photo: Flickr CC Shandi Lee
I haven’t written about miscarriage. Miscarriage is unexplainable and to the woman going through it…the deepest of losses. It’s not easy to explain or express how in love you were. Even if for only a few days or weeks.
A friend miscarried recently and I felt the heart-break of her loss. Baby…no baby. Life pulsating and pushing forth, embedded in your core and then – not….well, like I said it’s the most difficult feeling to explain. Think the sudden popping of every balloon or float at a parade. There was every reason for a party and then – there wasn’t. What happened? Somewhere a soul had taken residence within and that soul has left. It really is the most deflating, defeating depression inducing event a woman can experience.
My heart broke for her because I know how all this feels and I hate knowing anyone has to go through it.
I want to tell her the truth. If you hold onto God – it will be well. That, I can promise. This is rock solid truth embedded on what’s left of a refurbished heart. I know this and share it. But I also know that part of this truth is a pain I can’t minimize. I won’t minimize her loss by fumbling for words. “These things happen” and “it was God’s plan” are words….empty, rote, form letter fill-ins when there really are – no words. Sometimes…there are no words. I’ll pray quietly and offer the only thing I can think of. I’ll help hold her heart with a hug-filled “I’m sorry.” Because I think it best she have her cry. A good cry is the beginning of healing.
The first time it happened to me I put on a brave face, pretending all was well. These things happen, you know the drill. I kept silent, bought into the “women’s work” motto and hitched up my big girl panties. Back to work and the grind of life.
But it wasn’t okay and it wouldn’t be for years. The dark place I took residence in held no life, no light and no room for dreams. It was clear I’d fallen out favor. God couldn’t love people who live there. How could he? This was my fault. Doubt and fear were constant companions. I lived here. Alone. I didn’t feel love. I didn’t feel loved.
And that’s exactly the way your enemy would like it.
With miscarriage, silence is deadly. Funny thing – it’s implied. The hushed tones and dismissal of a topic categorized as unspeakable. We don’t talk about it. It’s sad and makes us uncomfortable. The death of a baby is like that. My fingers shook on the keys and I held my breath just typing the words “death…baby”. No one wants to hear what or how it happened. It’s too much information. Private and personal. But no less traumatizing than the loss of a hand. More so.
But we should. Because the life was real and attached to the other end of a cord now severed is a woman…broken. She needs to tell her story. She should be heard. Her story is redemptive and tied forever in truth. Her story can heal.
But you can’t heal what you don’t acknowledge as hurt.
Without acknowledgement of pain we can’t tell the story. The story so many of us hide. It’s only in personal initiation in the club that you hear the quiet echoes of “you too?” Then…we remember due dates and names and if you really want to know we’ll tell you about the children we hold in heaven and our last day together.
We have to tell the stories.
We are the ones who know intimately the faith needed for even a day, the gift and hope of each week of pregnancy. We’re the ones who know time stopping silence. We wait in holy anticipation for the steadfast synchronicity of a heartbeat. We are the ones who watch our doctors for any nuance or change in tone. We know the looks when all is well… and we know the look that says it’s not.
Every birth is a miracle and women who experience loss acknowledge the sacred holy wonder of creation differently. Our perspective is forever changed and we should share it. Because of it we grow into grateful mothers. Prayer warriors for others and the children we hope for. We learn compassion. We gain strength. The world wouldn’t know how precious, how miraculous the life process is…if they didn’t hear stories like ours. Who better to hear those stories from, than us?
I’m proud of her. She isn’t going through this alone. She has a virtual team of sisters praying for her restoration. She’s going through her process and I know it will be well. Miscarriage is an opportunity for a sovereign God to minister grace to his daughters. And really, only He can do that.
In the meantime, I’ll post truth and pray.
It will be well.
In the telling is the liberating power of redemption.
In the telling is…hope.
an offering to Jennifer Dukes Lee and the #TellHisStory community
and new friends at Thought Provoking Thursday
