Selah, Pt. 2

For weeks after our hospital visit, I cried.

I cried because we lost our first baby. I cried because it felt unfair that we waited twenty months to have to wade through (drown in?) this pain. I cried because the plans we were dreaming up in early January suddenly and without warning were cancelled. I cried because my husband experienced the same events in different ways, and I hurt for him, too.  I cried because I couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel. I cried when I imagined opening myself up to the vulnerability of being pregnant again. I cried when I considered opening myself up to the vulnerability of talking to God about my hurt. I cried because there was life growing in me and then there was not. I cried out of anger at my body, which wasn’t doing what I always thought it was supposed to. I cried when we got a package of props I ordered for our announcement photo because it felt like a cruel reminder of what we no longer needed. I cried when I cleaned off my dresser and found the pregnancy test I had been saving for a memory book — now a memory of loss. I cried when friends dropped off flowers because the grace of God felt close. I cried when friends responded with thoughtful words. I cried when friends responded with honest words admitting they didn’t know what to say, but that they cared, because I believed them. I cried when friends who have been through the same thing responded with heartbreak because it hurt to know they knew the feelings. I cried over friends who didn’t respond at all. I cried when a friend stopped by to drop off bread just because — she didn’t know my news — and it was the first time I said “I had a miscarriage” out loud. One day I got in my car and I cried a lot. I cried because it was the only thing I felt I could do. I cried on the first day my life started to feel “normal” again: at the moment I realized I hadn’t cried at all that day. I cried during group prayer at a friend’s baby shower. I cried in the shower when I thought Danny couldn’t hear. I cried at times without knowing why I was crying.

And I held on to hope. I held on to the idea that, in all of the moments I cried, Jesus wept with me. I held onto the belief that my tears weren’t for nothing. I held on to a hope that our tiny little baby– the size of a sushi roll, with a functioning brain and small ears and the tiniest bones– was born directly into the glory of God.

When I imagine the power and beauty and perfection of what that would be like, to immediately know and see and feel the glory of God, I still cry. I hope I always will.

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