Life is an enigma. Days are filled with expectation and familiarity. You go about your moments, aware of tragedy and disaster, although generally operating on the other side. Then it happens. The sacred is ripped from your very hands and there you are, still alive.
Tears unrelentingly fell from my face for five days. On my knees, I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for comfort. Fearfully, I closed my eyes and begged for anything but this. With as much faith as I could muster, I spoke the only words that would leave my mouth…“You are good. I trust You.”
The day I found out we were pregnant with our second baby was the same day I lost our second baby. Medically, I wasn’t certain that my baby was gone. But as a mother, I just knew.
This is not some, “how I coped/made it through” exposé. Because I haven’t even gotten halfway across this valley. I’m telling you this because, as I’ve stated before, it’s okay to not be “okay”.
At this very moment, I do not know where I stand emotionally. Things feel dark. I mostly *try* to ignore the overwhelming sadness and grief. I don’t talk about my baby because people do not know what to say. And that’s perfectly okay. I feel as though I am some vague, ambiguous form of myself. (It has only been a month, after all). I was swept up with thoughts of my son becoming a big brother and having another tiny baby in the house, and all at once, everything was gone. What do you do when you’re left standing but your mind and your body have ceased cooperating?
I continually have to remind myself that there was nothing I could have done. This was not “supposed” to happen to me. Losing this baby was not God’s plan for me. I did not do anything wrong. This just happens. Knowing these truths does not mend the shattered and torn state of my being. They only serve as helpful reminders to stay tethered to reality.
When I began writing this post, I wrote a very detailed explanation that listed the timeline of events, exact conversations (if you can call them that) and everything in between. I quickly decided that you didn’t need that. I don’t know what you need. I just know that I need to tell you that you are going to be okay. You probably shouldn’t ask me how I know that because I will not have an answer. I just know that it’s true.
I’m right here in the middle of it all, but I will always be here for you.
Do not stay silent. Let others shoulder your tears. Know that your Creator is grieving with you. And let these beautiful words by John Mark and Sarah McMillan be your anthem: “when the night is holding onto me, God is holding on“