Six Loves Lost

Life-size replica of his feet

October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Month. In any typical year, I'd post those reminders/memes on my fb page without a thought. I'd do it because it would be my way of remembering the five babies I've lost in the past 15 years due to early pregnancy miscarriages. But all those babies, though their loss saddened me, were vague notions of a human being to me. I never saw their face, I never held them, I never even officially named them. I knew they existed in eternity as much as I did in this world. I knew one day I would know them and know their name. But to me, it was the loss of their future in my arms and in our family that saddened me, not so much the grief over their physical death. And then this year, everything changed.

 I found out I was pregnant again not long after the New Year. Just when I had signed up for a gym membership and even purchased extra personal training sessions (I would be getting back in shape this year, dangit!), I found out I was pregnant. Call it Murphy's Law, but every time I have committed to going on some diet or joining some gym or feeling like maybe there are new adventures or a new direction I can take, pregnancy hits me like a humorous, ironic and fateful force. A reminder that this life is not my own, and I am not in control. So a year and a half after my previous miscarriage, here I was again wondering what was in store for me and this little one.

 Week after week went by with no clue as to what was going on in there, what was going to happen. Finally, I had an ultrasound scheduled around 11 weeks. Pretty much right around the time I usually miscarried. I hadn't allowed myself to be emotional and even accept the pregnancy until I saw that little beating heart on the dark screen. Here was my child, still healthy, still moving around, still growing. I went out to my car holding the sonogram pictures in my hand and sat in my car and sobbed. I was going to have another baby! Finally acceptance. Finally hope. One month later, as I sat in bed early one morning unable to sleep, there was a pop and a gush. And just like that I lost him.

 Unlike every other miscarriage I'd had, this time I saw him. I saw his little face half covered by one perfect hand. I was struck by the details of him. His nose, his mouth, the little line across his chest that his diaphragm made. He was truly perfect in every way, and he was mine. But I would never hear his cry, never see his eyes open and never watch him grow. My heart shattered, and as I bled out the next few hours and days, it was if all my joy in life and hope in goodness flowed out as well. One week later when I could finally physically stand and walk again, we buried him in the pouring rain under our bleeding heart bush in the backyard. His coffin was a five inch box.

 My due date was in September two days after we closed on a new house. I was too busy to truly mourn, but I remembered. In the early days of October, probably about the time I would naturally have birthed him, my body remembered by dredging up nightmares of babies born and unborn. I awoke knowing deep down that this is when I would have had him. It was as if the very tissues and blood and genetic material in the depths of my body and mind remembered him and knew this would have been his time. I would have had another October baby.

 I will never be the same again. I will always carry around this sorrow that is a part of me now. And now that I've seen his face and held him, I know the love I have for him is the same love for all his brothers and sisters that have gone before him. When he entered eternity, they were there to welcome him. The first time he opened his eyes, he was able to view heaven. The arms that hold him now are Jesus' arms. And though my arms will always feel his void, he knows I know him and love him. And he knows his name.

Forever in my love, we miss you greatly, Matthias.

This is the one song that helped me get through this year. Most times, I sang it only able to mouth the words as tears streamed down, but my heart fully embraced, "Your Will be Done."  

Choices

Sometimes it seems like God is a big, fat teaser. It's especially hardest when life hands you unexpected surprises (a pregnancy, a job, a move - something hopeful) which then fall apart. You end up sitting there wondering what happened. Wondering why these possibilities were snatched away. Wondering why they were even offered in the first place. Hopes you maybe never even asked for. Dreams you never thought were within arm's reach that get dangled in front of your nose and then removed. Maybe something you've worked so hard for which gets further away instead of closer. In those moments, there are always choices. Choices to yell and scream, to sink into depression, to push God away, to give up. Choices to move forward, pray for strength and hope, embrace God. Sometimes we choose all of these. But the ache in my soul can tempt me to walk away instead of walk beside Him. But the knowledge of Who He is overshadows my weak resolve. My broken heart knows my healing can only come from Him. So while I kick against the sorrows life hands me, my black and blue heart tells me to run to Him. To crawl up into His lap. To cry and complain to Him. Because at the end of the day, no matter what happens, I know Who He is. He is not a teaser. He is not a bully. He is my Father, my Abba. And I am loved by Him.

Just as a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him. Psalm 103:13

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort. 2 Corinthians 1:3

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! 1 John 3:1

"The Room" by Joshua Harris

My daughter is the one who found this story and shared it with me.  After just reading it and with tears in my eyes, I feel compelled to share it also with you.

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. 

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed."

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I Have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger," "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.
I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

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"The Room" by Joshua Harris. Copyright New Attitude, 1995. You have permission to share. We only ask that you include this copyright byline and do not alter the content.

"This Is the Stuff" Life is Made of!

A friend posted this on facebook today - it's a song and artist I'm not familiar with, but it reminded me of our conversation at Kajiji Girls this morning.  It's a fun, light-hearted ditty about the things that can drive us crazy, and the things God uses in our lives to grow us.  About trusting in God as He knows best what's going to work in teaching us different necessary virtues.  I was also reminded this morning by my dear KGs to not lose sight of gratefulness even in the midst of tough times or even mundane times.  It's something I'll be working on (See, Stacy? How's that for a New Year's Resolution?). :)