I haven’t written in this blog in awhile. I think that life gets in the way and it’s easy to put the hurting part in your heart on hold, or even to not realize it’s there.

As I have gotten farther and farther from the day when we lost our precious baby, I have gotten farther and farther from the place where I felt like I must write down my feelings or I would explode with grief.

I’m not exploding now, but I am being reminded that grieving is not a brief experience in one’s life. It’s a process. And like so many processes in our walks as human beings, we find ourselves sometimes going backwards, or at least stopping for awhile and not going forward anymore.

The sadness has been coming back to me quite a bit lately, in spite of the joy of life with my two boys, my husband. In spite of the healing that I thought was happening quite nicely, thank you very much. So I feel the need to write again, and I have come back to this blog, this place where I pour out my heart in words, to tell you about the child we lost.

We named him Elijah. We were so convinced this one was a girl, but in the midst of our grief we saw the irony and even the silliness in the fact that this third child of ours was also a boy. I was so glad we could find out his sex. To me it brought some closure, although I don’t think there ever is closure when you lose a child. Maybe closure isn’t the right word, even, but it was good to know. One of the tests they ran to see if they could figure out why our baby died was a chromosome analysis, and one of the things they see with those tests is the gender of the baby. About a month after he died, we got a phone call. There was nothing wrong chromosomally. And the baby was a boy.

The Sunday before we learned that our little son’s heart had stopped beating, our pastor spoke about the prophet Elijah. There was a famine in the land, so God sent him to live near a brook so he would have water and food. But the famine lasted for a long time, and eventually the brook dried up. And still Elijah waited. He watched every day as the steam became a trickle, and as the trickle became stagnant pools in a dry creek bed, and as even the pools evaporated. He watched as the animals stopped coming to the brook to drink, as his food source disappeared.

And still he waited.

I don’t know if I could have done that. As soon as that brook started drying up I think I would have been justifying my actions in leaving, going to find somewhere else to live. But Elijah’s faith brought him through that dark time, and finally, when the brook was completely dry, God spoke to Elijah and told him to leave.

God sent Elijah to the house of a widow, of all people. Widows in ancient Israel were certainly not the people you would go to if you needed food and drink in a famine. They had no way to work and often were very poor. This widow was no different; in fact, she had only enough food for one more small meal for her and her son. God worked a miracle through this situation, but look at it for a moment from Elijah’s perspective.

He had trusted God and waited by the brook. Life had gotten harder and harder, the animals had gotten further and far between, the water had gotten dirtier and dirtier. Still Elijah waited. And if he was like me, while he waited he was thinking in the back of his mind “Wow, my faith is really something else. It’s awful to wait here but I know when this is over God is going to bless me richly.”

Okay, maybe Elijah didn’t think that. But I sure do when I’m in a situation where my faith is being tested. Isn’t it amazing how even at our points of utter dependence on God, when we should be completely humble before him, our pride creeps up? “As long as I have faith in this, God will reward me and bless me and everything will be rosy.” I am constantly reminded that God does not bless me because of anything I do; He blesses me because He is good.

But I know that if I had been Elijah, waiting there every day, resisting the temptation to just walk away from God’s plan for me, and then God had said “Go stay with a widow,” I would have not been a happy person. Doesn’t God know that at the end of hard times there’s supposed to be easy times? Doesn’t He know that I simply can’t take more difficulties in my life? Doesn’t He get it?

Of course He gets it. Of course He knows my feelings, my heart, my sorrow. I wonder when Christ started to feel like He “couldn’t take it anymore.” Just the horror of being confined to a weak, fleshly body after eternity as unlimited God must have been torment in so many ways. To walk among the sinful, the sick, the perverse, the miserable, after the holiness and purity and perfection of eternal existence in heaven? To allow Himself not just to be spoken to, but to be touched, and to touch, and all that before He even reached the Garden and asked His Father to allow this cup to pass from Him. I think that was Christ’s way of saying “I don’t think I can do this.” But out of love, He just did. He let them mock Him, beat Him, curse Him, and crucify Him. They humiliated Him and killed Him and He willingly allowed it to happen because He loved me. No other reason. Nothing but love could cause God to allow that to be done to Him.

So I believe that the Lord knows exactly how we feel when we reach the end of ourselves, of our ability to cope. And I believe that He knows exactly what He is doing when He then asks us to take a step further, and another. He asked it of His Son. He has every right to ask it of us.

And Elijah did exactly what God told him to. He didn’t question or complain, he just went from one scary, hungry situation to another. And God did bless him, in the end, although maybe there weren’t as many earthly blessings as Elijah might have hoped for. It’s not the earthly blessings that we live for, is it? It shouldn’t be. Life is so short, but we have eternity ahead. I think maybe Elijah understood that. This grief, this fear, though it lasted his entire life, would be completely blotted out by the joy of eternity with God.

Elijah’s name means “God is the Lord.” It is a beautiful reminder of God’s providence, of His plan being the best plan because He is the One in charge. I loved the name before we found out we had lost our son. Once we learned he was a boy, Elijah seemed like the only possible name choice.

Our Elijah didn’t have to make the choices every day that the prophet had to make. The choice to go on and trust God’s plan, no matter where it led. God’s plan for Elijah’s life was very brief. Just a few weeks of a beating heart, and then heaven. I grieve, but what a privilege for my son. He’s already there, waiting for the rest of us to catch up with him.

And his life, which left so little mark on this world, left a mark in my heart–

God is the Lord.

Life goes on. It’s one of those things people say that you don’t want to hear. No kidding life goes on, unfortunately it’s not the life I expected or wanted. People don’t say “life goes on” when you win the lottery or get married or give birth to a strong healthy child. “Life goes on” is what people say when tragedy strikes.

The thing is, it’s true. Life does go on, much as we don’t want to live it. And it’s so hard to face it, at first. Life goes on– those pregnant women at work are still pregnant, except I’m not. Life goes on– the bills need to be paid, the laundry needs to be folded, the family needs to be fed. Life goes on– we go to work, to church, to the store. Even when we feel like the whole universe is crashing in around us, life must go on.

I am so thankful to my parents and to our church family who made it possible for Art and I to have a break from life for a few days after we lost the baby. We stayed at home and cried a lot. It wasn’t fun but it was necessary to the healing process.

But then it was time to face life. And it was so hard. Facing people– loving, sympathetic people who care about us– was the hardest thing for me. I didn’t want to talk to people, didn’t want to see that look on their faces, didn’t want to hear whatever platitudes they had to offer. Somehow I forced myself to get dressed, put on makeup, do my hair, and walk out the door. I was shaking when I drove myself to work the first time after my surgery. I was sure I wasn’t ready for it.

But life does go on. And I discovered that I work with some very understanding and kind people. Also that most people don’t want to talk about it, which is usually fine with me. They are happy to hear about my boys, or how dumb the dog is, or how much I need a haircut. And when I do want to talk about it, they are ready to listen. I’ve been blessed.

When I dragged myself to church last Sunday I remembered why we felt God put us into that fellowship of believers. Hugs, handshakes, and love poured out to us. And I discovered that I could talk about it without crying, without turning into a big ball of emotional crisis. I even found out that it helps to talk about it.

I never knew how many women have suffered miscarriages. They are a living testimony to the fact that life does go on.

It has been two weeks and three days since we discovered that our baby had died. It seems like so much longer than that. The first few days were like years. But now– I’m okay.

 I’m not okay every moment, and when I get stressed out it doesn’t take me long to remember that there are a lot of emotions still very close to the surface. But I can laugh, and live, and run around with my kids, and regret my gray hairs,  and read books. Those things– those normal bits of life– are my daily reminders that life goes on, and life is good. And even when life isn’t good, God is.

 I was sharing with a friend that I feel guilty in a lot of ways because I’m not crying all the time; in fact I laugh a lot more than I cry. She reminded me that God brings us joy, even in the most unlikely circumstances. “The joy of the Lord is my strength” (Neh. 8:10). We can find strength for difficult times in joy– in laughter– in seeing the humor in ridiculous situations. God’s joy, discovered in this unlikely time, is strength to me.

What a miraculous gift.

Life goes on, and God gives all I need to face it.

And I am excited to see what this new chapter brings.

Nine years ago today I fell in love with my husband. I was twenty years old– looking back, it seems impossible that I could have possibly known what love even is. I have to believe that it was God’s hand guiding us together. The guy I fell in love with, nine years ago, was kind, gentle, sympathetic, understanding, and and funny. He still is. And he’s a romantic at heart, and he cooks. And cleans. And no, I’m not sharing.

We’ve been through some interesting times together– good and bad. We’ve had money problems; we’ve had health issues. We’ve had loved ones get sick; we’ve attended funerals of people who we loved dearly. We’ve lived in four different places and have survived weird landlords, floods, community washing machines, and shared walls. We have brought two precious little bundles home from the hospital and have lived through sleepless nights, endless bottles, shots, diaper blow-outs, potty training, temper tantrums, and a couple of naughty words one of the boys brought home from preschool.

Life has not been easy, but we have grown together throughout the years. I am so thankful for that.

The last week has been the hardest thing we have ever faced in our marriage. To lose a child– so unexpectedly. I can’t even begin to describe how thankful I am for the wonderful man I married. He has been so strong for me, although I know he is hurting as much as I am. He has been absolutely incredible. And God is using the grief, and the sorrow, and the confusion, to bring us closer. Suddenly we hold hands more. We touch more. We cuddle and we hug and we make sure the other is doing okay.

There is so much to work through, so much we don’t understand. We are working through it as a couple, and I can’t express how thankful I am to have this wonderful man by my side. I don’t think I could handle life without him. He is my best friend.

Art and I have been married seven and a half years. Those years have not been easy; there have been a lot of tough situations. But when I look back over that time what I remember is laughing together. I remember good times. I can say these years have been happy ones. And so much of that is my dear husband, loving me and making me smile in the hardest situations, even in this difficult time. He is my miracle. I don’t deserve him.

But I thank God for him.

I  love you, sweetheart.

We weren’t trying to get pregnant. I think that’s what makes this whole miscarriage experience more surreal and unbelievable.

We have two boys, ages five and three; potty-trained, able to walk and talk and feed themselves. I have to be honest that I like these stages much more than the helpless baby stage.  Every now and then I would think that maybe it would be nice to have another child, but honestly, I was quite content with my two boys and the joy and laughter they bring me. We got rid of the crib, the baby clothes, the carseat. We began to prepare for the school years, which are just around the corner. Family of four.

Then we found out I was pregnant. Needless to say, neither of us slept very well that night. We were in all kinds of shock. The next day we somehow play-acted through a day with family and at church, all the while carrying this amazing, unbelievable, shocking secret in our hearts.

I think Art got over the shock first. He had always been more open to the idea of another child; mostly he wanted a little girl. For me, it took longer. I had to completely readjust my thinking, my frame of reference, my way of looking at the world. Suddenly all the things that I had thought were behind me were ahead of me again– diapers, late night feedings, bottles, and all the uncertainty of getting to know a new child.

It took time. It was hard to not be bitter when I felt so sick and exhausted all the time. Maybe those things are a little easier to deal with when you planned the pregnancy. I don’t know. I just know that I spent three months in a kind of haze of feeling icky and so tired constantly. It is hard to not feel very guilty when I remember my feelings about the pregnancy. If I had known, I would have cherished every moment. If.

But slowly, slowly, I was able to become excited about the new baby. We told our families and they were excited for us. The boys took awhile to warm up to the idea of a third child in our home, but eventually they took great joy in drawing pictures of the baby and asking how big it was. They came with us when we heard the baby’s heartbeat. I learned to love this child, to treasure the gift of God’s grace and providence in our lives. I believed that a third child was part of His plan, and although I couldn’t understand that plan, I believed that this unexpected child would bring us great joy and blessing.

I still believe that this was part of God’s plan. But I have to admit that I can’t even begin to understand it. To me, it doesn’t make sense. Why live through three months of a miserable pregnancy if the baby wasn’t going to live? What purpose could that possibly serve? My mind, and my heart, are incapable of understanding this. But I have something else. I have faith.

People have been telling me that I’m so strong, and I just want to clear something up. I am the weakest person in the universe right now. But I am learning moment by moment that when we reach the end of our strength, when we have nothing left, God is there with an unlimited supply of love and mercy. It is so much easier for me to trust Him now than it is when life is going well. He is all I have right now. Everything. And I believe that although He allows trouble and trials and horrible things into our lives, He loves me, and He wants what is best for me. He is the only one in the whole universe who understands what is happening right now. The only one. I have no choice but to trust Him. Without His love, grace, mercy, and compassion, I can’t make it one moment.

Every day, the Lord Himself is near me

With a special mercy for each hour.

All my cares He fain would bear and cheer me–

He whose name is Counselor and Power.

The protection of His child and treasure

Is a charge that on Himself He laid.

“As thy days, thy strength shall be in measure,”

This the pledge to me He made.

                                –”Day by Day” by Lisa Sandell Berg

Today I was brave and looked in the mirror on purpose for the first time since Wednesday morning. Yesterday I came upon my reflection accidentally in a public bathroom and was not overwhelmed with joy at what I saw.  Mom told me I was pale the other day. She was not wrong.

I feel like the face in the mirror is different than it was a few days ago. Even without the pallor, it has changed. I’ve always loved to flirt with myself in the mirror, smile, see how cute I could get myself to look. The face in the mirror right now isn’t the face I know. The features are the same but there is something– in the eyes, maybe– that is foreign to me.

I wonder if that something is here to stay or if it will pass as the wounds in my heart heal.

I cry a lot. You might say that as a woman that’s to be expected, and you might be right. I do know that since I had kids I find myself tearing up over a lot of ridiculous things, like the sight of my two precious little boys sleeping. Really, boys are generally much more precious when they’re sleeping. It would probably make more sense if I cried when they woke up. But I will proudly take my place in a long line of women who cry over Hallmark commercials and the ends of sappy movies, even when my children and my husband laugh at me (just like I used to laugh at my mom. what goes around and all that).

I have been very blessed over the course of my life and I have had many more occasions to cry tears of joy than to cry tears of sorrow or pain. But this is not one of those times. Right now my tears are tears of grief. I have lost a child.

I passed that magical moment in my pregnancy– 12 weeks– when everything is supposed to be okay. We heard that tiny heartbeat, healthy and strong. Something like 95% of miscarriages happen before the 12 week mark. Everything was good.

Wednesday we went in for a regular, routine checkup. Went potty in a cup. Everything looks good, the doctor said. Your uterus is just the right size. I was finally feeling better after months of awful nausea. We joked about the pregnancy workout I had done that morning and how badly my legs hurt from the squats. Lay back. We’ll listen to baby’s heartbeat. Hmmmm . . . baby doesn’t want to cooperate. Let me try again. Maybe it’s hiding over here. I think that’s your pulse. Well, why don’t we do an ultrasound and see where baby is hiding. Probably he’s just at an awkward angle.

I think I knew then, but I wasn’t giving up until the doctor told me to.

It only took a moment in the ultrasound room. We saw little tiny hands– with five perfect little fingers on each. They seemed to be waving at us as the technician moved the sensor over my belly. Then she turned off the screen. “I’m going to have the doctor come in and look at this with us.” I knew what that meant. I still refused to let myself cry until the doctor came in. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you.”

The baby had no heartbeat. My body, which had provided a warm little home for my precious child, was carrying a body whose soul was gone.

I don’t know how we made it through the rest of the day. We made arrangements for a D&C the following day. I called my job to let them know I wouldn’t be coming in. Somehow we made it home, and then we had to call people and tell them. I heard my dad’s voice break as I told him what had happened. “Oh, baby, no, I’m so sorry.” We hung up and my husband just held me as I wept.

Right now, as I type, tears are running down my face. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell this story without them. I don’t know if I would want to.

I carried a child within me for 15 weeks. I never held that child, never looked in his or her bright little eyes or did any of those precious things you look forward to through the months of discomfort that is pregnancy. But that little person will always be in my heart. And I firmly believe, with every ounce of my being, as much as I believe that Iowa has too many cornfields, that someday I will see that child again.

Right now my little son or daughter is with my heavenly Father, the One who has promised to love me and care for me and bring me goodness and mercy all the days of my life– even on this day, when I weep and mourn for my loss. Someday we will have a family reunion, and my joy will overflow.

But today it is my grief that overflows. Right now I am walking through the valley of the shadow of death, and it is a dark valley and it is hard to walk through it. It hurts more than anything I have ever experienced in my life. But I walk with hope, because my God is with me. He comforts me and guides me and gives me all I need to get through this.

How could I ask for more?