Tuesday, May 23, 2017

10 years later

When a child loses his parents, he is called an orphan. 
When a spouse loses his/her partner, they are called a widow or widower.

When parents lose their child,

there isn't a word to describe them.

I am one of these parents without a word.



I remember the day of his silent birth.  It was 10 years ago today. The hospital room felt so empty with just my husband and I present.  I felt the nurses' pain as they were terribly saddened and knew that I was there to give birth to a baby that had already been carried in the arms of eternity.  We all were solemn and the grief hung like a dark cloud brewing in a storm.  I was numb and living in complete disbelief that I had lost yet another baby so late in pregnancy.  My body was ever so weary from the severe morning sickness that lasted all day and endlessly for months and months.  The thought of laboring a baby I would never hear cry, seemed impossible, but it happened.  He was born so tiny and so perfectly formed.  Just as I had done with my other babies, I counted all 10 fingers and 10 toes.  His body was so frail and I was afraid to touch his thin pink skin.  Every detail was being etched in my memory and treasured, because I knew I would have to say the final goodbye to his earthly body that was silently resting the palms of my hands that shook so violently.

It was such a dark season in my life.  One, that despite having loving support, felt like the loneliest moments I've ever experienced.  I deeply wanted to mourn his little life and the siblings lost before him.   I wanted to feel the pain and really mourn this horrible loss. These babies deserved the full attention of the broken pieces in my aching mama's heart.  Each piece felt shattered beyond repair.  It wasn't depression as in the medical sense, but instead it was a vast ocean full of grief that had waves that crashed unexpectedly.  My faith was pulled out to the drowning ocean waters on many occasions.  I cried until I had no more tears left.

I shed so many tears and screamed at God.  

But, I was communicating with Him and that was most important.  I still believed He was there listening. 


If I had stopped talking to Him, I wouldn't be where I am today.  He listened, and was always there for me despite my toddler-like tantrums and my utter lack of any understanding.  This very lack of understanding is exactly the description of faith.  Believing without proof or understanding and gripping hold in blind trust.

10 years later, I still remember.
10 years later, I won't forget.
10 years later, I feel blessed that I had 22 weeks of his little body carried with me.
10 years later, I know that I was the only one who felt his little movements of life.
10 years later, I still miss my babies not with me.
10 years later, I have a changed heart.
10 years later, I see things through a different set of eyes.
10 years later, I have great empathy for others that share this grief.
10 years later, I look back and feel blessed that I took the time to mourn.

Blessed are those who mourn, because they shall be comforted.

Matthew 5:4


 10 years later, I am blessed by the Father's comfort in this time of mourning.

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