Three days from today, I will be holding my precious new baby girl in my arms. Three days from now, there will be laughs and coos and phone calls and facebook updates and a little warm body in my arms and tears on my cheek.
And I will look at her and know that there isn't another baby in the world as precious and perfect as she is in that very moment.
And I will thank God for this gift - the gift we have sought for almost three years now.
And I will cherish that moment even more because one year and three days ago, I lost the gift I had sought for almost two years.
For just a few short weeks, I cherished a life in my womb. And I lost that life. And so today, just three days before we meet Penelope face-to-face, I want to take a moment to remember the baby - my baby - whom I will only see face-to-face in Heaven.
An excerpt from my personal diary, written one year ago today:
This journal feels so familiar. Sad. Desperate. Grasping.
I'm not sinking in depression any more, but it is still present. A daily decision to NOT to let it rule that day.
I had a miscarriage. That's the way I'm supposed to say it, right? It's like saying, "I had an ear infection" or "I had tonsillitis." It's medical. Technical. Cold.
The truth is that I lost a child. I lost a future. The moment I saw that little faint blue line, my future changed. I could smell the top of his head and feel his warm breath on my neck. I thought about what a wonderful big sister Maple would be, and I wondered how much Chloe would be able to help. Was she big enough to hold him? Feed him?
She would so love being mommy's helper.
I thought about baby clothes and a painted bedroom. About strollers and coo's and the proud feeling that rises when another woman - at the church, at the store, anywhere - acknowledges what I already know - that he is a precious treasure.
And I alone mourn this loss. To everyone else, it was an illness, something that "happened." To me, it is happening. I am grieving. I have lost. I, alone.
And isn't it strange that in my loneliest moments, God's presence is strongest. He is truly close to the brokenhearted.
And I'm jealous - that He is holding my child, and I am not.
And I'm grateful - that my child exists and lives without knowing the pains of this world.
Mostly I feel silence. No movement in my womb. No sickness in my stomach. No excitement in my chest. None of the signs of new life that were present only a few days ago.
And blood. There's a lot of blood. Days later and there is still blood - a constant reminder of the death of my child. That part doesn't seem fair. In any other death - even a violent one - one only sees blood at the time of death. For me, I see blood everyday, all day. Constantly reminding me that - even in my womb - my child was not protected from the curse of the garden.
And through it all, there is some kind of secret strength that arises inside of me. Below the emotions. Below the silence. Hand-in-hand with the emptiness, there is a stillness. Still waters.
I feel as if I have joined a secret society - one in which women who have lost unborn children walk in a silent acknowledgment of each others' pain. I see women I know who have lost, and I know in my heart - I am one of you. We are the same. We are alone, and in our loneliness, we are the same.
God is close to the brokenhearted. He is close to me. And He is teaching me how precious and fragile life is. And I will learn, and I will cherish the treasures that I have. And I will hold them tightly in my arms and loosely in my heart - because they are not mine. They are the Lord's. And He will do as He sees fit. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Yaweh.
