What a lovely way of saying how much you love me

Saturday, July 27, 2013



I had big plans. If it were ever to happen again I would keep it to myself for as long as possible this time, because you see I would not get sick. This time would be different.

Happen it did. And it began with high hopes. But as the nausea grew, excitement faded. Slowly life began to shut down, life as I know it anyhow. The hope that had filled my heart, hope of health and strength is overcome with despair. I cannot do this again. I am not strong enough.

I lie in bed. I re-read this and cry for myself. This is my fate. This is the course my body will always take when new life grows inside. This is the road I am left to travel, and it feels too hard. It is too much to bear. Why did I hold out hope?

Because hope is the only option. It is all you have when faced with hardship. If we begin without hope we end without vision. I believe in the mercy of a God who loves me, I believe He could remove this burden from me, but when He doesn't I am left to wonder and wander. Hope slowly, but surely evaporates, although not entirely as I had first suspected.

In my desperation to fill minutes that tick ever so slowly on, I find this and I cry again, but not for myself this time, for the loss of another and the health of new life growing in me. 

Hope for a different kind of pregnancy than my body seems capable of providing is gone, hope of being able to carry this secret surprise until it would no longer be hidden behind carefully chosen clothing and well positioned arms, the hope of health, the strength to maintain a sense of normalcy for my family, and an ability to remain engaged with my husband and children is gone. But the hope itself has not disappeared, only has it changed identity without my even realizing. 

The worry of how I will ever find the time and energy to care for another human being is replaced with the shadow of a fear of how will I ever be the same if I don't get that opportunity. It is then that I discover that I am not without hope, that hope simply has a new home, in womb under heart. It is the hope for the unborn, it is a hope of health and wholeness for this tiny person. No longer does my suffering matter, no matter what must be waded through, I will do it with renewed hope in new life.

Yet the chance remains that my fate could follow the pathway to loss.

Whatever happens, whatever the outcome, I must remember that His purpose, not mine will be accomplished. If that means a baby in my arms at the end of this journey or one more soul up heaven, is not mine for the deciding. He is holding me as I hold this promise of a child.

Yet the truth of my state lingers still as I remain out of commission. And when the guilt and the worry become all too much and I wake in the morning crying - I don't even know what they've eaten for the past week, or if they even remember that they have a mother, much like the lost boys, do they know I am here even though I am not there - it is then that my very own seven year old "lost boy" walks in with hot pancakes and says, "Breakfast in bed! . . . Do you know that we all love you mom, and that we are all trying to take care of you?" How could I not? It is I who should be caring for you, but instead it is them taking care of me.

I wish I could report that I was graceful in trials and patient in affliction. I cannot. However, I can say that hope remains, that, and the love of my family, the tender strength of my husband and the willing support of friends will see us through.

Hopefully . . .






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