A pause in the day’s activity. The dishes are all finally done, the kitchen is clean, and L is sound asleep in her crib. I could take this opportunity to fold the endless piles of laundry or tackle even more homework, but these moments of stillness, and solitude, are far and few between. So I will take advantage while I can- a cup of tea in hand- grasping at this precious moment and the reward of an uninterrupted second to think.

These past few days have been like a cornucopia full to the brim with emotions like fruit, some picked from the vine at their peak but others far too ripe, and slightly bruised, from their bumpy trip to the ground; some sweet, savory, juicy, and plump; yet others bitter and shriveled up from too much exposure to the harsh elements of this world.

I had barely even had the chance to process the reality of my newest pregnancy, to take it in and embrace the blessing, the excitement, the wonder of it, before the baby, and all my dreams for him or her, were painfully and suddenly wrested away from me.

Pain.

An emotion, a state of existence, a blurry frame of mind which has become all to familiar for me in my lifetime.

A baby, gone before I even knew (s)he existed. All my fears, which seemed so unfounded at the time, were realized in one phone call. A test taken too late, medicine that just didn’t get there fast enough, and knowledge that would only come to light after the fact.

How horribly unfair. This disease that has taken so much from me- the shape of my body, my health, my energy, my focus- has now stolen this precious new life. This treasured gift. And all the future dreams and promises held in the mind of a now heartbroken mama.

I never wanted to be here. I never thought I’d face this.

Oh how it hurts. Like the shock of being cut by the sharpest knife, pain only comes when the air hits the wound and the brain can comprehend that yes, the blood is yours and the body is damaged. A sudden realization that those burp clothes I was going to make are unnecessary. That I can take the Excedrin and drink more than one cup of coffee, because there is no baby to harm anymore. When I find myself rubbing my belly and daydreaming of nursery decor and names for boys and girls, only to come back to the present moment and realize that my womb is empty. Achingly so.

But wait! L just jumped on the dog again and is squealing with the delight of giving and receiving wet, slobbery kisses. And I find that I can still laugh.

My husband puts his arms around me and makes a grab for the T.V. remote behind my back, and I find I can still smile.

A favorite worship song, uplifting lyrics, a joyful message, sung by eager youths on Sunday morning; and I find that I can still sing. I can still worship. I can still praise.

There will always be a reason to praise, to sing, to pray. Now more than ever, when my faith is being tested to its breaking point, I believe the truth of God’s Word. It seems His promises are just for me in this moment. A balm on the wound that threatens to fester and spread. A single life preserver in a sea of emotion that threatens to swallow me whole and take me far below the surface.

My baby is gone. Gone to be with Jesus. I will cry for him/her. I will scream with the agony of it. The cruelty of it. The unfairness.

I will burn in anger.

I want my child back! I want to kiss sweet baby cheeks. To hold my darling tight in my arms and pour out all my love. I want to wipe the spit-up, change the diaper, sacrifice those countless hours of sleep. I want the first smile. The first laugh. The first steps. I want it all. Every. Last. Bit.

But I will rejoice!

Because more than that, I want the joy of Heaven, the Peace only God can give, and the Embrace of Jesus for my little one. What better place if not here with us? What better purpose for a dear sweet child than to be brought to life only to be taken to Heaven?

These thoughts are not the desperate rationalizations of bereft mother. Bereft? Maybe. At times. Desperate? Not at all.

I cannot say that I am happy that my dear baby is gone. I can not say that at all. But I do have hope and comfort. It comes from knowing 100% who I am, where I stand, and what I believe.

I am a daughter of the King. Treasured. Standing on the foundation of my faith in the only true Source of Salvation. Believing in all the undeniable promises of my Heavenly Father.

I may not understand His plans at the moment. I may not even like them. Secretly (or not so secretly) I may hate the fact that my womb is empty and that the promise of new life has been taken from me for the moment. But I will sing praise. There is always a reason to sing praise.

 

 

 

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