Spring came, my love.

The week after our first miscarriage, I found myself reading Angie Smith's book, I Will Carry You.  Her story through carrying and losing her fourth daughter and how her faith played a role throughout.  I had actually read the book before without really knowing why I was, but I see that the Lord was just preparing me for what we would walk and that I would recall so much from this book to bring comfort.

I posted a photo on Instagram that week of this quote from one of the pages:

"However easy it may be to allow myself to wail over my loss, it is a far more satisfying thing to believe that all of this is a brief season.  The Lord I have placed my trust in tells me that I will see my child again, and while He stands beside me, He weeps.  He doesn't weep at the barren ground, nor does He mourn the browning branches.  He cries because I can't see what He can.  And in the fluttering of the breeze, with my heart pressed to His, I can hear Him whisper, Spring will come, my love."

For the months following that loss, I kept praying for my Spring to come. I kept begging for it.  Make it obvious, Lord.  Where is the Spring?  Then we found ourselves facing loss again and I forgot all about the coming Spring.

I think the strangest thing about loss, and the hardest to explain to others, is that I still hurt.  There are no replacement babies.  Sure, having a baby has taken away a lot of the ache and filled me with joy, but there was still loss.  I still hurt as I watch friends and family walk this same path.  As they feel the bleakness that comes with winter and crave the Spring.

I honestly hadn't given much thought to this quote since that time.  Just last week, as I sat holding my few day old baby boy, with our doors flung wide and the breeze rustling the trees, did I remember the Spring.  I couldn't see what He could.  In the midst of the craziness, Spring showed up.  Literally and figuratively.

And I heard Him whisper... Spring came, my love.

Compelled to share

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Over the last year, I often questioned why I wrote about and shared the things I have.  Why did I feel the need to open up about miscarriage and loss in the form of the internet?  With the first one it seemed more obvious.  I was pretty far along and we had just publicly announced that we were having a baby.  Do you just pretend you didn't and not post anything? Do you skim over it?  I thought about it, but I couldn't.  I didn't want it to seem like it didn't happen and something kept nagging me within to write.  I couldn't help it.  I had to write.

What I didn't expect or see coming were the flood of messages and emails.  Facebook friends and those who I knew some, but not much, that were writing to tell me they've been there.  They are walking it now.  Facing another of multiple miscarriages.  Deciding between passing the baby naturally or having a D/C.  Struggling with infertility for several years.  My heart broke with each one and I cried.  I couldn't help it.  I knew the pain they faced day in and day out.  It was tangible to me and I realized I share because this journey is such a lonely one.

People could talk about pregnancy all day.  Cravings, movement, names, nurseries.  But, this place of loss is one that many people choose not to delve into.  It's a place where your husband finds you in the bathroom at three in the morning after you just discovered it's happening again.  He is dealing with the pain as well, while simultaneously feeling the need to stay strong for you, but it's also something he can't fully understand as you see your hopes and dreams bleed out.  It's a sacred place and often it is hard to put into words the feelings you have about losing something/someone you hadn't yet met.  It is also hard for friends and family to know how to respond.  Like I said, it's a lonely place.

I know the Lord was the urging for me to be so open.  Not necessarily for me to be the backbone to these other ladies, but for them to support me as well.  Knowing we both experienced these losses is the glue that held us together.  It's a silent club of walking wounded and sharing that with each other allowed us to all feel less alone.

The first couple months in this pregnancy with Nolan, I found myself in a place of constant insomnia.  Wide awake at one or two in the morning most nights.  The only thing I could think to do was pray.  So every night, the faces of each of the ladies who had messaged me found their way into my mind and I prayed.  Lord, let this be theirs too.  Hear their cries.  No more loss.  I wiped tears and cried for those who I didn't know well, but felt like I did.

I write all this to say, He is faithful and he continues to show me that each day.  Slowly, but surely the announcement posts have been popping up from these same women.  EXPECTING!  Due in May, June, July.  Each and every time I see one my heart races from excitement.  It's theirs too.  The joy is theirs.  Messages after positive tests.  Sharing the fear of those first few weeks as they wait to hear that heartbeat.  The long wait from infertility over as they see the profile in the ultrasound.  And, I know in those moments why I felt compelled to share.  To make this journey a whole lot less lonely and to see the faithfulness of the Lord revealed again and again.

June 30

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Today's a lot harder than I thought it would be.  I should be having a baby today.  Or in the next week. At least that's what we had planned for.  A summer baby.  June 30.

My whole heart aches today as I sit here wondering what happened and as I look at my still flat stomach wishing it was round and growing.  It still isn't.  Oh, how I wish this day was different.

The past six, almost seven, months have been some of the most difficult.  I try to keep this blog an upbeat, mostly happy (with a few tangents) place, not wanting to bog it down with sadness because truly there has been plenty of joy.  But, the pain has been present despite sharing it here.  What would have been milestones in the pregnancy have always been in the back of my mind and sometimes have spilled out in tears.  Driving home from church in the dark, knowing we would have found out girl or boy.  Laying in bed and telling Taylor I would have been 37 weeks, full term.  June 30, our due date.

There have been many tears since December and at times I have told Taylor the past six months have felt like a cruel joke.  I've often found myself on the floor of the kitchen screaming out to the Lord.   Why?  Why couldn't I keep my baby? Why must I face this twice in half a year? 

The past few weeks, I've been in a fog.  I didn't expect this to hit me so hard and I don't know why.  I remember sitting in my mom's car on New Year's Eve, outside of the restaurant on a day where others are celebrating, and I cried.  My mom reminded me that little things would trigger my pain and reminded me that today would probably be hard.  I guess I didn't expect it to get here so quickly.

I cried on Gideon's due date.  I was sick of being pregnant.  Sick of feeling huge.  I was ready to hold my baby.  I cry today, too.  I'm sick of not being pregnant.  Sick of feeling empty.  I'm ready to hold my baby and wishing it had been today.

 Many are saying of my soul, there is no salvation for him in God.  But you, O LORD, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.  I cried aloud to the LORD, and he answered me from his holy hill.  I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the LORD sustained me.  I will not be afraid of many thousands of people who have set themselves against me all around.

-Psalm 3:2-6

she who is brave is free

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Free.  This word has been spoken into my life so much recently.  And deep down I know I need it.   The past two months have been some of the hardest of my life and I have internalized a majority of it in an attempt to protect my family and myself from more hurt and pain.  But bravery leads to freedom and I crave the freedom more than the protection.

I allowed the fear to take over my marriage and seep into every aspect of my life.  My fear made me start to question so many things.  I told Taylor last week that I don't question the goodness of God or His love for me.  But, I can't help but ask,  Lord, why does this have to be my story?  

I've written about my planning nature and about how losing control is the hardest thing in the world for me.  My fear took me to the place where I still made plans deep inside but would never externally express any of it.  I hoarded it and allowed it to eat me alive when I began to see that those plans were inevitably crumbling again and again and again.

I finally couldn't handle it anymore and didn't want to go it alone.  I put my brave face on and shared with Taylor everything I have felt and am feeling.  My anxiety, my fear, my broken heart and broken plans.  The things that drive me up a wall in this fragile time and the things that paralyze me on a daily basis.  While sitting on our bed with tears running (seriously ugly cry), Taylor said the most profound thing to me.

When Satan went to God and said, "allow me to do this,"  the Lord said "You can do it, but after it is done, they will still praise Me.

If that is the best thing to come out of this, it is enough.  If I needed to hear myself say He is still good, then it is enough.  I'm ready to search deep within and find my bravery and be free.  Free from anxiety that I won't get pregnant again soon. Free from the fear that it will happen again.  Free from the darkness that overwhelms me and causes me to question.  Brave enough to say, This is the story I've been given and I'm going to use it and embrace it.  

Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. 2 Corinthians 3:17

When I lose control of my plans.

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I am a planner.  I always have been and most likely always will be.  I cringe when I meet soon-to-be parents who aren't finding out the sex of their baby and are OK with it.  I get hives just thinking about that.  There is no way I could go the full nine months without finding out because in my mind, I have to plan for it. I mean, what the heck will the kid wear?  I'm a P.L.A.N.N.E.R.  It's in my blood.

The hardest thing about the past month is having to let go of all the plans I had.  I had to sit by and watch them slip away, moment by moment, piece by piece as I learned that my baby would not be mine.

It's an innate habit when you find out you're pregnant to make plans.  Or maybe I should say, it's an innate habit to dream.  Dream about who they will be, what they will look like, how they will change you.  You dream about the family you will become, the adventures you'll have, and the parent you will be.  My problem is that I turn my dreams into plans and when they don't work out just how I figured they should, I am crushed.  It's perfectly OK to dream.  It's not OK to get stuck in your plans.

I've always had a plan in my head of how having kids should go.  I clearly didn't learn after it took almost a year to get pregnant with Gideon that my plans aren't always a reality.  In my mind, I would have my second baby so that he/she and Gideon would be around 18 months apart.  I have always wanted my children close in age and I was so pumped when I got pregnant and counted the months and realized they would be less than 19 months apart.  Plan in my mind, check.

Reality, it's not meant to be.  It's hard for me to know that this plan of having them so close in age, and the picture of how our family was going to be, is not going to happen.  I get so upset sometimes when I think of how this perfect thing that I was counting on, is no more.  And I don't write this to continually dwell on it.  I write this because I know that I am dangerously teetering on the verge of doing it to myself all over again.

I find myself calculating when I would have a baby if I got pregnant now.  I'm deciding in my head, all over again, when it will happen and why it should happen at this time.  And I know that if I continue to make plans of my own, I will end up with a broken heart.

I just need to share where I am at and where I am struggling.  I don't always have it together and all the beautiful quotes in the world don't make it easier for me to stop making plans.  I'm asking for prayers.  Prayers that I will lose the fear I have of not planning.  Fear that if I don't decide how things will go, they won't go anywhere.  Prayers that I will dream, but be able to relinquish control.

It is easy to say that I trust the Lord's timing.  And I do.  But, it is a daily fight to remind myself.

Grief and Joy.

*I know I said I was probably not going to write for a while. But, writing is part of me and in all honesty it helps me process and express things that I can't otherwise. I am not writing just to get a response or pity from people. I am writing for me. If it can help someone going through something similar in the process than I am blessed to know that it is useful.

Grief is a crazy thing. It's one that many people experience but at the same time we have trouble entering in to someone else's grief with them.  It's a scary place to be. It's a vulnerable place where words fail and intention is everything.

I've been on a roller coaster. Yes, I am deep in grief.  But, I also have a one year old who requires my attention daily keeping me from getting swallowed in that dark place. Life goes on and it must. Gideon has no clue what's been going on other than the fact that mommy is losing it sometimes and he gets to watch a lot of Elmo. Thank goodness for Elmo.  But, in all honesty, I'm so glad he has no clue. His heart and mind have been protected but more selfishly, he has been his same smiley and bubbly self which brings me to a place of joy.

Sometimes I don't know what I should be feeling. I know it's wrong, but I wonder if people are appalled that I can go to the park and smile with Gideon the same week I lost my baby. And even worse, I wonder if people are thinking that I should hurry up and get over it. But, if I have learned anything up to this point it is that grief can't be rushed. I'm reading a book by a woman (quoted below) who lost her baby the day she was born.  She talks about how grief and joy often dance together. It's OK.  They are allowed to.

I thought I was making it, but then I was overwhelmed with the physical pain. The worst pain I have felt in my entire life. And I have given birth. Maybe it's not fair for me to compare the two. It might not have been worse, but in my mind I knew that there wasn't a happy ending to this pain so it felt so much worse. The entire ordeal is gruesome and I understand why women don't like to talk about it. It hurts me to imagine women going through this multiple times.

I stood in the shower at one point begging the Lord to take away the pain and end it all already. I asked him to take the cup from me and promise me I would never have to endure this again. It's funny how we promise the Lord we won't ask for anything more if He just does this one thing. I remember pleading with Him for a baby in the first place and saying if he made me a mama, I wouldn't need another thing in life. He gave me Gideon, yet here I am on my knees again. And I know He understands.

He has been speaking to me in so many ways. Messages from friends who share their heart and experience with the same loss. Some three times over. Scriptures at just the right moment. And then this,

However easy it may be to allow myself to wail over my loss, it is a far more satisfying thing to believe that all of this is a brief season. The Lord I have placed my trust in tells me that I will see my child again, and while He stands beside me, He weeps.  He doesn't weep at the barren ground, nor does He mourn the browning branches. He cries because I can't see what He can. And in the fluttering of the breeze, with my heart pressed to His, I can hear Him whisper, "Spring will come, my love."

- I Will Carry You by Angie Smith

I know the Spring will come. I know He will sustain me.

No heartbeat.

The last couple of days have felt like a nightmare.  But, then I wake up and discover that it is real, time and time again.  There is no heartbeat.  There is no baby.  Not anymore.  I keep seeing myself in that ER bed hearing the doctor say, "miscarriage" and I still feel like it wasn't me.  It can't be me, right?

But, it is.

As they wheeled me into ultrasound I remember thinking, Jesus, you're still the same.  You are the same when I enter this room as when I leave it.  And I really believe it.  He is the same and was the same on December 12 as he was on December 13 and December 14.  I believe it.  But, it doesn't make me hurt any less.

I know I am not the first woman to go through this loss.  I know I won't be the last.  I know there are mothers who hold their babies in their arms before having to give them up.  But, it doesn't make my pain go away.  This pain is mine and it is raw.  I feel broken and lost.

I don't know where to start.  I don't know where it ends.  Every time I feel a glimpse of hope, I remember what is lost and it hits me deep again.  No June 30th.  No tiny toes or fingers.  No birthdays or family photos.  No heartbeat.

What was so joyful just last week has shaken my life upside down.  It is hard to know that the rest of the world is going about their days.  It's hard and I want to scream JUST. STOP.  But, it doesn't.  People are out buying gifts and decorating trees, and I don't blame them a bit.  I wish I could focus on those things instead.  But, I can't.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't angry.  I am angry.  I'm mad.  I'm upset.  But, I refuse to be bitter.  The Lord is still good.  He is still good.  Even if I have to fight to remind myself.  IT IS TRUE!  I saw it in the hospital administrator who followed me to the parking lot to tell me she understood and was praying for me.  To Michelle,  you will never understand the weight of those words to me.

HE IS THE SAME!