coming. As soon as I saw the two lines on the test, I knew that this was a very likely outcome. I knew that a third miscarriage would bring a new set of challenges and feelings and disappointment. At this point I not only grieve this child, I begin to grieve my idea of what I thought my family would be like. I grieve that with the excitement of each new life will come the fear (and the expectation) of more loss and grief. We are the one percent of couples who experience three miscarriages in a row, and statistically, it means that unless a cause is found, each future child we conceive will only have a 60% or less chance at living to reach my arms. That future is terrifying to me and letting go of my idea of what I thought my family would be like is a real struggle for me. With all this in mind, I knew this would be a hard one, and I knew that I must stand firm in my faith in the face of it all or I would have nothing left but fear. But the Lord will not permit the righteous to be moved, instead, he will sustain them. Boy do I need some sustaining right about now, and that sounds a lot better to me than living in fear and despair. This will not shake me, I will not be moved, because the Lord will make it so, and he will grant peace in times of deepest sorrow and uncertainty; "here shall my stand be taken."

James 1:17-18 "Every good and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.Of his own will be brought us forth by the word of truth that we might be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures." 

Even though this child's days were short, he or she was a good and perfect gift from above that we thank and praise God for. This is the verse that we have named this child after. Addison means child of Adam; with miscarried children it can be easy to forget their humanity, and yet this child was descended from Adam, the same as you and me, made in the image of God, brought forth by his will, and yet stained by Adam's original sin and in need of salvation. Jordan means flowing down, or descended; this baby is a gift that came down from the father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. On the days when our lives are turned upside-down and inside-out, God is there; unchanged, unsurpised, and unable to be moved. Because he is constant, I am able to wholly depend on him; to count on him with everything I have to be just and gracious and good to me even though I am completely undeserving of such things.

And finally, 

Revelation 21:3-4 "and I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.'"

My greatest hope for life after death is not to see my children, though I certainly look forward to it. No, my greatest hope is Jesus Christ. His worth surpasses all and brings more contentment than the most beautiful family in the world would. With each child we pray that above all else, they would know and love Jesus Christ, and that he would be glorified by their lives, and even by their deaths. Today, Brighton, Keelan, and Addison stand in his presence, worshiping him with all their hearts, minds, souls, and strength. Though I wish I could have held them in my arms and taught them his ways, I can't ask for more than this for my children: the salvation that comes from Jesus Christ crucified, and him glorified through them. This is the certain hope that I have in the sorrow and the tears and in the face of an uncertain future; that one day, the sting of death and pain of miscarriage and every sin and result of sin will pass away, and I will be part of God's people in his new creation. Then, I will join my voice with my children's as we praise the God who gives and takes away, the God who is good, the God who gave up his own son for my sake and my children's sake, the God who defeated the power of sin and death, the God who gives peace and hope in even the most terrifying and desperate situations, the God who never changes and never wavers, the God who is worthy of praise. "And so to him I leave it all": the physical pain, the overwhelming grief, and a future that, though it is uncertain to me, has been written by him from before the beginning of the world so that it would be for my good, and his glory. May he make it so, and give me the faith to trust his good plans for me and my children.

When Sorrows Like Sea Billows Roll

We lost another baby this week.

"When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say 'it is well, it is well with my soul.'"

After 5 weeks of beautiful, joyous peace like a river, the sea billows are rolling. Two years and 5 months after losing our first baby, and after 16 months of infertility, we found out we were finally, miraculously, pregnant again with no medical intervention. It was hard at first to think of it as anything definite, but slowly we were able to have faith that this time, everything would (maybe) be okay. The morning sickness came like a beast along with all the other classic symptoms, and we thought "great, proof that all is well!" We told friends and family quickly, because, after going through it once, we're still  firm believers in celebrating new life with our loved ones, and having their support if tragedy strikes. We finally went for the first ultrasound at 9 weeks, knowing in the back of our minds that there isn't always a happy ending, but excited and optimistic nonetheless. And then we discovered that it seems our baby stopped growing 3 weeks earlier, and if his or her heart ever beat, it wasn't now, and we never heard it, and we never will in this life.

In this life.

In this second great loss, I rest upon two and a half years worth of God's grace through which I struggled with the why and the what and the how and the what now. 

I rest in the words of the Canon of Dort that my brother sent me yesterday:

"We must judge concerning the will of God from his Word, which declares that the children of believers are holy, not by nature but in virtue of the covenant of grace, in which they are included with their parents. Therefore, God-fearing parents ought not to doubt the election and salvation of their children whom God calls out of this life in their infancy."

And then I rest upon the knowledge that 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 rest in the knowledge that God loves our children even more than we do, and that even when his plan is hard, his plan is good. He is good. I rest upon this firm, beautiful conviction and comfort that I finally came to so recently while I struggled to find joy and contentment in the midst of infertility: if I never get pregnant again, God is good. If I have 10 miscarriages, God is good, and if we have living children, God is good. His goodness and love are not dependent on my circumstances, for He has loved me from everlasting. He has given his Son for me, and if he would do that, then there is no shadow of a doubt about his love and goodness towards me and my children.

The loss of my own children reminds me of the difficulty of God giving up his own son for unworthy sinners. Jesus' anguish in the garden and on the cross reminds me that he went through worse than these, the deepest, most painful and terrible experiences of my life, in order that I and my children might have the gift of righteousness and eternal life.

And I find comfort that the Lord has brought me so far since the word miscarriage first entered our everyday lives two and half years ago. I praise God that the bitterness and anger that I allowed to hold me hostage for so long have no place in my heart and mind today as I face the same tragedy again. I am grateful for the incredible co-workers, bosses, friends and church family who have created an incredible support network, and for a husband who feels the loss and grief as much as I do, and for family who knows and grieves that they too have lost a grandchild/niece/nephew; I am so grateful that this time, I am not alone. I am grateful for the little princess that lives with us right now  who fills me with joy and makes me smile on the darkest days. I am grateful that instead of anger towards the Lord, today he is sweeter than ever to me, for I know that he loves and cares for me and for my children, and that he is here and he is good; even when it is unbearably hard, he is SO good to me.

These blessings and the truths that have carried me through the last couple years are held close like a buoy in these sea billows, and I can say through the tears and the agony that, through no effort of my own, but by God's grace and mercy, "it is well, it is well with my soul." Praise the Lord.

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)

____________________________________________________________________

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.