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| Photo by Anna Merrell Photography and Design |
It has been the worst 36 hours of my life.
Wednesday morning we were taking a late 9-week picture. We
were pregnant.
By 4pm after leaving work panicked, receiving reassuring
blood work, and an early ultrasound a woman told us that our baby was not 10
weeks.
That there was no heart beat.
That there was no reason.
That it happens in 1 in 4 pregnancies.
That our baby had not grown since 7 weeks.
Thursday had been the day I eagerly awaited. The day baby
was a week older, bigger, and closer to my arms. But this Thursday, week 10,
our baby left me. The procedure took less than 5 minutes, and then my baby was
gone. The physical pain I can handle. I feel the rest is going to swallow me
whole.
Thursday I lay in our guest bedroom unable to adequately
move myself due to valium. We are not pregnant.
My heart can’t seem to reconcile that.
I was a mom. And now I am not.
Now, I don’t want to leave our guest room because anything
normal feels wrong. I want to cut my hair off because staying the same on the
outside when I am so very different on the inside feels wrong. I don’t want to
turn my phone on because all my flipping pregnancy apps will tell me I’m
pregnant…when I’m not… and reading loving, heart felt messages about the baby we
lost feels unspeakably wrong. Everything is just… wrong.
The prayer I said over and over and over again throughout
the past 10 weeks, whether at night before I went to bed or anytime I thought
of baby throughout the day or anytime I felt anxious was “Please God, keep baby
healthy and growing.”
When I would be anxious about baby I would work my head
around the gospel and come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter how much I
worry, it doesn’t matter if I have a sip of soda, or accidentally eat the wrong
cheese because this baby’s plan has been determined. It has been determined by
an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving God. Nothing I do or want is more
superior to His plan. At 7 weeks, he answered my prayer with a firm, “No.”
My flesh cries out in anger, confusion and pain to an
omnipotent God who had the power to give us our baby and chose not to. My flesh
sees a cruel God. My flesh questions Him.
But my heart longs for Him, longs for his comfort, for His
mercy. My heart finds comfort in His omnipotence, in His sovereignty. Not
everything He does is for my good, but for His glory. Outside of my flesh, in a
world I cannot understand, His glory is my glory.
Just before going back to the procedure room where baby was
taken from us, Michael read 2 Corinthians 4
4 Therefore,
having this ministry by the mercy of God,[a] we do not lose heart. 2 But we have renounced disgraceful, underhanded ways. We
refuse to practice [b] cunning or
to tamper with God's word, but by the open statement of the truth we would
commend ourselves to everyone's conscience in the sight of God. 3 And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who
are perishing. 4 In their case the god
of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from
seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God.
5 For what we proclaim is not ourselves, but Jesus Christ as
Lord, with ourselves as your servants[c] for Jesus' sake. 6 For God, who said, “Let
light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of
the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.
Treasure in Jars of Clay
7 But we have this
treasure in jars of clay, to show that the
surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. 8 We are
afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; 9 persecuted,
but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; 10 always
carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be
manifested in our bodies. 11 For we who live are always being given over to death for
Jesus' sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal
flesh. 12 So death is
at work in us, but life in you.
13 Since we have the same
spirit of faith according to what has been written, “I believed, and so I
spoke,” we also believe, and so we also speak, 14 knowing
that he who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus and bring us
with you into his presence. 15 For it is all for your sake, so that as grace extends to more
and more people it may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God.
16 So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self [d] is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.
17 For this
light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond
all comparison, 18 as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things
that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things
that are unseen are eternal.
This does not feel light. My chest has never been heavier,
my limbs have never felt more resistance to movement. In these hours, I can’t
see out of this pain, out of the darkness. It in no way feels momentary.
Because right now I want my baby more than I want God’s glory.
I know God is with me and He is letting me feel these
things. I know He hurts for my hurt. I know His ways are greater. But for now, I
do not like it. I mourn it.
Few things bring me comfort right now: my husband’s constant
presence; deep hugs from my parents, my brothers, Leah; my best friend’s words.
I am afraid to listen to the words of those who do not know
me best for fear they will be generic and not reflect the absolute devastation
I feel, regardless of how heart felt and well intended they are. Maybe
tomorrow, but not today.
Today, I will refuse God’s comfort. Today, I will lay in
despair. Today, I mourn the loss of our baby.
Maybe tomorrow will be a new day, but not today.
