Clear Promises.

Sweet Baby,

One month has passed, but whenever there is a lull in conversation or your brother is still, my thoughts default to you. I wonder if others can somehow read it on my face. As small as you were, you have become the elephant in my room. The stinging disbelief has turned to reluctant acceptance, and while I would never wish you away from the presence of Jesus, I find it impossible not to wish you were still safely growing under that little bulge in my belly.

All of the thinking and wondering has left me with very few answers, but I can't seem to help it. The answers may never come, but the wondering is a steady drip. Did I somehow cause this? Why did God allow it? What does the future hold for our family?

In Bible Study last year, there was one particular phrase our teacher, Lori, repeated over and over. We studied the apostles establishing the new church in Acts. Without knowing what was ahead of them, the apostles obediently pressed on, moving into foreign cities and facing harsh opposition.

"You see, ladies, the details are fuzzy, but the promise is clear! The details are fuzzy, but the promise is clear. The details are fuzzy, but the promise is clear."

Lori spoke these words like a drum beat each week, and each week I wrote them into my notes as if it was the first time I'd heard them. Now they echo back each time I wonder "why?" The details are fuzzy, but the promise is clear.

The hard truth is that life is full of tragedies large and small. We are often left with more questions than answers. Though the answers may always elude us, those who follow Jesus can build their futures on firm promises. We are not left without hope.

God is close to us when we are brokenhearted, and He binds up our wounds. (Psalm 34:18).

God takes all the hard stuff we face and makes good things come of it (Romans 8:28).

God's plans are for our good, not our harm, and our future is full of hope (Jeremiah 29:11).

God will comfort us and allow us to comfort others when they experience similar heartache (2 Corinthians 1:4).

And on, and on, and on, these promises go.

I'm so thankful for these clear promises in the midst of fuzzy details. When the questions seem overwhelming, the answers from God's Word steady me. When the future seems scary, God's Word restores hope. God is using you to strengthen our faith, little one, and He's keeping His promises.

Love and hugs,

Mommy

10,000 Reasons

The morning we went to the hospital, I stalled. Even though I didn't know for sure that we'd lost the baby, I somehow knew. Maybe it was mother's intuition, or maybe it was just my worst fear.

I wasn't technically sure, so I didn't let on. Tim had already made plans to go running with a friend that morning, and I encouraged him to go. I told him we could go to the hospital "just to get checked out" after he came home.

I took my time showering and getting dressed and I packed Ben's bag slowly. I was biding my time, hanging on to my "maybe" as long as possible. When Tim got home, I had him take a picture of my little tiny baby bump- the first and only "bump picture" I would get to take. I sent a text to a few family members and close friends, telling them I had been bleeding a little and asking them to pray, and we left.

I honestly can't remember what Tim and I talked about on the way to the hospital, if we talked at all. We were both pretty nervous as the reality of where we were heading set in. I think Tim asked me if I felt afraid, and I said, "Yes." He prayed for us, and for the baby.

As we stopped at the light in front of the hospital, this familiar song came on the radio:



As soon as I heard the first few notes, my heart sunk. "No. No. No...." If I hadn't known before, I just knew then.

The first verse says:

The sun comes up, it's a new day dawning
It's time to sing Your song again
Whatever may pass, and whatever lies before me
Let me be singing when the evening comes

The chorus goes on:

Bless the Lord, O my soul
O my soul
Worship His holy name
Sing like never before
O my soul
I'll worship Your holy name

I sat and stared at the hospital and I knew what God was asking me. I so clearly felt Him say, "Will you bless me in this? Will you worship my holy name, whatever happens? Will you still praise me this evening, even if your heart is filled with grief?"

This question has lingered for the last week and a half. Each time my eyes fill with tears, that gentle voice asks, "Will you praise me in this?" And through my tears, I've had to answer "yes."

Yes, I will praise You, even though my heart is broken. Yes, I will praise You, even though our plans have changed. I will praise You when I don't understand. I will praise you in moments of peace and in moments of grief. I will praise You as I pull the sympathy cards out of the mailbox, as I cancel our sonogram appointment, as I watch my friends' sweet bellies grow, and as I put The Baby Name Book away.

I will trust Your word. I will believe the promises that Your plans are not to harm us, and that Your ways are higher than ours. For 10,000 reasons, I will praise You.

Marking Time.

Sweet Baby,

I am marking time with you- the hours, the days, the weeks. It won't always be this way, I suppose, but for now... Sixteen days since we watched you on that fuzzy sonogram machine. I wish we'd stared longer. Eight days since the terrible, horrible news. 5 o'clock tonight marked one week since our heartbreaking goodbye.

After a long, tough week at home, your Daddy knew I needed a break. He rented us a farmhouse north of Austin for the weekend and our little family hit the road. The trip was just what we needed: quiet and reflective, but a nice change of scenery.

We hunted for sticks, watched animals, fed ducks, and played along the San Gabriel River. Your brother loved having extra space to run. I had lots of time to read. We ventured out of the house to conquer some new playgrounds, drive through historic neighborhoods, explore quaint little Georgetown, and enjoy live patriotic music in the downtown square. Ben had his first taste of lemonade and sweet tea and loved them both. We tasted prize-winning english toffee at Sweet Serendipity, and had a few delicious meals (wonderful, organic dinner at Monument Cafe, and yummy breakfast and BBQ at Duke's). We met several sweet strangers who could have been angels, for all I know. Everyone we crossed paths with was so gracious to us.























We had a good time, but you were never far from my mind. Daddy and I had some good conversations, and I spent a lot of time talking to God about you. I know that He will heal our hearts in time, and in that respect I am thankful for each day that passes. Still, each sunset feels like it moves you further and further away from us, and I choke on the sadness.

Daddy bought me a pretty garnet necklace (your birthstone), and your sweet Uncle Joel and Aunt Lori sent me a beautiful charm engraved with your due date. What incredible thoughtfulness. I never had the privilege of holding you in my arms, but I am determined to hold you in my mind and in my heart. I am thankful for these visual reminders of you.

A dear friend of mine lost her son just a week before we lost you, and she succinctly expressed exactly how I'm feeling these days. "We must move forward with our lives…I just want to bring you with us."

Time and Space.

If you've ever suffered a miscarriage, you understand that it is unspeakable. I cannot overstate the physical and emotional pain. The details are traumatic and gruesome. If you've never suffered a miscarriage, there is no way you can really understand, no matter how much I divulge, and I genuinely hope you never have to.

I'm just not ready to talk. Everything is too fresh. I haven't found words adequate for any of it. I don't want to have to pretend like I can think about anything else, either. Though it feels like we've been to hell and back in these last three days, somehow there's still nothing to discuss.

Eventually, I'll probably need to talk through things, but not yet. I need time and space to process the shock, to run through questions, to sort through emotions, to find words, and to come to terms with where and how we will go on from here.

The last few days have proved what an incredible support system we have in our friends and family. Thank you for reaching out to us. We have read and appreciated each message. I'm sorry if we've seemed unresponsive. Thank you for your sensitivity. Thanks to the friends who have left dinner and gifts on our porch. Thanks for the things you've sent. You are so great at loving us.

I've been on the other side of grief many times, and I know what it's like to want to "do something." Right now, you can pray for us. We are thankful for all of you, and we need and appreciate your continued prayers.

Lost.

Sweet Baby,

12 weeks is all we had with you. Today we found out that we've lost you.



We are still in shock. Other than being exhausted, I've felt so good these last few months. Everything seemed to be on track, and just last week we shared our sweet news with the world. Things changed suddenly yesterday and somehow, even when there were still questions, I knew.

Today was long and traumatic for both Daddy and me. After hours of testing and prodding and waiting, a doctor we don't even know came in to tell us you were gone. They couldn't find your heartbeat. You weren't measuring right. Close to half of all pregnancies end this way, and there's nothing we did wrong or could have done differently. Even if I'd carried you to term, you likely wouldn't have survived birth. He started using words like "tissue" and "viable" and I stopped listening. And then he left us to cry and gather our things and head home and re-frame the picture of the family we've been painting for the last twelve weeks.

Now the hard part begins. How do we say "goodbye" when we never really got our "hello?" How do we find closure in something that barely begun?

We miss you already, little one. My mind races with unanswered questions. Why? How? What could I have done differently? God knows I would have done anything. Thousands and thousands of things about you will remain undiscovered- the color of your eyes, the shape of your face, the sound of your laugh. How will I remember a baby I knew so little about? I don't even know your name.

But I will remember. I will remember the joy on Daddy's face when I told him you were coming. I will remember the excitement of our family and friends. I will remember how tired and nauseous (but in a good way) you made me. I will remember the way we hoped and dreamed and planned for you these last few months. I will frame your sonogram, the only picture I have of you. You've been part of our family for twelve weeks, and you always will be. I will remember. You weren't with us for long, but you brought us incredible happiness. There was so much hope packed into those weeks. I'll try not to let the sadness overshadow that.



We believe that God is sovereign, that He gives and takes away. We might never understand why, but it doesn't change the truth. We will meet you someday, though not as soon as we'd hoped. We know that Jesus is holding you now, and as of today, Heaven is just a little sweeter.

Loving and missing you now and always,

Mommy