(Warning: This is about my miscarriage. Please don’t read if it will hurt you. I feel as women we face the same issues yet often live in silence about them. Maybe you can relate? I posted this almost two years ago but today there is a nagging, a pull to re-send it to a sister who needs it).
I wake hoping this morning greets me with less grief, it doesn’t.
It was a cold Fall afternoon in late October when the Pastor I call Husband came home early. He brushed me with a kiss and wished me all the best at my ultrasound. We both clung to the words that acted as hope in that moment. I had previously felt the baby start to drain from my body, slowly, yet I didn’t want to believe it. That Thursday I found myself in a quiet intimate moment with the Creator as I bent my knees on the hard wooden floor in desperation as I sought Him. Tears fell as I petitioned over and over for the life that lay within.
I sat in a cubicle waiting to be asked to enter the dark room. It matched my emotions. I could feel my heart beating loudly and quickly. I looked at my hands that shook and I started to fight back the tears. The Doppler was placed on my stomach. I could hear myself muttering prayers, asking, pleading and begging. There was silence.
The world continued but I stopped. I found myself with a bleeding heart filled with excruciating pain. I had dreams for the little life that I yearned so deeply for. It had become a loved family member that we all rejoiced in. Each morning my oldest with hair of brown and eyes of blue would excitedly place a prenatal vitamin in my mouth as she “wanted to feed the baby.” Joy surrounded us as we talked about the coming of her new sibling. Instead I found myself weeping as I looked into her confused eyes, explaining in a childlike way that her baby had gotten sick and died. That he wasn’t strong like her.
The days are slow and I find myself filled with a gamut of emotion. I self talk perspective, to be grateful that I have children, that the pregnancy was early. Yet I dissolve as my words become messed up and mixed with liquid salt. Sobbing for what could have been…
I open the Word where I get my sustenance and soul food. He gives me passages of comfort. Part of me angry and part of me grateful. I speak quietly “Be near” tears cascade burning my cheeks. “Draw near so I can draw near to you. Wrap your peace and love around me as I weep.” Then I hear myself, it’s barely audible “Be exalted.”
The essence of true beauty is seen in the moment of weakness. A woman in complete surrender lifting the name of Jesus in hardship. Its through His strength only, that I can do it.
My arms slowly rise, lifting high as I opens my hands abandoning all to praise. I gently sings “Hallelujah.” A chorus that most people sing when all is well. Yet I have to do it in the storm.
I know what is lost will not be brought back, but the peace of God will. My heart is beaten and bruised yet with an intense ache I worship. The deepening of faith hurts, it comes with growing pains. It’s in these moments of no understanding and suffering He is felt in a different way. He cups me in His hands to protect the fragility of my spirit. The time of being hidden in a cold winter brings an undeniable growth that refines and teaches valuable lessons. I can feel myself being stripped to the core, molded and reshaped. I allow my grief to develop me into His likeness.
Does the act of worship in these times mean that the pain is numbed?
No. I wince at the thought of tomorrow when I’m left unconscious in an operating theater for Doctors to scrape away my dreams that is encompassed in a sac. That they see me a ‘straight forward procedure’ not a mother who is hurting and longing for the situation to be different. But its during these times of hardship that I allow grief to cascade and accept that my Maker gives and takes away.