Category: Grief

I just looked at the clock: it is 12:42 on Friday afternoon. It was exactly four weeks ago that I held my daughter in my hands. What a beautiful moment, what a horrible moment. What a piece of history. What a painful wound.

Have you ever had those moments where you felt like something was etched into you? Like it’s written into, not only your story, but into your skin, your very being?

Heritage did that. She—her life as well as her death—left me wounded.

Just twenty-eight days ago, my wounds were gaping holes: the kind where ripped skin, torn muscle, gushing blood, and deafening screams of anguish set the stage. And I know that someday the wound will heal over to the point where it will be scarred: most people may not even really notice it, they will no longer ask about it or wonder “oy! How did THAT happen?!” But that time is not yet. Right now, my wounds are scabbing—they’re in that stage of going back and forth between bleeding and scabbing, bleeding and scabbing. The wound is not as fresh and gory as it was a month ago, but it is still a wound. It hurts, some days maybe just stinging but other days completely throbbing. As much as I wish I could rush the healing process, there is no way to make a wound heal prematurely—the scabbing, scarring, healing process takes time.

Four weeks sounds like a lot to some people, and in some perspectives and in some situations, it may be. Can you imagine being without food for four weeks? Can you imagine standing still for four weeks? Of course not, because four weeks is a long time. Then again, four weeks is also a short amount of time. Can you imagine marrying someone you just met four weeks ago? Can you imagine climbing Mt. Everest four weeks after you learned to walk? Of course not (or at least, it’s incredibly remarkable and rare if you can!), because four weeks is not much time at all.
People not only wound differently and react to their wounds differently, but they heal differently too.
There may be two people with identical wounds, yet they may heal differently. They may heal at different rates, their scars may look different, their pain levels or pain tolerances may be at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Every time I see a baby or a pregnant belly… every time I even hear about one… every time I think about August… every time I look at my shelf piled high with injections and medications that are sitting untouched… when we hear news from my specialist that makes me think we might not be able to even try again, let alone have success again—these things pick at my scabs. I bleed. I hurt. I cry.

That’s where I am. That is my reality.

It isn’t where I will always be, it will not always be my reality. Because my scabs will harden, dry up, scar over. I won’t always bleed when poked (although I may if I’m sliced or sucker-punched).
The God I serve is the Great Physician, and He is in the business of healing, of redeeming, of making all things new.
Even this grief over the death of my baby girl will be nothing but a scar someday. I don’t know if it will be the kind of scar that you have to squint to see, or if it will be a bulgy purple thing that will burn if something so much as brushes by it. But I know it will scar. That is one of the ways God works: He doesn’t take us on a journey, and then bring us back where He got us at the first place. He takes us on a journey, and then takes us on another one as a changed person. There are purposes for the scars He gives me. One journey leads to another, and the scars I received on previous journeys will be there for reminders—for myself, for others—on subsequent journeys. These scars show who I am, who He made me to be, and how He is remaking me.

So as odd as it sounds, I look forward to the day when I am scarred. When the scabs are gone, when the blood stops flowing, when things have reknit and been remade into something new. It is hard to predict what the purpose will be, but I look forward to finding out.

And in the meantime, I ask for grace to endure the bleeding, the scabbing, the picking.
It’s been four whole weeks already!
Wow.
It’s only been twenty-eight days since I held her…

Most of the time, I can not stay curled up in a ball in my bed, alone with my tears… when I went through the majority of my miscarriages in the past, it really wasn’t so hard to spend hours of my day curled up with my tears, because Gabriel either wasn’t around yet, or was so little he was oblivious to Mommy’s pain. At this point, the miracles of life (times THREE, thanks be to God!) around me require my attention, and require me not to give in to a drowning of tears throughout the day. It almost feels like I have to schedule time alone in the bathroom (which comes at a premium anyway, of course) in order to let go of my guard and indulge in tears. I miss my darling baby. I hate that I am empty, when I should be round and full; just a few days ago, there was absolutely no buttoning of my jeans, but suddenly, I can almost button them again without a problem, and I hate that. There are so many dreams that lie shattered around me now, and I don’t have the strength to sweep them up and toss them away. I still want to grasp at those dreams… giving it all up just feels impossible. Last evening I was stopped in my tracks by some pains in my belly, and out of nowhere, I grabbed my belly and thought, “no! Oh God, please don’t let anything be wrong with my baby!” and in another split second, I remembered the awful truth: there ISN’T anything wrong with my baby, because my baby is truly alive in the glories of heaven where there are no more tears, no more sorrows, no more pain. But as for Mommy… I’m left here feeling empty, with nothing but blood and shattered dreams to show for it, with tears and sorrows and pain.

That’s one aspect of my reality.

Then 5pm rolled around…

A friend showed up on my doorstep with a box full of freshly homemade Mexican food ~ enough probably for three dinners for us! She apologized for not calling to tell me she was coming, and the thing is… having her show up like that just oozed Grace.
A few minutes later my darling husband got home from work, and brought in the mail. In that mail was a box containing a bouquet of beautiful lavender flowers from some of our dearest friends who recently moved eight hours away. In that mail were a couple of cards from people who wanted to share their prayers and love and sympathies with us. In that mail was a box packed full to the brim with tangible love: coffee beans, chocolates, notes of sincere Christian love, and gift cards for dinners & lattes ~ a box from people I hardly know, yet who love us with such Christlikeness and such Grace that it brought us to tears and absolutely blew me away.

When someone in the body of Christ is hurting, the rest of the body ought to feel it. And this evening, I was shown, through various gifts that God graced some of His people with, that parts of His body are throbbing with us and for us. Nobody had to tell these people to love on us ~ they just did it. There was no committee organizing these folks to surround us with gifts ~ God urged them to use what gifts they had, and they did it. These things today are added to a couple other cards and flowers we received a few days ago after we found out our baby had died. And once again, we are reminded that the Lord inspires His people to do His work, and that His faithful followers are called to share Grace together not because we have to, but because we love to and long to. Thanks be to God.

Romans 12:6
Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us use them…

Oh, how thankful we are that the Lord our God takes care of His children, and that He uses others of His children in order to be His tangible arms!
Brethren, thank you for blessing us with your gifts that God has given you; the gifts of words of encouragement, the gift of being our prayer warriors, the gifts of hospitality and helping us feed the hungry bellies here in our home, the gifts of beauty as you put flowers on our tables. Thank you for listening to the urging of God to share the grace He has given to you. Thank you for bearing with us in our weakness. Thank you for weeping with those who weep. May the Lord truly bless you and reward you for these sacrifices of grace.