October 21

Baby Bay would have been due October 21. There are certain dates that are just more difficult than others, so we chose to get away for the weekend with just our little family. It is so crazy how much you can miss someone you've never met and how you deeply you can love someone you've never held in your arms. The brokenness is real, and the grief hits hard and often. 

One day, I do hope to hold a baby Bay in my arms but I know that even if I do, we will always long to have known THIS one, and the three others we won't meet in this life. We grieve this child, the memories we are missing out on, the joy that might have been had, and the life we might have lived. 

It's hard to wait in the silence sometimes, wondering what paths our family might take on this journey, thought God meets us in our need. 

For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen. 

Happy would-be birth-day little one. We can't wait to meet you some day and we will never stop loving you and remembering your short time in our lives. And thank you to the many sweet friends who reached out to us this weekend. It is so good to be loved and heard and cared for by so many. 

Glory Baby: The Story of #4

On February 17, I was shocked to discover that I was pregnant. You wouldn't think that it would be a surprise, but since it had been nearly 36 months since my last positive test, I think my heart stopped for a second. I was at once overjoyed and terrified. I'd waited until over a week after my missed period, pretty sure that something else had to be going on. For the fourth time, I was pregnant, yet I have no living babies. My eyes immediately welled up with tears as those two bright pink lines showed up right away. I called Carson (on his way to work) and he came home in a split second. We stared at the test and prayed about the life growing inside me.

For the next few weeks, I felt very on-edge. I had pregnancy symptoms that were getting stronger by the day. I had food aversion and exhaustion and insomnia and was so thirsty and went to the bathroom like fifteen times a night (it seemed). We had our long flight to Cleveland planned and I was terrified that somehow flying would rock the boat and cause me to miscarry again. I don't think I've ever prayed so much about anything in my entire life, but every breath I took, every little thing that felt off or wrong or scary, and I was praying for peace and a healthy pregnancy. I had spotting from about six weeks on, and I was in a constant panic.

I was so nervous about making it to the 8 week mark, because that's when I've miscarried pretty much every time - I've never made it to 8 weeks and 1 day. I was supposed to hit that milestone on the day of the wedding, and so I spent that entire day doing my best to sit and rest and not do anything that might hurt this fragile life inside me. I felt a great relief at getting past that point, even though I was still nervous. I was and still am jealous of people who somehow find out they're already thirteen weeks, having made it to that magical date.

On March 17, I had my first doctor's appointment. I wasn't sure what to expect, because I've also never made it to a doctor's appointment in time while pregnant, and because of course, I was in Germany. The doctor thankfully speaks English as well, and because of my history of miscarriage, she decided to do an ultrasound and a blood test.

Being well versed in google searches, I know what an 8 week fetus should look like on an ultrasound. I knew that the image on the screen did not look like the images I would have expected. The doctor guessed that I was just off on my calculations and that all was fine. But you know when you know something just isn't right? Looking at the long awaited image, I fought back tears. There was a baby, on the screen, but even though the doctor tried to reassure me that all was well, the size of the image told me that it was not. They took a blood sample to check out my hormone levels and sent us home.

That was a hard, weird weekend. Carson found things on the internet that suggested that sometimes the ultrasound is off and the baby just measures really small from the get-go and everything is fine. He was a major optimist, while in this, I was absolutely the realist. I felt like we were just sitting around waiting to miscarry the child that was no longer living inside me, but I didn't know for certain. We both struggled. Carson went on a late-night run to get out some of his frustrations, and I camped out in bed, hoping and praying for a miracle.

The following Tuesday, the doctor drew my blood again to compare, having called to say that my numbers from Friday looked really high and good. She planned another ultrasound for that Friday, just to check to see if the baby had grown. I slept most of the day after we got back from the doctor's office, feeling strangely weak and weird.

I didn't sleep at all that night and at 3am, I began to realize that I couldn't sleep because I was in pain. The pain increased and I realized quickly that my body was contracting. I remembered my previous miscarriages as being painful, but they were nothing like this. I was absolutely nauseated, in immense pain, doubled over on the bathroom floor actually moaning. At around 5 in the morning on March 22, at what would have been nine weeks and five days pregnant, exactly three years since my last miscarriage, I miscarried our fourth baby.

The feeling is like no other, laboring in a bathroom to deliver a baby that you will never know in this life. There was extreme pain and extreme sorrow, with absolutely no promise of the joy I hear comes from a live birth. For hours, I sat in that bathroom, at my absolute worst, going through the process of delivery. The last time I miscarried, I was at work, which is also horrible, but this time Carson was by my side, trying to be helpful and clearly wishing he could do something to ease the pain.

It was the strangest thing, and I don't know how to say it well, but once I had miscarried, it was the oddest mixture of sorrow and also great relief. For weeks, I'd prayed for the health of this baby. I prayed that my body could protect it while it lived inside me. I was consumed with doing what I was capable of doing to keep it safe - eating right, drinking lots of water, doing my best to rest and not do anything strenuous. When I lost the baby, I felt a strange peace at knowing that it was no longer in my hands at all. I could not physically do anything more for that baby, and though my body failed me once again in this task, I knew that God was more than capable of taking this little life in His hands. I feel like my body is my own a little more than I did before, and I think about how I wish that wasn't the case. I wanted the nausea and bloating and all that went along with it.

Life now feels oddly normal. It feels surreal to think that I was actually pregnant just a little over a month ago. This is going to sound very pity-party of me, but life now is familiar territory. The emptiness is a little bit routine. There were a few weeks where we got to live an unfamiliar life and to navigate the world of pregnancy, and now it's a little bit business as usual.

We buried the baby under a tree in the backyard here, and Carson fashioned a cross out of some sticks. Two weeks after we buried the baby, we came home to the most beautiful white flowers on the tree. It feels strange to walk past that spot on our way to the lake, knowing a part of our family will always be there. It will feel wrong to leave our baby in Germany when we go home. In October, we will do something on the day our baby was due to remember this loss, and to remind ourselves to keep pressing on in the Lord.

This journey is hard, harder than I expected it to be, and longer too, and we still pray that one day, in some way, we would be given the opportunity to raise children. We can't and won't forget the four that we've lost, or this chapter of our lives, and I pray that all of this will make us better parents and more committed followers of Christ. 

Second Birthday

If I'm reading a book and I get nervous about the possible outcome, I flip to the end, breathe a sigh of relief because I know what's going to happen, and keep reading. I do the same thing with movie plots. It drives Carson a little crazy, but it relieves the pressure since I know what will happen and we just have to get there in the story. I can rest easily even if I know that something bad happens, because I know what's in the future.

Unfortunately, life doesn't offer the same comfort.

Had he or she arrived on the due date, our third baby would be two years old today.

Two years ago today, instead of sitting anywhere near a hospital delivery room, we took a little getaway to Destin to think and pray and to be sad about things that might have been. It was a good weekend in a beautiful place and it was good to get away from our regular life for a few days and clear our heads.

I am thankful that I didn't have a window into the future, because I don't think I could have handled knowing that over two and a half years after my last pregnancy (which ended in March of 2014), there would be no progress on that front. We have a bunch of doctor's appointments and countless vials of blood saying everything is great, looks great, should be perfect, and at the same time, every month tells me that things are not great.

How do you deal with this? How do you live in what doctors are calling a healthy body, and yet that body just doesn't do what it's supposed to do?

It seems clear to me that for right now, waiting is the name of the game. Sometimes I am very okay with this, and sometimes I am very NOT okay with this. Is it hard to have a friend announce a pregnancy that's seemed to happen rather easily? Yes. Is it hard to have friends announce subsequent pregnancies? Yes. Is it hard feeling really really left out of what it's like to be a parent when nearly all my friends are parents? Yes. But in the day to day, it's sometimes not very hard. I wonder about our future family every day, and I ache to know if and how our dreams of becoming parents might be a reality. We've prayed about a number of different avenues to parenthood, and I really have no idea what's best.

So we wait. 

If I could, I'd love to pull the golden string and skip ahead to the "good part". I think there's a reason that isn't an option though, and I think that's because the journey matters. The pain and the heartache and the prayers and the tears? Those aren't pointless; they are shaping us. I pray that if one day we are blessed with a child, this time of life will not be forgotten. I pray that it has shaped us and changed us and made us grateful and thankful. If one day we are not blessed with a child, I pray that we are grateful and thankful with that, as hard as that would be.

Will there be a day where I give birth? Will there be a day when we adopt? Will there be a day when we look at each other and come to the realization that the waiting has ended and that it will be the two of us forever? It's too much. I am glad that a window to the future didn't exist two years ago, and although perhaps a hint would be nice, part of me is a little glad I have no idea what things will be like in two more years. 

I am not a brave person, and this journey overwhelms me. It is hard, but I don't think it's impossible, and I know that despite the hard parts, it is good. 

We wait tearfully, and hopefully, maybe, we will wait well. 

Taken on that trip to Destin, two years ago

Empty

When I was little, I loved to play "house". In the woods, in the playroom, on Granddaddy's boat; we played it everywhere. Being the oldest, and also the one who most wanted to play this role in our games, I was always the mom. I was sometimes the dog trainer, sometimes the dolphin trainer, sometimes one of the Olsen twins solving a mystery, but for the most part I was the mom. My cousin Morgan and sister Becca were my children, either whining small children or teenagers who snuck out, and I feel like I spent most of my time pretending too cook with empty spice containers and "watching Oprah" (or soap operas) on the boat's rear view mirror we pretended was a TV. 

I pretty much assumed that these games were preparing me for real life (can't say I've actually ever SEEN Oprah or a soap opera, but I guess someone had told me about daytime tv).

I babysat for years growing up. If I had been better at saving than spending, I could probably have paid for college entirely with my earnings as a sitter. It seems a little weird now, but sometimes when I was babysitting, I'd pretend that the babies were my own, making up little stories in my head about my life as a mom with them. 

You probably know already that we've dealt with loss. For almost four years, we've waited and wondered. 

Last week I had an ultrasound to hopefully diagnose things for me. The night before, I started thinking about it and the thought crossed my head that maybe the best surprise ever would happen and I would be pregnant. This was of course super unlikely, but I overthink everything and like to imagine possible outcomes to basically every situation that may arise, so I went in with this in the back of my head. In my scenario, I was past my first trimester, to avoid more worries, and also pregnant with twins. This is my go-to "ya never know" scenario.

It was a little strange being in the room with the pictures on the wall of babies and the big tv screen in front of me projecting what the tech was seeing. As you can imagine, when I was sitting in that dark room with the tech scanning, I saw nothing. Well, nothing like I've seen on other people's ultrasounds. I can't really identify things on those, but I know what a basic prenatal ultrasound looks like and this wasn't it. I mostly saw static. As expected, my womb was empty. The tech explained that things looked good and that I'd know more once someone "read" the ultrasound. 

Just as I'd suspected, there was nothing.

I can't tell you the times I've considered exactly how I'd announce that I was pregnant. I can't tell you how many times I've debated doing a gender reveal party. I can't tell you how many times I've read birth stories. I can't tell you how many times I've bookmarked what seem to be good articles on breastfeeding and even potty training. I don't know why I do it, but I do. I want to be as prepared as I can be for when that moment comes. I am hopeful. 

It's a vulnerable place to be, certainly. I know very well that I have set myself up to be crushed, and I am, every month. It has been 26 months since my last miscarriage, but every single month, even since my first miscarriage 4 years ago, I have been really really hopeful. 

I realized a long time ago that life is out of my control. I realize that having babies may not be something that I can do (results still pending!). I realize that sometimes waiting lasts longer than seems bearable. I realize that just wanting something does not mean that it will happen. I realize that I do believe that God is in control, regardless of how bad life stinks sometimes. I miss my babies in a way that is strange and odd, because of course I never knew them and never will in this life. I have learned, I have grown, and while I wish that I was indeed a mother sitting here writing something entirely different before Mother's Day, I really am hopeful that one day things may not be this way.

The end of a Tennyson poem springs to mind, and I am certain that it will be familiar, but it seems appropriate nevertheless, in the face of emptiness and loss and sadness and hope. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

       I feel it when I sorrow most;

'T is better to have loved and lost

       Than never to have loved at all. 

My womb may be empty, but my heart is not.

On the Eve of 27.

I love my birthday. I always have, and I always will. Despite what my immediate family members might tell you, I am not OBSESSED with it and I don't think I force it upon anyone, but I do enjoy celebrating things and I love special days and I really love presents, so all in all, birthdays are pretty great.

This is the first year that I've looked at my new age and thought anything besides "Yay! A year older!" Despite the fact that I am nearing 30, honestly getting older doesn't bother me that much. I feel like because I look so young, I get more joy with telling people how wrong they are when they guess my age and they're WAY off. It's a secret (not anymore) pleasure of mine. People routinely think I'm 18, so when I mention the fact that I'm actually in my late twenties, I feel a weird joy in them being wrong.

The reason I've been feeling a little differently about this age, this year is that not only does 27 just sound much older than 26, but it feels like yet another year of unknown. When my Granddaddy was 25, my dad was born. When my dad was 25, I was born. I was sort of hoping to continue that silly little age gap thing because I love things like that, and also because when I was 23, I lost my first baby, so it seemed pretty reasonable to be pregnant again by the time I was 25. Two weeks after my 25th birthday though, I lost my third pregnancy.

It isn't about the age so much as it is the time that's going by. I got married young. I would have loved to have babies fairly young (I technically am fairly young still but in the eyes of my life-gameplan I am not). I'm 27. I've been married almost 6 years, and I don't have any kids. It feels weird that this is my life. It feels strange that I'm still in this place, nearly four years later than I thought I'd be.

The lessons I've learned in the past few years as I've lived in this season have been so valuable. Had I not known what it was like to grieve, I would not know God in the way I do now. I am thankful for that. I am thankful to have tasted the bitterness, because God's grace has been so sweet. I cannot deny, however, that it is difficult. I'm living a life that's really great, but it isn't a life that's anything like I thought I'd have, and that's hard. It's hard to know that as each day passes, that's one day more of mystery.

Twenty-seven in itself is a pretty unremarkable age. It's one year older, one day further along the road. Ten years ago, birthdays just felt a lot more special.

It isn't the big occasions that count the most though. It's the days. It's the moments that happen each and every day that will mark 27 as a good year or a bad one. I'd love to say that this will be a good year if my wishes are granted and we bring a baby into this world in my 27th year, but the truth is that it will probably be a perfectly fine year either way. It will probably pass as a year with unexpected events, unique memories, and both good and bad, just like most years seem to pass.

I think that this year will be a good one. I think I'll probably get to surprise lots of people with that fact that - surprise! - I'm actually almost 10 years older than you think I am. I think there will be lots of change. I think that I will grow in my relationship with Carson. I think good things will happen and bad things will happen. I think we'll begin good habits, break bad ones, and celebrate small moments like they're big ones like we always have.

I pray most of all that this 27th year (technically 28th year but that sounds confusing) will be one where I don't forget that God is good. I hope that I don't lose sight of the fact that He knows what's going on and that while to me I feel alone or forgotten or sad, to Him, beautiful things are taking place. I have a quote from GK Chesterton that I like that says "One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak". I don't want to focus so much on the beauty of motherhood that I miss the beauty of where He has me now. I don't want 27 or any other year to be so wrapped up in that one thing that I totally lose out on whatever it is He has in store according to His plan.

Here's to another year!

Things That Lurk Below

(photo credit)

I like to look at the ocean, but I'm not particularly fond of swimming in it. If I can't see the bottom, I don't know what might be around me. For the most part, that's probably a good thing, but whether it's a jellyfish or a shark or a piece of seaweed, what may be lurking below me completely scares me. I'm perfectly find just sitting on the sand and dipping my toes in. I do love the ocean though. The sounds of the powerful waves, the smell of the saltwater, the feeling of the sun beating down and making me sleepy, even the people watching... all of it makes me go back, even though the ocean scares me a little. 

It isn't exactly the same, but right now for me, the idea of having a baby reminds me a little of the ocean. You see, I really want a baby. I believe that having a baby is a good thing, and I would really like to become a mother but pregnancy right now feels a little bit like the ocean to me. I see all the things about it that are great: feeling someone grow inside you, the anticipation of meeting that person, all the little things that happen. There are lots and lots of great things that I've heard about and a few that I've experienced. 

But then we have my actual experience to contend with. This would be the part of the ocean that makes me not want to spend too long in it: the sharks, the riptides, the creepy little fish, basically anything that is unknown. And here's the thing with that: my actual experience of being pregnant does not make me very hopeful. If anything else, it makes things a little worse, because the likelihood of getting eaten by a shark seems a lot more likely if you've had your arm nibbled at by one in the past. All of the good things about the ocean would sort of fade away and your entire perspective of the ocean would be SHARKS. All you would be able to think about is the possibility of SHARKS and SHARK BITES and the Jaws theme song. I'm guessing here about the shark thing, but I think I'm fairly close to the mark. 

So if you're tracking here, one hundred percent of my personal experience with pregnancy is miscarriage. That is my shark bite, and so far, I've been bitten every time I've jumped in the water. All of the good things about pregnancy and becoming a mother and having a family have this dark, shark-shaped shadow under the surface of the water that is miscarriage. 

For the most part, I see the shadow lurking there. It is the thing that keeps me awake at night more than any other, the thing that I wish was not coloring my views of pregnancy more than any other, and the thing that I pray against more than any other. It is there, always there, and regardless of how I pray, the danger of sharks in the ocean will never go away. 

These are the things that make it hard to trust God and be thankful for. It's bad enough to be bitten by a shark one time, but three? Does that mean that I should never get back in the ocean? Is it a sign? There are a lot of questions with answers that are probably not coming any time soon. 

What do we do in the face of a Great White Shark? We pray to our greater God. We pray to the One who has created pregnancy and who has lost His Son and who knew what my life would look like before it began. 

And then what? Do we jump in the ocean again? Do we trust wholeheartedly that this time nothing bad will happen? Do we find another way? Do we wait? Do we give up altogether?

I don't like stories without real resolution. They aren't really encouraging, aren't really motivating, and sort of seem to not have a point. I feel a little bit like this is one of those stories. Either I will get pregnant and have a baby or I won't. Either the shark will bite or it won't. Either it will happen this year or it won't. There is no satisfactory end to this yet. There is no baby on the way. There will always be sharks in the ocean. Stay tuned, folks. 

For Sale: Baby Shoes. Never Worn.

There is an urban legend written that Ernest Hemingway once bet that he could write a short story in just six words. He supposedly won that bet with these words: "For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn". I'm not sure that that ever happened, but it is indeed quite a story. In just a few short words, it encompasses a lot of pain and sorrow. Today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, which is also a sad name for a day. While to be honest I didn't remember that today was that day until I saw a post on Facebook, I wanted to write something in honor of this day and our own losses. 

Right now, I might be sitting here writing this post (albeit a very different topic) as my almost-three year old naps. I might instead be relishing in the quiet, just sitting with a cup of tea because my almost-one year old was also down for the afternoon. 

Instead it's just me, and I'm writing from the floor because that's where my computer was. It's quiet and I'm the only one in my apartment. There are all kinds of breakable things sitting out at the perfect height for a small child to grab and break. I don't have any outlet covers. Nothing is baby-proofed. 

I've miscarried all the babies I've ever held in my womb, three in total. The first would have been due in late January of 2013. After I lost that pregnancy I got pregnant again right away with a baby that would have been born in the spring or early summer of 2013. The third baby, I lost last March. He or she would have been due on November 1 of 2014. 

These babies are missed. They have been grieved. I loved them. I think about them all the time and I wonder all the time what our lives would look like if they had arrived when they were due. I wonder where we'd live - we were just about to move to Cleveland when I miscarried the first two, and I'm guessing we'd have made that move either way, but I'm not totally sure if we'd have made the move to Florida. I wonder what kind of mom I'd be. I wonder if they were twins and I didn't know it (I've always wanted twins). My highs would have been different and my lows wouldn't be the same.

But this is the life I'm living now, and it's one without children. 

There is a part of me that will always ache for those babies. I'm certain that no matter what the future holds, I will not forget this time when I longed for children and felt the sting of having others pass me by. While I hope to have this season behind me sooner rather than later, I never want to forget it. I have learned valuable things about waiting and about being a good friend when you really want what your friends have, and about perspective, and about God being good no matter what. 

And He has been good. I don't understand why He's chosen us to be in this season right now, and if I'm being honest with you I might even trade places with the naive person I was over three years ago that just thought these sorts of things happened to "other" people and not to me. Waiting stinks and grieving is hard. 

While I ache for them and while I think about them, I know that dwelling firmly in the past isn't wise. We are urged as believers to "press on", to "look forward", "run with endurance", "lift up our eyes" and countless other similar phrases. Wallowing in our pain and letting it be the core of our identity just isn't a symptom of the Christian life. Side note: ignoring our struggles and pretending like everything is alright and that we don't have pain or problems is not the alternative to this either. We can be "real" and also be looking forward, going through difficult things and yet not giving up hope. I feel very firmly that it is important to be honest about these things and to let people in on them without just putting a smile on it to cover up (hence writing about it on the internet.) 

I both love and hate when people say "God's got a purpose for this". On the one hand, it sort of feels like I'm being preached at or told to look at the bright side of what is in actuality not a very bright thing. On the other, I believe that He does have a purpose. I'm not certain I'll know what that is. It might be that one day I realize that "Oh, THIS was the reason I lost babies!" - which I doubt. But still I believe that good has come from this situation. I believe that God works all things together for good, and that includes this. 

I see God's goodness and grace in my life, and specifically in the area of motherhood. He has not given me my own children in this world, but He has given me other people's children. Carson's brother has five little girls, to whom we are aunt and uncle, but I have several close friends whose children call me (or will call, as many of them don't yet speak) "Aunt Lindsay". 

It is a great joy to be called that, to have little people to love and to send gifts to, to look forward to seeing. I know a lot about strollers and car seats and random baby equipment that I wouldn't know about if not for them, and I'm hoping that one day it comes in handy for me. That isn't to say that I don't struggle, because I do, and it's hard, and I do wonder if my time will ever come. 

Experiencing that pain is unfortunately very much a part of life on this earth. I believe that sin and death are a part of our world because this world is broken and fallen and I believe that miscarriage is absolutely a sign of that. In a perfect world, we'd never know loss, or pain, or anything bad, which is something I cannot comprehend; not really. I mean - how perfect is perfect? What does that possibly look like? Think about it!

My children know a perfect world. They don't know loss, they will never feel pain. They will only know goodness, perfection, perfect love, a world free from sickness and suffering. It's what every mother hopes for - a world where their child is free from all the bad things of the human experience. I don't grieve their loss; they are all the better for never having experienced what it means to have a sin nature or to enter a world littered with its effect. I grieve for me. For what Carson and I don't kno -- how they might look, what they would grow up to be, how their existence would impact and shape us. I may become a mother to someone someday, but I have missed out on parenting those three children. For over three years now, I've felt the acute pain of knowing that I'm missing something BIG. I miss those three people I never knew. 

As we look to the past, we grieve. We wish we didn't know what it felt like to love someone you've never met and never get to experience that reality. But we look forward. We look forward to the hope that is in Christ. We love Him and we don't know Him. But we believe that we will one day be with Him, as our children are already, and that that love will be made full. 

Mother's Day Thoughts

Yesterday, I was sitting with my little niece on my lap and she said "It's Mother's Day, Aunt Lindsay! Are you a mom?" And I said no, starting to feel a little sorry for myself. Then she followed it up with, "If you're not a mom, are you a honey?" I have no idea what that means, but I found it funny and it kept my mind off the train it was going down when she asked the initial question.

I'm not a mom, in the strictest sense of the word, and I want to be, so days like Mother's Day are hard. Not sit-by-myself-in-a-dark-room hard, but difficult nonetheless.

Before I create a rabbit trail, I just want to say that the reason why I'm writing this post is because I wanted to tell you how I was encouraged on Mother's Day.

My phone buzzed several times during the day, receiving messages from various people who just texted to say that they were thinking of me. I wasn't expecting anything like that, and was actually doing okay emotionally, but each and every text was so meaningful. Friends wished me a Happy Mother's Day, told me they were praying for me, and that I was on their mind. I didn't need it, but I soaked it up.

God's blessed us with amazing friends and family in all the places we've lived and I'm incredibly grateful for all the sweet people who went out of their way to just send a simple message. It really meant the world.

Dear friends who have prayed for us and loved us in this long season of waiting and wondering - thank you.
Thank you for your tears, your hugs, your emails, your Facebook messages, your brownies and your cards. I am so thankful for you, and I can't really express how much your love means to me. It's been quiet, it hasn't been every day, but every once in awhile, like yesterday, I'm reminded that I haven't been forgotten. And that means so much.
It's strange to be the "friend-without-kids" and I find myself often unsteady with where I am in life, having deep inner struggles that I can't verbalize. It's been weird, but thank you for being there.
I am hopeful that this season will not last forever, but even if it does, I want to remember the goodness in what often seems so dark and painful. I want to remember that there were people whose tiniest text encouraged me. I want to remember that people prayed with me and for me. I want to look back on this time and not see it as a pit of despair but as a time where God was working, blessing, loving. I know He is, and I see it in you guys. Your actions might seem very insignificant to you, but thank you for making them anyway, because they are meaningful and full of the gospel and encourage me in the Lord. You encourage me to press on to know the Lord and to be hopeful and prayerful and faithful as I wait.

Thank you.

Links on Loss

I think you probably know that the subject of pregnancy loss and infertility is one that is close to my heart. Even if I do end up having children one day, I know that I won't forget how I felt when I thought that maybe I wouldn't ever be a mother. I hope that my eyes will still fill with tears and that my heart will ache for people who can't have babies. Again, I have no idea if that's in my future, but whether it is or not, it's a topic that I think should be discussed more often, and I think is becoming less of a taboo topic. A year ago today, I had my third and most recent miscarriage. I don't have anything to say on that topic right now, but I thought that I'd share a few posts other people have written that have been a blessing to me in this season of hoping in the Lord.

I Could Have a Baby but She Could Not - I know it's really difficult for people who haven't experienced loss to understand it, and I don't judge them at all for it. I hope people don't feel guilt because they can have children while I still don't, and I appreciated this post.

My Miscarriage Changed Me - grief is a strange thing, and I was edified by the perspective this writer had. (great links on the bottom of this post)

The Heart Behind Multiple Miscarriages -

He Didn't Heal My Daughter, God is So Good

When Jesus is the Only Baby

Gospel People Say Goodbye

Why I'll Never Ask When You Plan to Have a Baby

God's grace has been so abundant in this season of life, and though I do think of the babies I've lost on a daily basis, He encourages me. I am often most encouraged through the words others have written, which draw me to the Lord and help me to process.

I Just Haven't Met You Yet

In dealing with life and loss, I have often thought about what I would say to people when they ask me how many children I have. The truth is that I do not currently have any, but I have had pregnancies and am, in some sense of the word, a mother.

The truth is that it hurts quite a bit when people say "You've been married almost four years? And you have no kids? Why IS that?" because of two things. One, it's not their business. And two, I would like children very much, thank you, and I don't need the reminder. They don't know, couldn't, that in reality it is a very hurtful thing to bring up. That there are lots of people with perfectly good health with seemingly nothing wrong who for some reason that isn't explained, lose their pregnancies. They couldn't understand how "You need to get on that" or even, "You're quite young; it probably wouldn't hurt to wait a little" actually does hurt. 

The truth is that I hear of friends' pregnancies in cute Facebook announcements and get a little catch in my throat. That I mentally calculate how old my babies might be, and what it might be like to tell people you're pregnant and not "I lost another baby". That I get nervous when one of those public announcements goes out before the first trimester is over. 

The truth is that it hurts that not a day goes by that I don't think of the babies I've lost. I would have thought that I'd get to the place where it was a distant memory, but it isn't. It's not fresh, but I never forget what I have lost. 

I wear a necklace with a January birthstone on it and it isn't a superstitious thing. I know that my due-in-January baby is not with me when I wear it (which is every day) but it is my small way of saying "I loved this little one and this is the way I choose to honor that". I have nothing else tangible as a reminder. I cannot pick up and look at a favorite blanket or a first outfit to remind me that I was, for a short time, pregnant. I have no idea who my babies might have been or what they looked like. I never felt a kick or even a flutter of life. 

I still love. I still miss. I still think about what might have been. 

The past, what I know of pregnancy, has not been full of happy memories. I have always looked forward to pregnancy. Not that it would be rosy and wonderful, but there would be the promise of life. There would be an end to pregnancy and a beginning to a huge chapter of life. Mine began and ended in a matter of a few short weeks. 

Naive as it may sound, I still look forward. Not innocently as before, as I wish it were. I look forward with the hope that one day I will know what that little flutter feels like. That I will know what it's like to have a belly so huge you can't see your feet. That I will hear that first healthy cry. I hope for these things. I hurt because I want them but I don't know what the future holds. I might always hope, and never get what I want. 

In addition to that hope, I look forward to one day knowing the babies I have never seen. I believe, fully, that that WILL happen. I believe that having a healthy pregnancy is not a promise that I have, but that seeing my children one day definitely is. 

I can't imagine what that might be like. I really cannot fathom seeing the ones over whom I have grieved. How can I? I don't know what they look like. I don't have faces or names to go by so I really can't process what the moment might be like. 

But I do look forward. I look forward to seeing my little ones one day in heaven. I look forward to hearing them tell me what it's like to have been with Jesus from before birth, to have never known pain or grief or loss themselves. They have the fullness of glory which I cannot even imagine. They have the one who knit them in my womb. They have God Himself. 

The Tears Will Come

I was getting ready to take a shower when I decided to take the test. Too excited to wait, I stuck my head out to see what the test said before I was even out.

Pregnant.

The rest of the shower was mostly me opening my eyes wide and staring at the curtain. Really? Finally? I had a variety of emotions, which didn't come out in tears. I tried to make myself cry because that's the reaction I wanted to have, but really I just had too many things to think about and I couldn't go there.

The tears came for the first time a week and a half later when I began to spot and thought I was having a miscarriage. I saw the tiniest bit of blood and lost it, sitting on the bathroom floor sobbing, Carson's arms around me. I prayed the only things I could think of, which were mostly "Why?" and "Please let me just be overreacting!" and the next morning I woke up wary but fine. I continued to feel nauseated and pregnant, but I called the doctor to be safe.

I had been somewhat fearful from the beginning. I prayed that I'd be the kind of person that can just live life normally after two miscarriages, but I don't think that person exists. I looked to the future and dreamed about holding a precious baby in early November. Maybe even two - I've always wanted twins. But because of my experiences, I feared. I was understandably afraid that I'd do something or that something would happen and it would be a "three strikes and you're out" scenario.

On the morning of March 22, I woke up and knew. I mean, I sort of knew. I felt off. I was having pain in my lower back and a little cramping and just didn't feel right.
But I went to work because maybe it was just spotting. I urged myself to focus on work and think about life when I got home. And then it was painful. I felt a sharp pain and then felt something leave my body. I know that's gross, but it did. And tears filled my eyes. "No, please no" I silently begged, while trying to keep my voice level and my eyes from weeping.

I went on my break and lost it emotionally. The minute I was off the floor I began to sob. I headed to the bathroom and my fears were confirmed. I knew then that my baby was no longer living inside me, and my prayers for the health of my pregnancy ceased.

The past rushed back to me in that moment. I remembered sitting in a gas station bathroom in Ukraine with absolute fear. I remembered "No, please no" being the only words I could think to pray. I remember the eternal bus ride and the dread of what was going to come.

I couldn't stop crying. My supervisor came over to me after my break and asked if I was okay, and my red eyes betrayed me. "Go in the back for a little bit; we'll be okay for a second", he said. And I did, but I didn't make it past the door before I began to weep. He'd followed me back there to retrieve a carton of milk, and sent me home. It was the most merciful thing I could have experienced, because can you imagine me trying to get through the remaining six hours?

For awhile, I sat in my car in the parking lot. I called my mom, who cried with me and prayed for me. I went home to Carson, who I'd warned of my early return and the loss of our child. He'd set up clothes in the bathroom so I could shower and was waiting by the door to wordlessly hug me.

When I got in the shower, I thought about the time I was in there four weeks earlier. I thought about the tears that wouldn't come and how I knew they'd come later. And they had. I cried for my baby. I cried for the emotions of joy I'd wanted to cry before and couldn't. I cried for the fear of loss I'd had, and the fulfillment of that sadness. I cried because God is sovereign. I cried because close friends have lost their babies and they're in heaven instead of inside us. I cried for the future, because I don't know if I can do that again. I cried for the innocence of myself two years ago, when I had no idea how painful loss could be. I cried until the water was cold and I had to get out.

Tears lie ahead, I fear. Whether it's the same kind of tears in the future, the tears I'll cry when I go to the doctor, or the tears of joy and relief I think I will cry at the eventual birth of my hoped-for child, the tears will come.

I look forward to the joy that comes with the morning.

For Those Who Fear the Unknown

Written 6 March 2014 and published as if I'd posted it in 2014. At the time I wrote this, I was pregnant, had just spotted a lot, and I didn't know what was going to happen. I freaked out and I stayed scared. On March 22, I did miscarry this baby. It was not an easy thing.

I hate not knowing in the big picture.

I've always wanted to be pregnant, but I never considered that it was a scary undertaking. There's unknown morning sickness that could strike at any moment, lists of foods and drinks to avoid, things you can't do... and sometimes even when you obey all the rules, things go wrong.

In my world, if you follow the rules, everything should be fine. People who stay on the path are safe, right?

Welcome to life, Lindsay.

There have been several sets of circumstances in my life that seemed like mountains, and right now, pregnancy is the one looming in front of me. I've already suffered loss, so my senses are heightened. Any pain I feel brings on the "certainty" that I will lose this baby. Any time I feel funny, or suddenly feel just perfectly normal, I assume the worst. In my head, this will change as time progresses and I pass the 13 week mark, but right now? Time seems to be standing still, just waiting for that one moment when... surprise, surprise, I lose the baby.

But the thing about pregnancy and the thing about life is that you miss out on a lot if you're scared about what's behind the bend. Yes, I could lose my baby (which to be honest feels incredibly real right now even though I wish it didn't), but if I don't or if I do, I don't want to live like I'm preparing for a trip to a funeral home. A child is a miracle. Pregnancy is a blessing. If I live in fear of what might happen tomorrow, I miss out on today.

 One of the things I remember from the first time I was pregnant was the absolute joy I felt. I was on cloud 9. I downloaded What to Expect When You're Expecting on my Kindle and read the whole thing (minus the post-birth stuff... whole other obstacle) on the plane to Ukraine. I thought about names, I planned how I'd tell my family and friends... and I don't regret those plannings and that joy. It helped me as I grieved, because it showed me how much I loved the little life inside me.

This time around, there's naturally heightened sensation. I wish I could shake the feeling of fear that I have, but I know that I can't. I wish I could speed up time, but the days are seriously d-r-a-g-g-i-n-g by.

Hebrews 12 begins with a reminder to lay aside "every weight, and sin which clings so closely" to run toward Jesus. Instead of focusing on the things that slow us down or might entangle us or get in the way, we are to look ahead -- "looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith". Why? Because "for the joy that was set before Him [He] endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God". It goes on to list other thing Jesus endured in His pursuit of the cross.

Though this passage isn't a perfect parallel to my situation, it hits the nail on the head for me. Instead of thinking about my fears and what might happen and what could be the eventual turn of events, I have to look forward. Thankfully I already have my hope in Jesus - I look toward Him, I run toward Him as my hope. If I were to put my hope in things on this earth, like feeling secure, I would be surrounding myself with my fears, allowing myself to be surrounded by them. Instead of that, in Jesus, I look ahead. I look to Him as my hope. I know that no matter what happens, He is the founder and perfecter of my faith and I can trust Him even in troubling times.

I don't have perfect faith and I don't think I'm guaranteed it in this life.
. I still get scared, but in Him I know there's more. He holds the future and has purpose, and though I may not understand it, I can give Him those fears and run unbound by the things I'm afraid of.