I’m thankful there is a story beyond my own. The hard in this life would be too hard unless He was bigger than my story.
I’m thankful He’s writing it. Because in spite of he parts I would write differently, I know He’s weaving something beautiful.
He took a womb and four times grew amazing precious people. Unexpectedly to us, he gave us a fifth precious person that we dreamed about, planned for, and loved wholeheartedly as she grew for four months.
Then the doppler was silent and the screen showed her still.
To be empty when you are supposed to be full, to feel death when there ought to be life is to know brokenness in a wretched, personal way. The curse has hit full-force and I reel with grief.
As I move forward, I want to keep the grief close. If the grief is near me, I haven’t moved past that child. She’s real. She exists. And even if she is never mentioned by another, she is still loved and thought of. Miscarriage is cruel like that. You lose a child but have no shared memories with others of that child. So there’s nothing to say– nothing to reminisce on– no way to easily mention that name. And so it seems the rest of the world has forgotten. I make sure I don’t.
Today is Wynne’s due date. But really it isn’t, is it? We thought she was due here, but that was never His intent. He created her, I grew her, and then she went Home before knowing this broken home we know. For her sake, I rejoice. For my sake. . . well, I’m still trying to get used to the idea that for the rest of my life, I’ll be desperately missing her.
I’m reminded of the uncertainty of life as we know it. With that, I’m reminded of the grace that accompanies every sunrise. I know the faithfulness that He folds me in from the moment my feet hit the floor. I know the power of Truth being broadcast into my ears, eyes, head, and heart in a steady flow all day long. I know His Presence because even in my darkest moments, He moves in with Truth and steers my heart toward Him. I know His comfort– as I sit behind a closed door weeping from a broken heart my mind never drifts to despair. He nudges me with hope.
I know this small piece of my story isn’t the end of His.
This knowledge is a grace. Though I wish today that I was kissing sweet baby cheeks, I am confident that He is good. And perhaps because this good is so painful, it urges me to constantly look up rather than at my own small story. And you can’t complain about something that pushes you to Him.