Part 1
The emotions of the last two weeks and the on-goings of life have not enabled me to put together coherent thoughts or even a somewhat organized post. I am going to try today to put into words some of the things I have been thinking about lately, and also some of the things I have realized over the past year. Some of the things that I never would have been able to understand, except through a suffering heart and an enlarged soul.
My mind has wandered constantly to a year ago this time. Each day bringing
MEMORIES of what was transpiring one year ago.
Lasts,
firsts, and
onlys...
May 5th, the
last day I substituted in Franklin, smiling as I walked down the hall with my round stature, meeting the questions of students about gender with a smirk, "it's a girl". Many knowing of the two little boys I tow around in a wagon around their quaint town.
May 7th, my
last doctor's appointment with Amelia. The
last time I would hear her heartbeat.
May 8th, our final MOPS meeting of the year. An emotional day for me. The
last time I would feel her move inside me.
May 9th, a busy Saturday. One of cleaning, running errands, and getting the boys ready for a trip to a softball tournament in town. P's cousins were in town. We spent the day making a "Welcome Home" sign for our friends who were traveling back from a month long stay in Uganda with two boys, who would be two new sons / two new brothers to add to their family. I remember thinking how we would both make additions to our families in a short time of eachother. I also remember tension in my body over the last couple of days. Maybe it was the growing suspicion that she was moving less inside me, or with less pronounced movements. I chalked up those thoughts to paranoia, to the fact that she was nearly full-term and had less room to move.
That evening the small suspicion growing into a giant cloud of confusion and concern. I hadn't felt her move... or had I? Had it been hours? Had it been all day? I just needed to eat. I hadn't eaten anything substantial for hours. I made supper, sat and waited... I drank juice, laid down, and waited. The last time of hundreds before that I would push against her foot, smiling, knowing it was her foot. The
only time she would not push back, the only time it would fall away from my prodding, into the depths of my womb. I knew.
Later that night, the
last time I would drive my car with her along. I take her with me now, in my heart, but that was the last time she would physically be with me. I drove to the hospital. Not thinking, taking the car with the car seats, hoping against all reason that P and the boys wouldn't need to follow. That I would be home after a mere scare. That they would find her heartbeat, and I would come home, reassured.
It was not to be.
It was the
only time I would see nurses try and hide the panic in their face as they each took their turn moving the Doppler side to side, around my tummy, pausing for a moment, picking something up, and then matching it with my racing pulse. My pulse racing so fast, it was disguised as an infant's.
It was the
only time I would see her full frame, completely still on the ultrasound monitor, with no heartbeat. The doctor's words ringing in my ears, something I knew was coming from the moment I sat on my bed and felt her foot, which did not push back. He said, "It's not good."
I'm not even sure what he said after that. Maybe, there's no heartbeat, or she's gone, or maybe something medical-like, there's no cardiac activity. I really don't know. I think the nurses were waiting to catch me, to have me fall out of the bed, or scream, or flail my arms.
All I could do was let silent tears roll down my cheeks.
There would be many more firsts, lasts, and onlys throughout that weekend. Too many to mention. There are two that are at the front of my mind today.
The
first time I would see her.
P held her close for me to see, with tears rolling down our cheeks. She was beautiful. She was ours.
The
only Mother's Day I would hold her in my arms.
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Part 2
Sometimes the pain seems so fresh. Sometimes it is muted, sometimes it is distant, but it will always be there. The pain has caused me to look at things differently. It has proved to be a teacher and a constant companion. The pain is not caused by where she is now, for I know she is experiencing a joy we can not fully know yet. The kind that is beyond our imaginations. The pain is only because of what we are missing - for we know what could have been, if she were here with us. In our minds - we see her blow out candles on a sticky birthday cake, we laugh as she toddles around our living room, and we listen to her squeal at her brothers.
The pain is for a purpose. For the first time in a year, I read words that seemed to transcend all that I have struggled with.
I would ask God
WHY, and never seem to get the slightest reason. I was waiting for a thorough explanation, and expected that during my quiet times with Him, He would lay out the answer. My frustration was with what seemed to be the most silent time in my life. The silence was deafening between me and my God. He was trying to send me a message, but I would push it away. I wanted more. I wanted a thesis on WHY.
I remember it vividly. I got out of the shower - a regular sobbing session for me - I dried off, and was dressed with hair still dripping. I paused before I left the bathroom, preparing to pull myself together before I faced the rest of the day. I paused, then sat down, and was frozen by an image. An image of me sitting on a shore, and there were no words spoken, but Jesus sat down next to me and put His arm around me. It drove me nuts - there was no message, no words. Just His arm. Just His presence. Just what I needed, but didn't want to admit.
I know that God understood that I could not get to the point of saying to Him, "I know you are here, and I trust you." I also knew that He would not let me go one more day without making it clear to me that He was with me. He was there in my pain ---- even though I didn't know why I had to have this pain.
Now, back to the words from a book I just finished reading. The author shares great insight about suffering and grief. Her name is Dee Brestin, and the book is called "The God of all Comfort".
Here are three insights she wrote that have meant the most to me, and I feel they are worth sharing. They continue to give me new
HOPE.
First, "God does care. God does know what He is doing. He asks us to trust Him. He asks us to remember who we are trying to understand --- even when it doesn't make sense at all." "For if we actually love God, not for what He gives us, but for Himself, then our souls, instead of shriveling up in suffering, are enlarged. This seems to be a key reason God allows suffering."
Second, "Suffering helps us let go of this earth." "Suffering strips us of things that might have been keeping us from intimacy with the Lord."
Third, "Suffering has a purpose so deep we may not understand it on earth. But in the midst of mystery, we are refined. In the midst of questions, we come to a deeper trust in the One who knows every answer, in the One who laid down His very life for us." "God's spirit not only rescues and comforts us, but transforms us --- into expectant, longing, hope-filled children who are 'confident and unashamed before him at his coming'." (the last part from Jn. 2:28)
Our God, our creator, and the lover of our souls knows our pain. He may give us the desire of our hearts, but if He doesn't, we will survive, and if we allow Him - He will build our character, He will transform us.
Trust me, I will be the first to admit that I didn't want the transformation, I didn't want the character, - I wanted my baby girl, here with me. However, I knew that I needed God's comfort and His presence. I knew that He loved me. I also knew that He loved her - more than I ever could (impossible though it seemed).
I know we have all had trials and suffering in our lives. And, according to Dee, (and I sincerely agree) "Though nothing can fully prepare us for grief, those who have been strengthened in their love relationship with God before the storm arrives are more likely to make it through the icy waters."
I am sometimes still in icy waters, but I know I have a rescuer, a redeemer who loved me enough to lay His own life down for me. Jesus was forsaken at the cross, so that I never have to be forsaken, even though sometimes it feels like it. Today, I can say - outloud, I trust Him. I trust Him even when it hurts and even when I don't want to.
Ev-babe thinking that if he just says cheese, that he is qualified as a cooperating picture-taker. I have more than a few photos of him, with his big ole "CH-E-E-E-E-SE" pointed in my general direction, and his eyes gazing elsewhere.
O-dog wearing clothes. Here is the proof!
The boys making crafts at places like sunday school and MOPS. They are boys, and although they do the craft, rarely does it look as if they spent much more than one concentrated minute on it. What I do love, is how excited they are to give it to me, and on occasion, how excited they are to keep it. For instance, the lion masks below. A MOPS craft that was surprisingly "boy-friendly" which they wore for one picture at the pleading of their mother.
