This ground is holy

{written April 6, 2013}

 

I thought she would be an opal baby like her mama.

But October never seemed so far away.

She’s a diamond now and I like that too – precious and beautiful and infinite in worth.

When we lost her I knew immediately that I wanted a necklace to wear on days when I especially missed her – a diamond for April when she left the safety of my womb, and a pearl for the gates of heaven where she entered into a whole new kind of safe. (The kind that we all long for.)

Today I feel grateful; my heart is full.

I have my diamond and pearl now, never mind this diamond isn’t real. (She has never been more real.)

These days have been difficult and fragile (peppered with moments of almost uncomfortable ease) as we uproot the old and make room for the new, knowing the new will never include what we once imagined it would.

On that dark day in that small room where that black screen displayed our fear and mocked our dreams, I wondered how could a mother move? Breathe? Ever get out of bed and put both feet on the floor after her reality crashes so suddenly?

I recoiled in fear of my own desire – the urge to find a cave and crawl in to die there.

I wondered how I could ever care for my family again. (Desperate and dramatic? Yes, I know, but this is how I really felt.)

But only days later and I’m squeezing my eldest’s hand with a smile as he wonders aloud what dinosaurs sounded like and talks of finding a green fish for our new fish bowl and asks if we can visit some friends later that day.

I’m nursing my youngest while he traces lines on my chest with newfound gentleness he’s suddenly discovered and perfecting as he studies me with eyes that seem wiser-than-his-years.

I’m giggling at the new words formed on the lips of a barely speaking boy who still waddles around in diapers and I’m shaking my head in wonder at the ideas formed in the imagination of a curious and clever one who was meant to start preschool on the day I was wheeled down hospital corridors.

We are talking of the future, my love and I, and recounting our short days with her and celebrating her and sharing her brief life with those we love and those we’ve never met. And it all feels so bright—so hopeful—and I wonder if I should feel this measure of joy so soon.

Can I grieve and give thanks in one breath? Can I both cry and laugh? Feel pain unspeakably and joy unashamedly?

Because I am.

There are moments of quiet where I remember the unexpected emptiness of my belly and I reach and rub and whisper I miss you while the tears come flooding again, bringing with them pain unbearable. And then I turn and see images of newborn treasures in the arms of dear friends and I feel yes. Yes, it is good – show me more, let me see.

I give thanks in my sadness and it feels right.

This ground is holy and I dare not put my shoes on for fear of marring it.

I want to stay here forever and I want to run like hell and never look back. (Can I do both? Can I love and despise in the very same breath?)

Losing a child—my child—marks me in a way that I don’t yet know or fully understand. But I sense grace and I embrace peace, even while shaking my head at how this shouldn’t be. For me, and so many others.

She is one. But she is many.

I read their stories and I mourn for their babies, even as I weep for my own. Their wounds, opened again, as they reach out to heal mine.

Together we weep with arms empty and arms full, hearts heavy and hearts alive.

And we heal each other through the fellowship of suffering and the offering of vulnerability and the gift of a Hope that never, ever fails.

(Right? He never fails, right? Remind me again as I remind myself and remind you and remind Him… please don’t fail us.)

Tomorrow will keep coming, and with it the light that refuses to cease. (And mostly we want it, but sometimes we don’t because that light is just so strong, so exposing.) We remember, we rejoice, we mourn, we march on, knowing each step has been travelled before our pilgrimage ever began. Each breath already breathed, each moment already lived, each tear already shed in the heart of Another Who Knows.

So we follow.

And somehow—all mixed together—we form the sound of The Willing. The mother, the father—who have loved and lost and learned how to grieve—now stand prepared to be changed by the darkness and the light and the war that wages in between. Willing to be carried into the expanse of the coming Day, clinging to the promise of a time where every tear will be wiped away.

And all will be made new again.

I bend my knees in surrender and I vow to stay willing.

Even now, in this dark place.

Sorrow and joy — all mixed up together.

I am weary. I am hurting. But I am willing… and hopeful.

Selah.

____

 

Dear friends, I wrote this over the weekend but then hesitated to post it as I feel so differently from one day to the next. Last night I felt sad, this morning angry, tonight I just feel tired. I suppose that’s all part of the process though – the waves of grief and the humanity that is exposed through the turmoil of it all, and our inability to predict how and what will expose the pain. I’ve had some very sad days, and it hurts deeply to know that the world keeps spinning as if all is well even though ours has faltered incredibly. Perhaps that’s why it is important for me to post this today – this mess of suffering and joy and pain and gratitude all folded into one another. And to remind myself of the company I’m in – the millions of mothers (and fathers) that stand with me or have gone before me on the saddest of roads. Our daughter is one, but she represents many. In our heartache we are alone, but not alone. Aren’t you glad that tomorrow is a new day?