2

2 years.

Has it really been two years since I held him?  Two years since we said hello and goodbye?  Two years that a piece of my heart has been in heaven?

If he were here, he would be walking, talking, probably throwing tantrums.  He would be wearing 2T clothes.  He would drive his big sister crazy.

In the last year, the sharpness of my grief has worn off.  It doesn’t overwhelm and engulf me.  Now it’s just a dull throb that stays with me some days.  Other times I don’t even think about it and then some circumstance slaps me across the face with a quick, harsh sting.  And it's always little things.

Like seeing all the little boys at church who are turning 2.  There were several of them born within a couple of months of each other that year, and Arthur was right in the middle.

Like my husband saying he’d like to have family pictures taken this year.  And me hesitating because I realized we’ll never have a complete family picture again.

Like introducing myself in my Bible study group and getting an adrenaline rush just to deal with the “how many kids do you have?” question.

Like when my 3-year-old asks if she is going to die.  Or if her baby sister is going to die.

Like seeing two little girls about 5 and 2 playing together in the line at the grocery store while their mother watched smilingly.  And wistfully thinking “I wish that could be me.” And then realizing that I’m assuming it won’t be.  Even though there are a 3-year-old girl and a 10 month-old girl at my house.

Like every single time we sing songs about heaven in church.  My husband and I wryly joke that we need trigger warnings for our worship music.

The refreshing crisp of fall has always been my favorite part of the year.  But now when I feel the cool air and the warm sun at the same time, visceral memories wash over me.  Of sitting in a wheelchair outside of the hospital, holding a plaster cast of my son's handprints and footprints, waiting for my husband to pull up in our car.  Of standing next to a tiny little coffin a few days later.  While this hurts, it is also gives me joy.  My memories of Arthur and the high and low points after his birth and death are still strong.  The long lonely winter that faded into unexpected morning sickness makes those next few months seem like a blur in my mind’s eye, but October 2014 is crystalline.  

For years, I have half-joked that those first cool days of fall are my favorite reminder that God always keeps His promises, because after the flood, He promised that the seasons would never cease as long as the earth endures.  So I’ll let the refreshing air remind me of my pain, because at the same time, it reminds me that this won’t be forever.  God is faithful, and one day He will put this world to rights.

I’ve been memorizing Romans 8 for the last 18 months (memorizing goes much more slowly now than it did when I was young).  The verses I am working on right now, nestled in between two much more “famous” sections of the chapter, say this perfectly.

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us. ¹⁹ For the anxious longing of the creation waits eagerly for the revealing of the sons of God. ²⁰ For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope ²¹ that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God. ²² For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now. ²³ And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body. ²⁴ For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? ²⁵ But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.

Like a Child

Jesus and Children, Lucas Cranach

My 3-year-old continues to grieve milestones for me.  As her baby sister grows, she repeatedly asks, “When Arthur comes back with Jesus, will he eat squash? Will he sit in the high chair?  Maybe I can teach Arthur to walk!”  After many iterations of this conversation (to be fair, babies hit a lot of milestones in that first year!), I finally buckled down to explain the eternal state to her.  “When Jesus comes back, Arthur will have a perfect body.  He won’t have to learn to do any of these things.  He’ll already know how!  He might be big like Uncle Andrew.” (Since Arthur was the spitting image of his uncle as a newborn, deep in my heart I harbor a vision of a man-child who looks like my brother running to embrace me in his long arms.)

And, bless her heart, she took me at my word.  I’ve not had to field any more questions about Arthur growing up.  However, she also has begun planning their collective eternal future (big sister prerogative…).  As of right now, they are going to go to the park and the swimming pool, they will run together, and maybe do a little painting.  Oh, and take Arthur shopping for clothes.

Right there, ladies and gentlemen, is child-like faith.  When I tell my daughter that tomorrow we will go to Papa and Grandma’s, she believes me.  And then the next day comes, and her belief in me is not disappointed.  When I told her that the swimming pool would open in June, she believed me, and sure enough, in June, the swimming pool opened.  When I told her that it will be Christmas again, she believed me.  And Christmas came.  So, when I tell her that Jesus will come back and Arthur will be with Him, she believes me.  She puts Christ’s second coming in the same category as every other thing she waits for.  Then she plans accordingly - confidently and expectantly.  It’s not some mystical, far-off, someday event.  It’s real to her, just like the swimming pool and Christmas.  

 

My heart yearns in several places as I hear her.  First, I grieve my own lack of faith.  When did I become so jaded, so grown-up, that God’s promise of eternal redemption and bliss seems less sure, less close, less real than my earthly experiences?  Should I find God less trustworthy than my daughter finds me?

I hurt for the future, when perhaps she will approach the kingdom of God less like a child, when years of waiting will make the promise seem less certain, when I will have to comfort her because she misses her brother who she barely knew.

It makes me think of a verse from a beautiful poem I read in Spanish Lit:*

Desperté de ser niño. /I awoke from being a child.
Nunca despiertes. /Don't ever wake up.
Triste llevo la boca. /My mouth is sad.
Ríete siempre. /May you laugh forever.

So I pray for both of us, that I will trust God like my girl trusts me.  That she will not awake from childhood in this sense. 

Next, I long and pray for her salvation.  Because I want to see her run and play and swim and paint with her little brother.  It’s such a small part of why I pray this prayer, but I would be lying to say it wasn’t a part at all.

And most of all, I just ache for the day when God keeps His promise, when His Son comes back to be the king forever, and when I can share eternity with my son, with whom I got to share so little of space and time.  Maybe I'll get to go swimming with him, too.

*Nanas de la cebolla, by Miguel Hernandez.  (A jailed dissident during the Spanish Civil War, writing to his infant son.)

Confessions

The child born after losing a child has a name among the ranks of bereaved parents: A rainbow child…like the beautiful, colorful hope after a storm.

Like the reminder that God always keeps His promises.

For many, many reasons, my rainbow pregnancy was the hardest thing I have ever done. Emotionally, spiritually, mentally, physically.  And I’ve lost a child and run two marathons, so that’s saying something.  It was a year ago when I was found out, to my surprise, that I was expecting a new baby.  For the sake of honesty, I’d like to try to explain what the last year was like.  If you or someone you know is pregnant after loss, perhaps this can help you or them to understand what might be going on in head and heart.  Or maybe it will answer questions you had about me but didn’t want to ask.  Or perhaps I just need to write it down.

Emotionally, I was still grieving Arthur.  At each milepost in pregnancy, any joy I could muster was a reminder of hopes that had been crushed or desires I had never even allowed myself to have.  Could I start dreaming when I saw the plus sign on the pregnancy test?  Think about logistics as a family of 4?  I’d been there a year ago and had to shut off those thought-roads just a few months later.  Be happy that my new baby had no abnormalities without those feelings somehow meaning that Arthur wasn’t enough, wasn’t able to bring me joy?  Buy baby clothes as if this baby might actually live to wear them, not just to bury her in?  For almost full year I had fought to be content that God said “No” to my desire to have a child I get to keep.  Giving birth to a baby and bringing him home is what happens to other people (pretty much everyone else in my life in the last year…), not to me.  Now I had to try to adjust to hoping and dreaming again.  I bought a baby outfit just before the big sonogram and cried the whole way home from the store.  I made plans for 2016 as if it would still just be the three of us.  When I was happy, I felt like I was betraying Arthur and when I was sad, I felt like I was being unfair to the little life growing inside me.  There was no safe feeling.  I think I withdrew from family and friends because I didn’t have any feelings left…it took too much emotional energy to just exist.

You know how when you’ve hurt a part of your body, you either purposefully or subconsciously treat that area with special care, avoid touching it or asking it to do too much work?  Limping, holding a cut finger out of the water when you wash your hands, chewing on the other side of your mouth when you have a canker sore.  I was doing that with my feelings.  I was afraid to let anything touch my broken heart.  I would fight to open up to love and hope, then think of some situation that could break my heart again, and be gripped by either terrible fear and sorrow or shut down.  

Which brings me to the spiritual battle that has been mine since I saw that plus sign.  Shortly after my doctor confirmed the pregnancy, I called a mentor of mine, asking how I could make it through the next 7 months.  I knew that anyone else would tell me, “Remind yourself of who God is.”  And I’d been doing that for a month, but my mental conversation went like this: “God loves you so much that He sent His Son to die for you.  And Arthur still died.  God never makes a mistake.  And Arthur still died.  God is great and mighty. And Arthur still died.”  I didn’t hate God.  I didn’t question a single thing I believed about God’s person and character.  I just couldn’t find any comfort in the truths that had upheld me since the doctors told us about Arthur.  All those things can be true and terrible things can still happen.  My wise friend didn’t dismiss any of this.  She told me that it would take time to find what to tell myself.  That I would fail and be discouraged and fearful.  That God would comfort and strengthen me but that this would be a hard, hard fight. 

And she was right.  I found answers…or rather, handholds that I could hang on to for dear life when fear and doubt and despair ruled my heart and my mind.  So many days, I ended up curled up in a ball begging God to keep His promises.  I wasn’t even mostly afraid of losing this child.  I was afraid of what losing her would do to me.  To my mind.  To my faith.  

I felt so weak…it was kind of like being a homeowner with a savings account and then the air conditioner breaks.  You pull the money out of savings to fix it.  Then you find termites.  The savings account is almost gone.  Then your car needs a repair.  You go from facing life confidently to fearing what might be around the next corner, even if it’s just a small expense.  My “savings” had been spent on Arthur.  I had nothing left, no reserve to fall back on.  Which was probably the point, but anyway…  The smallest fear loomed large because I honestly felt one small disaster away from going stark raving mad or losing all trust in God.  And I’m not being dramatic.

Thankfully God brought just the right truths into my life at well-spaced intervals throughout the pregnancy.  Perhaps after a few months He was tired of hearing me quote the same Bible verses at Him several times a day so He decided to drop another one in my lap.  Here are the crevices where I slipped my fingers and fought for dear life:

The story of Gideon.  A Bible study I was doing brought out the point that God knew that Gideon’s faith was weak and that in order for Gideon to accomplish what God had set out for him, in order for Gideon not to lose heart, Gideon needed some help.  God gave Gideon sign after sign (the famous “fleece” being one of them) to prove that He was trustworthy.  I was so comforted by the reminder that God knew what I personally needed for my faith to withstand the circumstances He has ordained for me.  I told Him that I had no idea what I needed (I wasn’t going to name my “fleece”,) but that I just needed Him to be that compassionate, to baby me along like He did Gideon, to build up my faith again.

Psalm 103.  This has been a favorite of mine since I memorized it in 6^th grade.  A verse that I’d always glossed over began to stick in my mind about midway through my pregnancy.  “Who satisfies your years with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle.”  I felt old and haggard (don’t laugh at me).  I’ve always been told I look years younger than my actual age, but grief and two pregnancies this close to each other really did a number on my body.  When I look at pictures of myself before I fell pregnant with Arthur, it looks like the young, happy, healthy me.  Maybe no one else notices, but in the pictures from May 2014 on, I can see the grief, the exhaustion, the extra stretch marks and fat, the wispy, uncontrollable hair growing back in from postpartum hair loss.  I had spent almost all of my oldest daughter’s life pregnant.  Plus I turned 30.  I prayed this verse to God often; that He would fill whatever years I have left with good things, that I would be satisfied, satiated with His goodness, that the joy and vigor I used to have would come back to me.

Matthew 12  We teach preschool Sunday School at our church, and this year we are studying the book of Matthew.  Our family pastor encouraged all the teachers to read through the book in a week or two.  I did, and once again verses I knew before took hold of my heart: “A BATTERED REED HE WILL NOT BREAK OFF, AND A SMOLDERING WICK HE WILL NOT PUT OUT.”  These words are a prophecy from Isaiah, speaking of Christ’s gentleness.  The moment I read this verse, I gasped out loud.  That’s what I am!  I’m a battered reed and a smoldering wick.  I’m afraid something will come along and snap me in two, snuff out the last flicker of light.  Frankly, I was afraid that something from God’s hand would snap me in two or snuff me out.  But right here was a promise that He would not.  Oh, how many times I prayed and said “You said you wouldn’t!  So don’t.  Please don’t.”

Mentally, the best I can do to explain this pregnancy is something I read in a book or blog: pregnancy after a loss is like sending a soldier with PTSD back to the battlefield.  Every glance in the mirror, every kick in the ribs, every doctor visit gave me flashbacks to moments I didn’t want to relive.  I had incredibly vivid dreams that would leave me shaking and sobbing long after I woke up.  Honestly, I think I processed some of my shock and grief during this pregnancy, not while I was pregnant with Arthur.  I feel like a scab got ripped off too soon, over and over again.

Physically, it was just a hard pregnancy.  I was pretty sick at the beginning, and the nausea didn’t go away for good until almost 18 weeks.  I had scary episodes of my heart racing that left me feeling exhausted and wondering if I should go to the ER.  I weighed more than I have ever weighed in my life.  I felt drained for most of the pregnancy.  And I struggled to find the joy in all this, because being pregnant is really not that fun – we just enjoy it because we know that it means a new little life is growing and will soon join us.  Except when that little life never gets to come home.

Having my new little one home has healed some parts of me.  I’m not pregnant anymore, and physically feel SO much better.  Really, though, the healing is mostly spiritual.  God has proved to me (again…) that He keeps His promises.  He hears prayers.  He is gentle and compassionate.  He lavishes His steadfast love on His people.  I’m so glad to be in a place of spiritual rest again.  Fighting is really hard.

But some parts of me still ache.  When we walked into the labor and delivery unit and heard a baby crying in one of the rooms, both my husband and I struggled to not lose it right there in front of the nurse registering me.  When I hold my sleeping daughter, her mouth looks exactly like Arthur’s.  When I rejoice in each new experience with her – nursing, smiling, giggling, rolling over – I grieve not having had those experiences with him.  When I look at pictures of the 4 of us, I can’t help but think what it would look like to have a toddling little boy there too.  And I still will never know what to say when someone asks how many children I have. 

But I praise God, who has heard and continues to hear prayers, and who is satisfying my years with good things, like baby coos and endless games of Go Fish.