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. 

A Difficult Surrender

In January, we chose a word of the year: joy.

We chose "joy" because we felt that we were relatively accepting of the life we'd been given. We deeply desire a family and this year will be our fifth of waiting on that blessing. Over the past few years, we've struggled with a variety of issues relating to this and I think that in a sense we've become content with where we are in this journey. I really felt sort of mentally pushed toward the idea of being joyful in all circumstances, not just accepting them but receiving whatever hand we're dealt with a sense of thankfulness and peace that only comes from God.

The one thing I both love and hate about choosing a word like this to focus on is that it seems like that gets tested right away. Nearly immediately after the year began, it became difficult to choose joy. Something that sort of rocked the boat happened, and my commitment to being joyful plummeted and my worry and fear took over. It seemed natural and logical at the time, but in truth, I was saddened by how quickly my desire to live out this characteristic and word faded away when difficult things happened. 

I was up thinking the other night about all of these things, and trying to make myself not worry while also making a mental list of more things to worry about, when Psalm 4:8 popped into my head: "In peace, I will both lie down and sleep; for YOU ALONE, O Lord, make me dwell in safety." My immediate reaction to that verse was humility. There I was, thinking of more and more ways to worry my way into slumber, when I have Someone who is more than sufficient to take these worries upon Himself. It is a difficult surrender. 

The other day I mentioned wanting to "pull the golden thread" to Carson, and he didn't know what I was talking about. It's a story I remember reading as a child in the Children's Book of Virtues (I remember so many of these little stories and was so glad to find a nicely used copy at a thrift store last summer). In the story, there is a young man who is frustrated by the time he's been waiting for something and so one day he happens upon an old woman who gives him a spool of golden thread with a warning: you can pull the thread to move ahead to events in life, but you can't put it back. So the boy pulls the thread to shorten his school days, his engagement, the difficult years when his children are young... and one day he looks over and realizes that he's an old man and has completely missed out on his entire life. He finds the old woman and asks her if there is a way to push some of the thread back into the ball so he could relive the parts that he missed. There is not of course, and he missed his whole life. It turns out that the whole thing was a dream, so when he wakes up, he gets to live that same life over but without any skips. (I found an adaptation of the story here, and the cartoon with the story I also remember from Adventures From the Book of Virtues on YouTube)

The waiting is hard, but worth it. I think sometimes if I had a golden thread, I'd like to pull it just so I could get to the "other side" of this, but maybe there isn't another side. Maybe there's more waiting, or more wondering, or something else that I' can't imagine. Either way, I feel pretty confident that the journey is going to be worth it in the end. And I'm very thankful to not have the temptation of skipping ahead.

Worry isn't something that is going away as a struggle of mine, it's sticking around for the long haul. It's going to be that thing that when I'm 90, I'm battling. But I don't want to get to 90, or 29 for that matter, and suddenly realize that all my life I've been holding on to being in control. I don't want to trudge through life looking for things to worry about and focusing on what I can't change. I'd love for my nights to be for sleep and not for worry, and to be thankful when things are hard and when they're good. I want to thank God for what He's given me and then surrender my fears to Him. 

It's so hard. It sounds really easy and simple and I think that's what makes it so difficult. It's very easy to say things to myself like "Oh, but you have to plan ahead!" or "Oh, but I'm only googling this so I have peace of mind" and to turn to little things like that while slowly turning away from putting trust in God and confidence in His plan. 

So, joy, thankfulness, trust. These are things that are a burden right now. They are the difficult surrender as I attempt to place my will in line with God's plan. When He says no and I want it to be yes, choosing joy is hard. When He says turn right and I'd like to go left, it's still not easy. I want the control. I want the knowledge. I want to pull the golden thread and zoom ahead to the good parts. But the joy is not just in the good. It is in the heart of the struggle, it is in the yoke of trusting God's plan. It is in the everyday of looking to the cross and running the race that is set before us. 

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication WITH thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus" (Philippians 4:4-7)

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.

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. 

Small Glimmers

I still don't know what it feels like to feel a baby kick for the first time. I don't exchange nursing advice with fellow moms, or have a birth story to share. 

In fact, much of the time I feel pretty lonely. Three years later, many of my friends have gotten married, had babies, and some are on their second child in that time. This is not easy for me. It's hard living with this strange reality, where I want something good, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's hard to live with the questions that come up inevitably - did God forget? DOES He have a purpose in all of this? Waiting has gotten easier in a sense because it's normal, but the hurting doesn't stop. 

I remember June 11, 2012 vividly. The morning, waking up to bid my teammates farewell as I stayed behind for four more weeks in Ukraine. I remember the nap on the bus on the way home, and the way my heart stopped when we stopped for a bathroom break and I saw blood. It was red. It was not right. I knew that immediately. "Nonononono" I repeated to myself for the remainder of our drive, recalling things I'd read about bleeding, very few of them with hopeful outcomes. It didn't feel like something I was going through. I was numb, staring out the window with my mind racing through so many things. I was in another country, on a bus, and I was in this place for four more weeks. What and why and how and what should I do? 

I prayed, and tried to at least look calm. I was afraid, and I'd never been afraid like that before. 

I wish this memory were distant. I wish that there had been a happy outcome and that I barely remembered that day. The truth is that I remember it all. The blood, the pain, the sobbing alone in the bathroom and the backyard. If my memory were a movie, it would be shot with that shaky camera technique, because that's how it feels - vivid but also a complete blur. 

And it was three years ago. Three. 

Were I to have had a baby in the time since, I don't know how I might feel about this day, but right now, I look at June 11 as the very beginning of a chapter. A much longer season than ever anticipated. A black hole, perhaps. And while I do have hope, I wonder if this was the beginning of the rest of my life or if it really is just a small season. Will I feel that baby kick? Will I hear the first gasps for breath from a newborn? 

I feel like today I am still only picking up the pieces. I am still understanding what it means to hope in God while not getting what I want. I'm still not sure what He will have me do if not be a mother, and still not sure if I'll like the answer when it arrives. I still have a lump in my throat when I think very much about this, and still don't know how to talk about it without it sounding like a personal pity party. 

I still don't have answers, and that makes it all the more difficult to process. I hope and pray that at least the season of miscarriage has ended, or at least I think I hope that, as this is the only pain of infertility I really know. 

I think more than anything, I hope to really see a reason one day. I don't expect a shining beacon in the clouds, but I see small glimmers and I do hope to one day look back and say, "oh, because of that horrible thing (those horrible things), this other blessing has come!" It doesn't take the pain away, but it somehow makes it beautiful, to know there's a reason. And I do know there is, and I am hopeful that I will see it and that I will use it and that I will praise Him. 

He brings beauty from ashes. Beauty from pain. 

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.

The Gospel is Greater

This is one of those "as I was thinking, I typed" kind of posts, which might make some sense, or it might not. I've written about a million of these, and usually keep them as drafts or delete them, but I wanted to post one, since I've gotten one or two comments on the topic recently.

--

I haven't shared about this specifically here, because I haven't really known how to do it, but since I've already begun, here we go. I lost a baby in June of 2012, which you probably recall. And if you read this blog but we haven't spoken about it in person, you've possibly wondered what's been happening in the last two years and four months in that regard. And the answer is... well, that wasn't my last loss. The most recent one is weighing heavy on my heart especially hard lately. He or she was to be due the 1st of November and a few of my friends are also due around this time, so I think the combination of it's been HOW long? and seeing their swollen bellies and thinking about what could have been is more real, because I have that physical reminder. Not that I'm upset by them, just reminded. If that makes sense.

Miscarriage is a strange, strange thing. I haven't been through enough in life to know what to compare it to, so I'm going to do my best. It's a loss, for sure. But not in the sense that you'd feel if your best friend died. Because honestly, you didn't know the little one. You never saw their face in real life, possibly never even heard their heartbeat. It doesn't really make sense that you would miss someone desperately without ever meeting them, but that's the paradox of miscarriage, in my experience. You aren't grieving what was, but what wasn't. And that's a strange thing because there's not a lot to compare it to to make it make sense in your head. It's difficult to talk to someone who's gone through that because you aren't sure how to approach it or if you should. And sometimes you just forget, because not having a tangible thing to talk to someone about or comfort them in is really, really difficult!

The things you miss the most are the things you can't actually miss:
You have no idea what they looked like, and you wish you knew.
You don't know if they were a girl or boy, although you may have felt one way or the other.
You don't know their real birthday, if you would have stuck with that original name choice once you saw them, how you would have reacted when they gasped their first breath of air.
You don't know who they might have become, or what they might have taught you.
You don't know first words, favorite colors, or if they would have loved books like you.

The whole thing is a mystery, and that's one thing that makes it so sad. There is nothing tangible but a pregnancy test I threw away long ago because that's gross. I long for tangible. I long to KNOW. Not only to know WHY, but to know who the child I've lost would be today. They would be nearly two years old at this point, which is crazy because my life is quite far removed from life would be as the mother of a one year old, and that makes me sad too.

A fear of mine in struggling with this is that I would lose my faith. That may sound strange, but I've heard of lots of people who have gone through something traumatizing (and we're talking serious stuff here) and then given up on God.

I see the reasoning. God is loving. God is good. God takes away (or doesn't prevent some outside source taking away) something good. ..God must not be good.

But actually that's not true. God doesn't arbitrarily hand out good things and bad things.

We live in a world that is broken. Death, disease, infertility, natural disasters, pain, hardship... these are all part of the collective human experience. Good has been broken by the bad. It's imperfect, this world. They aren't good.

But (I feel like this illustration has been done before), have you ever walked on a broken sidewalk before? The answer is likely yes. It's frustrating, because you have to look where you're going or risk breaking your leg, but sometimes there are little flowers growing out from the cracks. They don't fix the cracks. They can't make them go away, but it is such a neat contrast to me to see that little life springing up from the brokenness of the sidewalk.

This is when we bring Jesus into the picture, bet you saw it coming.

Jesus lived in this broken world. That's astonishing, if you sit down and ponder it. He's the Son of God and yet he entered earth the way we all do and lived almost like we all do. I say almost because he went through the same experience without sin. He was tempted, and didn't sin. And He died on a cross in His sinless state, giving the broken world hope. Why is this hope? Because a broken world can't be fixed with Elmer's Glue. All the green grass and flowers in the world can't cover up the fact that there are murderers and that there is pain and that things happen that shouldn't. They almost make it seem more hopeless, because they fail and show us what a dump we live in.

When Jesus died on the cross, He brought hope. The lives we were living before were hurtling toward a very bleak future. Brokenness that would end and become eternal brokenness with no chance of escape. Jesus' death doesn't offer to fix the broken sidewalk, per se, but a future hope of being able to live and breathe freely in a way we cannot understand. His death has given life to us, because although we only have a small glimpse of what lies ahead, we have something truly -- and in its fullest sense -- GOOD to look forward to - a world that is whole and perfect.

I cling to that hope because I feel that I have to. It's really all I have to go on in life, because without the hope that Jesus brought and that Jesus IS, I would be left in brokenness. I would be left not knowing, without the slightest hope that maybe one day all would be reconciled.

I hate brokenness. I hate that I experience pain, that I've lost a baby. I hate that you go through it too and that there are not only sad things, but terrible ones going on in this world. I despise what could happen in this world.

And yet I am not worried. I am not fearful for the future as a whole because I believe that Jesus is real. I believe that He is who He said He was and that He will bring reconciliation. There are temporary things we can hope in that bring comfort, but ultimately, I see putting my faith in Him alone as the safest thing I can hope to look forward to.

Whether I do have children of my own one day or not -- as much as I don't like to think about that -- God is good. I can't deny that. I would need to deny everything I've ever said about Him

A Future Hope

It seems like so much has happened in the course of just two years. Our time in Cleveland hadn't even started two years ago and here we are, one week away from a move to Florida.

Two years ago today, we lost our first baby.

When I think about it, those long two years seem not so long ago after all. The pain and emotion of that day two years ago will stick with me forever.

Though I've lost three babies, the first has been the one I grieved the most. With that pregnancy, I had complete hope and almost no fear. I was excited and happy. With the others, what I'd experienced plagued the back of my brain. Every semi-abnormal thing became a point of alarm, to the point where Carson found me weeping on the floor one afternoon, terrified of what might happen. Crying again, when it did. It's been a good two years, but also difficult. Marked with more sadness than I've ever experienced in my admittedly easy life.

I never got to hold any of those babies, or even see them in an ultrasound. I wonder all the time, what would that have been like? How would I have felt at the first listen of a heartbeat, the first glimpse on a blurry screen, feeling those first kicks?

It's that way though, I think. When we grieve, we grieve the memories, the tangible. When an unborn child is lost, there isn't much to hold onto. It's the grieving of what might have been, memories that could have been made: first birthdays, first steps, loose teeth. All I've experienced of motherhood has been nausea, food aversion and sleeplessness, and still, I long for that again. Amidst those not-fun experiences was something greater. There was the hope that one day, I would see a sweet little red-faced baby screaming as his lungs breathed on their own for the first time, hold him close and calm him. For someone who never heard so much as a heartbeat, I loved, and I longed for the day when I got to see that love face to face.

I can't stop there without talking about the hope that I really have. Because of miscarriage, I have become more aware of the grace of God in my life.
I know that we live in a broken world. Because of this, there is sin, there is pain, there is loss like we shouldn't have experienced. I know that there is more. I know that through the brokenness, God desires to make new. I know that He heals, and makes complete. Through the death of His own perfect Son Jesus, God not only experienced loss, but He also made new. Because of the cross, I can rest in the promise that God will restore all of creation. The world itself continues to be broken and full of pain. But there is more waiting. I know that I will one day spend my days in eternity, and I'll see Him face to face.

Despite the sadness and the brokenness I've become more aware of in the past two years, I've also been more convinced of the truth of the gospel. I am more aware that God is who He says He is. I know that I have a peace and a hope in Christ that I find nowhere else. Two years later, I find myself still struggling, still having difficult days, but ultimately more aware that I live for a future hope found in Christ.

No storm can shake our inmost calm

While to that refuge clinging;

Since Christ is Lord of Heaven and earth,

How can I keep from singing?

(song found here)

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. 

When Sorrows Like Sea Billows Roll

I didn't know this until I saw some blog posts mentioning it, but October 15 is Infant Stillbirth and Miscarriage remembrance day.

I wish days like this didn't have to exist. I wish we didn't live in a broken world, full of hurt and loss and suffering and grief. I know why they happen; because of sin, because of broken relationships with God.

Sometimes, I have tears that trail down my face as I think about what could have been. The baby I never held would be nine months old. Nine. The past 15 months would have been worlds different from what they could have been. I wouldn't dread the 11th of every month in remembrance of the 11th of June. Our life was changed, not by the presence of a little human, but by its absence, and I never would have expected to feel about it the way that I do. I looked forward to knowing and loving and teaching and growing, and then I never got to do that. Someday, maybe. But not then, not right now.

I've learned to realize that I'm not going to forget and move on in the way that maybe I would like. I can't pretend that this didn't happen, or that I don't have hurt. Life changes, but this part of me won't.

Throughout the past fifteen months, I have struggled, really struggled, with how I felt toward God. I found it difficult to be honest with how I felt about the whole thing. I wanted to say that I trusted God with this, but I also wanted to feel that and not just say words I didn't mean.

One of my favorite hymns is "It is Well With My Soul". If you don't know the story, the writer of this hymn suffered the loss of his son to sickness, much of his wealth in the Great Chicago Fire then the loss of his four daughters in a tragic shipwreck. It is after these events that he wrote "It is Well", a song that gives testament to God's grace EVEN in times of trouble.

When peace like a river attendeth my way
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, 
It IS well, it is well, with my soul. 

There will be pure, unadulterated joy one day. Though we are affected by them, we don't live in light of the things of this world. We live in light of what is to come, what we don't know yet. Along those lines, the Psalmist wrote, Weeping may last for the night, but JOY comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5). David writes these words later in that same Psalm: You (God) have turned for me my mourning into DANCING; You have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with GLADNESS, that my glory may sing Your praise and not be silent. Oh Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever. 

Faith is not necessarily blind, but it looks past what we know of this world. It looks to a future hope. It looks to heaven and the beauty of restored relationship with God that will happen after this life. There is a hope in heaven. There will be no pain, no suffering, no brokenness... only the fullness of joy which is God Himself. I know that I will one day see my little one, who's been with Jesus for fifteen months, who loves him or her more than I ever could. I CAN think of my loss in such a way that I can also say "It is well with my soul".

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blessed assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And has shed His own blood for my soul. 

But, Lord, 'tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal; 
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

Will It Be My Time

From a very early age I remember playing mommy to my Cabbage Patch dolls. When my brother was a baby, I would even pretend to nurse my dolls (or so I'm told). I saw my future and it included becoming a mother.

Two years after I was married, I found out that I was pregnant. I can't imagine what the joy is like when a baby is actually birthed, because I have never been so happy in my entire life. I thought baby baby baby all the time. And I lost the baby. And the baby after that.

I had never been so sad.

Time passed.

And I began to wonder. I wondered "Will it be my time?" because it seemed like it should have been. It seemed worse than just unfair, to give something and then have it taken away. The days ticked by, and the months passed by, and then a year passed, and more months. And there were no babies.

There were other people's babies, but not mine, and that was hard. I cried when I heard about those babies, not from anger, but from sadness, and from missing my baby that I didn't even know. "Will I have a time, God?" I cried, too many times to count.

And then, worse than having friends with happy pregnancies, I had several who lost their babies, both miscarriages and stillbirths. That was awful, knowing what they felt, those emotions etched in my memory, the unbelievable pain of it all. I was heartbroken for them.

I think of my baby being with Jesus with the babies of my friends and sometimes, I still think, "Why? Why did we never get to know our babies? Why didn't we get to raise them? What did we do?"
I don't have the answers. I wish I did. I wish I could point to a definitive moment and say "Ah, yes, this is why!" But with death, there really isn't that luxury. Good comes from the bad, joy comes from heartbreak, deeper knowledge of God's character comes from things like this, but I cannot look at miscarriage and say that I am happy. I cannot think about it and call it good.

I truly, truly thought that by this time, fifteen months later, I would have a baby. Some of those friends I mentioned already do. And that's hard too. I don't like to wait, and I don't like to not-know, so I feel like it would be easier if God were to say "Lindsay, you don't have a time. It's just not going to happen". It would be hard, but at least I would know.

But I can't help but think of the many, many people who before me have waited for something from God. I think of Hannah, who desperately wanted a child. Of the prophets and disciples and everyone else who expected Jesus to return in their lifetime. Of Sarah and Elizabeth who were incredibly old when they finally became mothers.

I see a common thread with those mentioned. Their time was not their own. Though they had earnest desires, they put God first. They said, essentially, what the Psalmist wrote: "I trust in You, O Lord; I say, 'You are my God.' My times are in Your hand." I feel like this is the most difficult prayer, especially when it seems perfectly just that I would want something normal and good, like motherhood.

The truth though, is that I do not hold time.

The best time seemed to me to be after I finished my internship for college, but it wasn't. I found out that I was pregnant about a week before I was supposed to go, and then had a miscarriage while there. And then I thought that basically anytime in the last fifteen months was the next-best time. But since the only reason I'm up late right now is because I'm writing and not because I'm feeding a baby, I'm going to guess that it wasn't the time.

Whether I submit to Him in this or not, I know that my life is not my own, that I don't control time, and that I don't get to do whatever I want.

I still want it to be my time, my turn for a baby.
But before that, I want it to be His.

The Baby Section

Carson works part time at Target, which is a convenient 10 minute walk or a very short drive. So after work, I went over there to pick up some veggies for a recipe. Since I knew he was there, I went up to his department to say hi (my shift conveniently ended at the exact same time he began his, and he got off at midnight). He was chatting with a customer, so I began to browse the closest section, the baby clothes section.

I have several friends who have recently had or are soon to have babies, so I was technically doing "research" for baby gifts. I looked at tiny little rompers, dresses and cute little baby shoes, hardly believing that a person could begin so small. An "about to pop" woman was choosing a stroller and my heart didn't feel complete sadness. I did wonder if she was having a boy or girl (the stroller was neutral), but seeing her excitement didn't tear me apart.

This is a story that is seemingly insignificant, and likely totally insignificant to you, but here's the thing. For months, that baby section has been a really uncomfortable place for me. I would see pregnant mothers dreamily picking up little socks, parents with tiny little ones shopping for a baby swimsuit, or excited future grandparents choosing the perfect "I love Grandpa" t-shirt. It was a difficult place for me to go, because I could identify with their excitement, but I felt robbed of their joy. Too many opportunities for rogue tears in the baby section, so I avoided it (if you had a baby in the past few months and you didn't get a gift from me, you now know why. I'm sorry.).

Do you ever do something and then realize that you've hit sort of a milestone? That's how I felt in the baby section today. It was a small success, realizing that in some minuscule way, I have grown up in this area. I don't think that it was bad to feel the way that I did initially, like the time that I was in Target and lost it when a baby cried. I never wanted people to feel the same loss I had (I'd never wish that on anyone), but I knew that it was very unlikely that I would have that same unhampered joy at the prospect of having a child. I went through something sobering and I was sobered, and obviously that changed me.

I will not be "over" my miscarriage. It's something that definitely happened and created a huge change in me. But I am moving forward. Tears happen sometimes but are thankfully less frequent, and I wear a necklace with a tiny garnet around my neck, the would-be birthstone of this child. I have invisible scars, strange reminders, and memories I wish to forget.

God is faithful though, friends. He is making me at peace with the future. He is giving me rest when I want to be anxious. I am realizing that He knows what is going on in the future, that He has the answers. He has made me see the beauty of the Body of Christ, surrounding me with people to encourage and love and pour words of truth into my soul. He has let me sort of toddle through this, allowing me to move at very slow pace as I see His work in my life. This year has been very bumpy for me, spiritually. I have struggled a lot, and just the fact that I admitted that at all is evidence of a little growth.

The baby section was evidence of baby steps. Growth is slow, but we're moving forward.
He is good.

The Hazy Pink Fairytale

I wrote this a few months ago in an effort to get some thoughts onto paper. Today, it's been eleven months since the loss of our precious little one, and tomorrow is Mother's Day, so these things are on my mind a little more. 

And since it is Mother's Day tomorrow, and since it has been 11 months today, here are some things that I wanted to say about these couple of days for me. Tomorrow may, or it may not be a hard day for me. Since I'm thinking that it might be, and wondering if it will be, I imagine that it's probably going to be less difficult than a regular day, since I overthought it.
I also wanted to say that while I do for sure still desire to be a mother, it doesn't mean that I'm bitter about Mother's Day. I'm thankful for my mother, my mother-in-law and my friends and family who are mothers. God has a reason and a plan for my being a mother and I do trust that. Tomorrow, Carson is being very sweet and has lunch plans for us, "just in case" I'm feeling extra sad, but in reality, I am thankful for the opportunity to experience my mother's love and effort, and that is what I will be *hopefully* thinking about tomorrow. 

If you are someone who is a mother in my life, whether my actual mother, my mother-in-law, or a friend who happens to be a mother or mother to be, I am thankful for you and thankful that you are able to show Christ's love to the children in your life. I pray for you, that you will walk in a manner worthy of Christ, and that your children will see that and be blessed. 

Happy Mother's Day.

--

Once upon a time, a little girl had a dream.

It seemed like a hazy pink fairytale, with a grown-up version of the little girl sitting in a rocking chair holding a sleeping child that was suspiciously red haired like the girl.

She rocked her dolls and kissed the tops of their heads as if they were real babies just falling asleep instead of babies with painted-on, unblinking eyes. She talked to them as if they were her real children. She tucked them in and pretended to feed them with "magic" bottles that made it look like they were really drinking.They'd be put in imaginary car seats on their way to grocery stores, carried about in a little green baby sling just as the little girl's baby brother was carried.

As the girl grew older, she sometimes took care of other people's babies. She would pretend that they were hers though, as she rocked them to sleep or sang to them to keep them from crying. She would walk by mirrors as she carried them, just to see what she would look like with a baby in her arms. She would watch mothers as they talked to their children, deciding how she would interact with her own someday.

She grew a little older and got married. The dreams of holding a red-haired baby became a little more specific. They might have brown eyes, she thought. She wondered if they might be tall and brown-haired and tan easily and look a little more like someone else. She didn't think about these figurative babies constantly, but they came to her mind from time to time.

The girl was surprised when she found out that the dream was coming true. She thought about boy babies and girl babies, what it would be like to have a baby in one of the coldest months of the year. She calculated how old the baby would be at this event or that the following year. She couldn't believe that the things she had hoped for so many years ago would have a face and a name and eyes that actually blinked. Babies were all she ever thought about all of a sudden, all that she could see when she was out. She couldn't believe how much she loved the baby that secretly grew inside her. Every time she felt sick or strange, she thought about the baby and how excited she was that all things pointed to growth and life.

There was suddenly a horrible day where the girl didn't know what to do, but knew that the things she had thought about were not coming true in a few months. There were several terrible days and weeks after it. These things changed the girl a little. She wanted to cry when she saw babies in the store, and one time she did. She wasn't sure how she felt anymore, but the dreams of her childhood certainly felt threatened, as she faced cold reality. She felt like life had bruised her a little, crushing her dreams and heartlessly taking her child.

Months passed, time went on. Some people forgot about what had happened, but the girl knew that she never would. It took awhile for her to dream of babies again, and when she did, it was different. She no longer thought about nine months of bliss, but of terrible endings and worst-case scenarios. She wondered if the closest she would get to her dream was to hold other people's babies and look in a mirror. She wondered how many times she would have to say "Not yet", when well meaning people asked if she had any babies, and if saying that was actually a lie. She wondered why people made comments that suggested that she had never been a mother, when at one time, she was. She knew it was hard, but she wondered if people who had babies knew how much it hurt when they complained about their pregnancies. She cried about petty things like that more often. She was sad more of the time. She didn't really like the kind of reality she experienced.

But still, she wondered about that red haired baby with the brown eyes. She thought about the hazy fairytale. She hoped that it would someday become something to recall to mind when she attended weddings and kindergarten graduations and relived holding those now-grown babies once again. She hoped that one day, she could look back with her children and tell them her story. She prayed and she hoped. One day, she knew, she would have the answers she longed for.

Whether the story would have the outcome she hoped for or not, she did not know. What she did know was that she could not write the ending to her hoped-for fairy tale and that the story was far beyond her understanding. Hope filled her, for she realized that all along, someone else was writing the story.

Helpful Responses to a Miscarriage

I shared why we decided to be public with the news of our miscarriage here.

Now I'd like to share some helpful things I've gleaned from the experience. Things people said or did that were helpful... or not so much. There were more helpful things than not, and I feel like they're obvious, but in case this is helpful to others... here you are:

Disclaimer: These are obviously related to my personal experience. There are people who would like nothing said, and people who really need that. Remember that.

A lot of people said, "I don't know what to say", and I think that it was still encouraging. Knowing that they cared, even if they were a little freaked out to talk to me in fear of saying the wrong thing, was helpful.

"What can I do?" was another common response. I appreciated it, and if there were ways that people could help, I told them, but there wasn't a lot for them to do but pray. If I'd had other children, maybe a meal or something? I'm not sure.

"I'm praying for you". Very helpful. Nice and simple.

"I've been through what you're going through. I understand some of the emotions and I want you to know that I'm here for you". So encouraging. I usually cried.

"I don't want to push you or make you talk, but I'd love to listen if you need it". Also encouraging. I talked some people's ears off and said nothing to others. I think that this depended largely on whether or not I was in a talking mood that day.

"Your baby is in heaven". Depending on how far they took this, it was helpful. It could get annoying - I do not believe that my baby is an angel, has wings, or is looking down on me. I believe that my child is with God and that one day I will meet him or her.

"It's okay to cry". Helpful.

"Let me hug you". Helpful.

"Open your door, we're here with flowers and brownies". Okay, so there were two friends (old roommates), who did this, the day that I posted the story of the miscarriage on my blog. They didn't even stay five minutes, just hugged us, told us that they loved us and were praying, and left. I couldn't stop crying after this. So meaningful.

"Let me tell you the story of the person with 13 miscarriages who never had a biological child and had to adopt". I would love to adopt one day, but this was NOT helpful. I promise that I can come up with "What if" scenarios very well on  my own. Also, I don't believe that adoption's purpose is to be a last resort.

"Let me tell you the story of the person with a miscarriage who went on to have healthy pregnancies". I appreciated this, as well as stories from people with several healthy children who said, "I went through that too". Kind of a relief, really, to know that I wasn't crazy.

"It's okay to name your baby". This was not at all a bad suggestion and I got it several times, but I didn't name my baby. I don't love unisex names, and I'd feel a little silly naming a baby something for one gender and then always wondering what if it was the other one. But I do see how this would be helpful. I thought about it a lot actually.

Hearing about babies and new pregnancies was difficult. I was and continue to be happy for those people, but at first, I saw a baby and cried like one. I WILL say that I have friends who were pregnant at that time, and they were so great. They didn't say, "That was one of my fears" or "One day you'll have this too", or really anything other than" continually offer love and support. They didn't gush. A few did say, "Tell me how to be sensitive about this" which was nice. I guess the key would be to be really casual. Just be a friend.

"Maybe God is trying to teach you something". This wasn't just unhelpful, it sounded downright hurtful. I don't believe that this was the intent, so I don't hold it against anyone, but I really hate the way this sounded.

"Here's my number. You don't have to call, but if you need to talk, please do". I don't know that I took anyone up on this, but it meant a lot. (and you know who you are)

I wouldn't say things like "Are you sure? Maybe you weren't even pregnant". REALLY? Not helpful. Hurtful, and  I imagine that the intention was kind, but this shouldn't be said, it's insulting. There were a couple of people with this response. I didn't know them well, and I'm glad, because I really didn't want to talk to them.

People who sent cards and letters. Very thoughtful. Also, many of them came from people I don't know that well, and that was touching.

Facebook messages and emails. I don't think it matters if there was handwriting or something typed... however people chose to say, "Hey, I care" meant a lot. I got one specifically that said, "Tell me if you want me to ask you about it or ignore it. I want to be sensitive" and that one meant a lot. I appreciated that she cared but wasn't trying to be invasive.

Phone calls. Helpful. There were a lot of people that left voicemails that said, "I'm praying, I'm thinking of you, and that's all I wanted to say. Call back if you feel like it, but there's no obligation". I don't know if I did call those people back, and if that was you, thank you.

"I am still thinking of you and praying for you". One month later - three - seven: people randomly contact me and let me know this. There aren't many (and it would honestly be a little weird to have 80 people calling me all the time), but it means a lot to know that people remember. In fact, Carson left these flowers (tulips are my favorite) and this short note at the house on the six-months-since date. It was a rough day anyway, a rough day at work and it was so touching. I saw them and burst into tears. It wasn't a huge gesture, but it was very, very meaningful.

Bottom Line:

If you're put in the awkward position of friend-of-a-person-who-lost-a-baby, I would encourage you to say something. Seriously. Don't ignore the fact that someone has endured a personal tragedy. Don't avoid them in fear of saying the wrong thing. Even if you do say the wrong thing, if you say it with a hug and intentions of love for the person, they likely will appreciate at least the thought and the hug. They will know that you care. They will be thankful that you cared enough to give a hug or to say, "I have no idea what to say and I'm sorry". They will feel that they can trust you. Just don't avoid the situation entirely (unless they ask) and then go with that but still give them a hug. Let them know that you care and let them know not just at the moment, but even if you think about it three months down the road.

And one more thing, you don't have to feel like you need to shield your friend from unpleasant things. Don't shush people when they talk about babies, or say, "Hun, you okay?" and give puppy-dog sad, sympathetic eyes in every conversation. That's just awkward, and you'll end up making things a little strange there. Just be a real friend. Keep it simple.

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I'm probably leaving things out, so feel free to ask. I promise that it's not weird.

Why We Were Open

As you know, I've been fairly open about my miscarriage this summer. I was thinking about all the events of this summer recently, and decided to share some more thoughts about why I have been open, some of the responses, and maybe even some "things to say or do" tips, since that was one of my number one questions. I've decided to try and share a lot of those things over the rest of the month, so feel free to share your own thoughts or ask questions.Why

In this post, we'll tackle the WHY.

There were several reasons that we decided to tell people:

- I was in another country, supposed to be there for another few weeks, and I was coming home early. I didn't want to lie and tell people that I just missed Carson or something, because that wouldn't have been true (ps - I did miss Carson). In another situation, we probably wouldn't have been so public.

- Secondly, while I wouldn't have been so public, I would have told the people who are close to me. Friends and close family members would have been informed either way - I'm not sure how you go through a huge personal tragedy and manage to keep everyone out of it. I wanted and needed their support and encouragement.

Why we told people in person: 
Before I returned to the States, we decided that it would be good for Carson to let the leadership of our church know. I believe that they mentioned it at the prayer-time during the service on Sunday morning. Again, one of the reasons that we did this so publicly was because I'd publicly said that I was going to be gone till mid-July, and there I was, home in mid-June. I think that doing this was really helpful. People knew, and didn't have to feel terrible when they said, "So, why are you back early?" I wasn't afraid to tell them, but honestly "I had a miscarriage" is NOT the anticipated response and people just feel so bad for asking.

Why I shared it on the internet:
This is the same reason that I was incredibly quiet about my whereabouts until I posted about the miscarriage on the blog. If I were to mention the fun things I did one weekend, then have someone comment on Facebook and say "Wait, I thought you were in Ukraine?!", I would feel really bad telling them in a private message, or, worse, right there on my wall. I wrote the blog post for several reasons: I had a ton of feelings and I wanted to record them, and because I didn't want people to be caught off guard.

Thinking back...
In retrospect, I think that being open was good because it let people know, but from a distance. I wouldn't say that this is for everyone, but I will say that it was helpful in my situation. I received many, many responses from people who said that they were praying, or that they had been through similar circumstances. I was mostly encouraged by the response that I got, and I felt that sharing publicly allowed for a buffer for those who would rather avoid the awkward situation and say nothing, which by the way, I completely, completely understand.