I’ve never been good at letting go. Maybe it’s the result of too many novels as a child, a latent demand for happily-ever-after. Maybe it’s faith, waiting for the hope of tomorrow–for the “One Day” of eternity when all wrongs will be righted.
It’s been over a week since I first heard the baby within me was dead. (Can it really be?). Today we received a reprieve in the week of steady rain by means of an early-morning snow melting into brilliant afternoon sunshine. Life has resumed some form of normalcy. JD and I are even starting to laugh again; maybe a little hollowly at first, but a forerunner of the happiness we believe we will feel again. Joy is not measured in happiness, and can only be kept down so long. The powerful emotions that accompanied me through process of miscarriage are dwindling into a quiet, blank place in my heart. I don’t ask how life can continue as if my Kyla never existed. It is the mercy of God that we don’t camp in the death-shadowed valley–He promises to lead us through and that necessitates our moving forward.
Why do I write this? I realize it is not the hindsight, look-at-what-God-has-shown-me kind of post I normally write (although He has made His Presence known to us in a tender way). I write because I’m in the middle of the lesson, and I want to affirm in my brokenness that I still love my Jesus. I write because I don’t understand why He is allowing us to walk this road, but I choose to trust Him anyway. I write because I’m struggling with the “why” questions, but I believe He’s big enough to handle them in time. I write because I know that worship is most valuable when it is sacrificed, that death is a prelude to life, that my words are empty if I never face bleakness, and that voluntary love is worthless if there is never difficulty in the choice. We cannot offer God unconditional love in the way He offers it to us. Unconditional love in the way we understand it means that we choose to love even when the other person has committed an atrocity. God cannot be evil. His nature is goodness and justice. He cannot sin against us. Therefore, our offering of unconditional love to Him must take the form of unoffended love when He allows us to face what we know He could have spared us. I don’t understand You. I don’t understand why. But You are good. You are always good.
I write because I am not without hope; because I know the blank place will fall into joy again as surely as the stabbing of grief has already quieted to an ache. I write because I don’t want to forget this place–because the purpose of suffering has always been to conform us to His image. I don’t want to lose sight of the purpose in the pain of the process.
I have a daughter. My child waits for me with my Savior. How will our relationship be when we meet? I have more questions than answers. But I know we will meet. I will know her. She is mine for eternity as long as I run this race well.
My sweet little boy has come and leaned his head on my arm as I write. Although a place in my heart is empty, my arms are still full and for that I am supremely thankful.
You are with me. Your rod and Your staff are my comfort.