Another day and I wait.
I wait to pass a dead baby.
Everyone else’s world keeps turning. Going through the day as they normally would.
Stopping for groceries. Stopping for gas. Stopping to play at the park.
My world has just stopped!
I couldn’t even make my kids lunch. Dinner was leftovers (my husband is gone until Sunday). I don’t remember now what they had for breakfast.
My life is on hold while I wait for my body to release a dead baby.
This hurts incredibly!
I ache deeply and feel an empty nothingness—simultaneously.
Sometimes we get to feel God’s love and support in the midst of pain. Sometimes He just feels absent.
I know He is here. I know He is walking with me—carrying me even. Yet, I don’t feel Him.
I don’t feel His love. I don’t feel His mercy. I don’t feel His grace. I don’t sense Him at all.
I remind myself that feelings are deceptive.
I still choose to believe He is here. I choose to believe the height, depth, width, and span of His love. But the experiential type of “know” that is part of that Ephesian verse? Well, all I “know” at this moment and most of yesterday is silence and aloneness.
I am not angry. I am not bitter. I don't feel cheated.
I am thanking Him for allowing me to hold this little one and mother from the womb once more, if only for a short time. To do so has been an honor and a blessing.
I am worshipping Him. Singing praises and songs of His faithfulness back to Him.
All the while, I try to keep my head above water in a pool of sadness with no sign of life ring or lifeguard.
That is the reality that is right now.
The girls dress as princesses, bake in their kitchen and play on the swing set. Nate builds blocks, reads books to himself and gets dirty. Brianne goes to her job then starts a new class at church. Jacob goes to art class and then helps at church. Jesse helps at a church service club, plays with his band and teaches younger kids how to make balloon animals with Jacob.
And I try to keep myself together.
I drop a child off where he needs to be, but don't stop at the park for the other children to play. I just can't. I can't smile at the other moms and kids.
I try not to cry. I don’t answer the phone. I rotate and fold laundry. But I can’t plan lessons. I can’t read a book. I can’t relax. And without a little blue pill, I can’t even sleep.
I still believe everything I shared yesterday morning.
But I am still human. I still hold this baby in my body. And I still want more than anything to be able to mother this child outside the womb.
But I don’t get to.
So I wait.
This is real. This is hard. And this hurts.
But He is still good!
He is good! Always!