In my last entry I told you how we lost our child at nearly 12 weeks gestation. It was a devastating blow for me. In grieving my child, I lost hope for a time.
My first days home were dark. David had to get back to work but didn’t want to leave me alone, so he asked his mother to come help out. For three days she drove the 140 mile round trip to pick up the children, Jacob from preschool and the girls from school. Maddie was in Kindergarten. She cried in school when she told her teacher that our baby had died. I found out later this kind woman held Maddie on her lap during circle time. As my mother-in-law bustled about doing all the mothering that I was incapable of doing, I lay curled on the couch, wondering where God was.
It was in this first week that I came to grips with the most elemental aspect of my faith: God was with me. I knew it, just as surely as I knew I existed. I prayed to him, wondering if he had my baby. Was he holding my baby? Who was cuddling him, feeding him, loving him? In my imagination I saw Jesus tenderly holding my little boy. I had no proof it was a boy. I just knew it was. I wanted so badly to have my baby cared for, and no one could do it as well as me. Except maybe God. So I stayed on the couch and pondered these things and felt small and powerless and incapable of being. And in that loneliness, I felt God near.
I asked my Dad to call the hospital and find out what happened to the remains of the fetus. I think they were stunned. There was not much of a fetus in these situations, they carefully explained. It was impossible to have anything to lay to rest. I started to realize that to most people, this was not a baby, but a medical happenstance. I was fortunate that my friends and family valued life in all its forms, and allowed me to grieve.
There was a yearning deep inside me to do something for this baby that I would never have, never hold. I would never change his diaper, feed him, burp him, rub his back as he drifted off to sleep. But I had that maternal urge to do something for him. So my dad found a small wooden box at a craft store to have as a keepsake. Inside it I could save the one ultrasound picture I had of the baby, the sprigs of lilac, the handmade cards from the children. So I crafted the box.
It was small, made from balsa wood and etched with designs on the lid. In front of the hearth at night I took some charcoal and rubbed it into the base, feeling good about the deep, solid blackness that I could make with just a charred piece of wood. Over that next weekend I spent time in the garage with David, him puttering on a project for the kids, me painting the delicate lines on the box. It wasn’t burping, feeding, or diapering, but it was caring for a child, all the same. In those hours I had solace, time to reflect on what we had and on what we lost. I cried less often and began to smile and play with the children.
At night, when we said prayers with the children, my prayers were empty. I knew God was real, he was there, but I didn’t have any expectation that he would answer my prayers. He would give what he saw was right to give, and take from us what he would. I prayed for form’s sake. But I didn’t ask God for anything, because it didn’t matter.
David struggled to understand my grief. He knew it was hard, but for him, and for many men I think, that baby is real when it is born. Until then it is an ephemeral concept, acknowledged and understood by him but not belonging to him. He is not pregnant. He is not sick. He is not suffering back pain or heart burn or labor pain. In this sense, he could not relate. He felt loss, but not my loss. But what he did understand, that he had not before, was that I really, really wanted another child.
In the weeks that followed my friends gathered close. They came by to take walks with me and the children. They took me to lunch and wrote notes telling me of their previous miscarriages. I was among women who understood. Most importantly, they listened. One day about two months after the miscarriage I asked my friend over lunch, “Where is the baby, then? Why isn’t it here with me, being held and loved?” She explained, “He is in heaven, past the point of needing comfort or care. He has passed up all the sickness and sorrow and pain and will never feel them. He has gone straight from creation into heaven.” In other words, you and I must still experience sorrow and pain. This child, he has surpassed those things. He is in bliss and will never feel the sufferings we experience.
That was the key. I finally understood that God may take away loved ones, but that this world is not paradise. It is not free from pain and suffering. My child was released from it all, but I and my other children, we still had much to endure. It was clear that this world, and all that I made it up to be, is inferior to God’s kingdom. In his infinite wisdom, he knew that. But I had another question: why didn’t God just use magic, and “Poof!” make me deeper, more understanding, stronger in my faith? Why did he have to put me through all this? She simply replied, “That’s not his way.” I wish it was. I wish God would wave his magic wand and suddenly, we would all be more meaningful people with deeper faiths and surer convictions. But it is not his way. He takes the sufferings, the losses, the trials, and allows them to form our faith. Paul wrote that, “Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” Romans 5:3-5. I had read that line many times, but in living it, I learned it is true.
As I began to understand how little I see of God’s ways, I began to accept that my baby was in heaven and that heaven was a better place than here. It was alright to trust in God. It was alright if he didn’t give me everything I wanted, and it was alright if he used painful experiences to grow my faith. It was alright if he didn’t answer all my questions, because somehow he works all these things together to accomplish his plans for me. He wanted me to know his sovereignty. He wanted me to feel his presence. He wanted me to know how much family means. He wanted me to know that life on earth is not easy nor, in fact, the preferred way he’d have us live. It was the beginning of my healing. “Lord, thy will be done,” was not a scary thought any longer. I could pray again with confidence, not fear, knowing he wanted the best for me, whether I understood his ways or not.
The rest of the story is more of a post script. The real story is of faith lost and faith regained. Even if God had given nothing more, he had given enough. I knew his presence; I believed in his goodness.
Medically healed and spiritually healing, I began to prepare to go back to work, since our youngest would start kindergarten in the fall. Not only that, but 7 month after 9-11, the Army called, asking me to work for a year in my old nursing position so I could eventually serve in an Army hospital stateside. We figured our time bearing children was done, so I went back to work in the hospital trauma and burn unit. It was a surprise in December when we found out I was pregnant again. Certain we would suffer another miscarriage, we kept the news to ourselves through the 15th week and I kept working. Our 8-year-old thought I was dying because I was so sick all the time. We finally told the children and our parents but kept it quiet until 6 months passed and the baby could survive; I think everyone assumed I liked baggy clothes.
Our daughter Elizabeth Sarah was born in September, 16 months after her brother died in my womb. From death came life. From despair came hope. From profound grief grew a deeper faith.
