Reflection

As I sit in front of the computer on my day off, coffee cup in hand, listening to the sound of the kitten upstairs, destroying my personal belongings, I'm contemplating what has happened in my life over the past couple of weeks.

And it's all been for the best.

Don't get me wrong...it's been incredibly difficult and painful.  We are still sad.  People say many things to a grieving woman; although it's all well-meant, it's not all terribly soothing.  I don't entirely buy into the idea that God "spared me" from having a special needs or sickly child.  This is a quote I often hear when people attempt to comfort a woman who has miscarried.  "Maybe God was saving you and the baby from trouble and pain."  Distilled to its implied meaning, it says that God "loved me more" than the parents of children who do have special needs, which is ridiculous, arrogant, and untrue.  I know it isn't what people mean when they say such a thing, but that's what it comes down to.  Therefore, I do not believe it.

What I do need to believe is not that the child would have had physical or mental disabilities, but that, based on the way it (I think it was a she; we named her Olivia Rae) was forming, that life outside the womb could not have been possible at all - not that it would have been possible with some degree of difficulty or special care.  Thinking this does bring me some peace...although I still have so many questions.  Please don't think that my faith allows me to blindly, cheerfully accept everything that life sends my way.  I think that people who see me responding to life in a fairly well-adjusted way assume that I am either 1.) in denial or 2.) faking it.  

Not so.

Believe me, I have plenty of questions for God.  My heart is breaking.  I can't understand why things happened the way they did.  I had just accepted the idea of being pregnant.  I had already bought a few pieces of maternity clothing.  We were looking at cribs and paint for the baby's room.  I was beginning to fantasize about how I would look at Christmas time, seven months pregnant, struggling to appear glowing and radiant in photographs.  And, suddenly, none of those things mattered or even applied to me anymore.  What a crushing blow!  But, in a deeper place in my heart than all my doubt and disappointment,  lives my faith.  What happened to me has not changed God's character or his love for me - or his sorrow when I weep.  I told a co-worker yesterday, a young woman of whom I am very fond, that the sorrow in my life doesn't cancel out the joy.  When I feel sorrow, I will weep.  When I feel joy - even fleeting happiness in a silly situation or with a good friend - I will laugh.   Why should grief smother joy?  They can exist in the same heart.  When depression settles in and pushes joy aside entirely, that is when we should be concerned.  I know that the depth of my grief, even though I truly believe I lost a child, and not just a pregnancy, can't quite compare to the mother who felt the baby's kicks or held the baby in her arms before her loss, but it's still profound.

It's also strangely comforting.

For many people, death and tragedy is a heart-stopping and depressing reminder that we are not promised tomorrow.  Some people wise up and begin to treasure their loved ones a little more and their belongings a little less.  Some people continue to chase pleasure and wealth because, for them, death is a confirmation that there is nothing beyond this life, and we should enjoy things while we can.

For me, death is a promise that those of us who have called on the name of Jesus will be reunited in glory.  Although we sorrow and mourn now, our loved ones have seen Christ face-to-face and have embraced his beautiful, nail-scarred hands and wrists.

And they have the fullness of joy.

Last week, God gave me a little glimpse of that joy when we gathered the youth group together for our first-ever YNoP (Youth Night of Prayer).  Although we had literally experienced the miscarriage only days before, Ross and I both felt very strongly that we were to continue with the event rather than postpone it (we had scheduled it all the way back in June).  Carry on we did, and it was amazing.  Guest speakers from the church came to talk to the teenagers about praying for Jerusalem and about who the Holy Spirit really is.  We had times of prayer for the church, for our friends, our families, and, possibly most importantly, ourselves (if you think that is prideful or conceited, read this).  At the end of the evening, as the sun was coming up, we began to pray for each other.  It was incredibly powerful, with thirteen and fourteen-year-old kids exhorting and encouraging each other with scripture, words of knowledge, and prophecy.  Some of these children had never before had the boldness to speak out in love for a fellow Christian.  I really believe their lives were changed that night.  They came to me afterward and asked when the next YNoP would be.  A dozen kids genuinely on fire for God?  Most churches should even be so lucky!  Although Ross and I were bone-tired by the end of the event, we were satisfied.  Our presence there was a firm stand that even grief cannot oppress God's plans and purpose.  It wasn't our will that carried us there; it was his.

And I am at peace.  God is taking care of my child right now.  I will do my best to take care of his.