Saturday,
October 7, 2017 was one of the best days of my life. A faint blue line changed
me forever. The baby I had prayed for, the child I had longed for since I was
just a child myself, was growing deep inside of me. I thanked God for this
tiniest of little people. I reveled in that happiness for twelve days.
Thursday, October 19, 2017 was the beginning of the hardest week of my life.
The tiny person that I loved, that Jim and I had made together, that I wanted more than I knew was possible,
had left life before I was even able to see its heart beat on an ultrasound
screen.
This is my
first experience with a loss of this magnitude. The pain I have felt since last
Thursday is deeper and more gut-wrenching than I knew I could endure. My whole
life has changed, but everything is the same. There are no pictures of my baby,
no memories of its face, no echoes of its laugh. I am a mother with an empty
womb and empty arms. That hurts like no other pain I know. I don’t know how to
live here. I don’t know how to be a mommy to a baby I never held in my arms. I
don’t know how to ride this grief.
In The Hiding Place, Corrie ten Boom
remembers the horror of their arrival at the Ravensbruck concentration camp.
Upon discovering fleas in their barracks, Corrie cries to her sister, “Betsie, how can we live in such a place!”
Betsie’s response is a simple prayer, “Show
us. Show us how.” I’m praying that prayer every day. “Show me. Show me how. Show me how to suffer well. Teach me how to live
here.”
Horatio G.
Spafford penned the words to the well-known hymn, It is Well with My Soul, after learning that his four daughters had
been lost at sea. From his place of deep loss and sorrow, he wrote, “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.’” I’m praying that, too, “Jesus, the sorrows are like sea billows.
Teach me to say, ‘It is well with my soul.’”
Much of my
summer was spent reading and reflecting on the role of humans as the imago dei – the Image of God. I spent
much time seeking to image Him as I cared for my home, planned my classes, and
loved my husband. My mother reminded me recently of God’s love for us, of His
desire for His Children, and of His grief when we leave and despise Him. In
this sadness, too, I can know my Creator more deeply. In a time when it is easy
to ask where He is, to ask why He allowed my baby to die, I can look to His
grief and see that He knows mine. His heart knows what it is to long for a
child who has passed on.
Grief is so
very weird. The waves wash over me at the most unexpected times. They catch me
off guard, surprising me with their strength. Each moment, I’m asking for a
fresh batch of strength to endure. Each moment, the fresh batch is there for
the taking. Even in the midst of grief, there is hope. Hope that, because of
Christ, I will meet my baby one day. Hope that, because He lives, I will learn
to live here. Jesus, teach me how to live here.
