House on the Rock

I recently reflected on the unexpected elements of miscarriage. Sure, we had lots to learn about the pain, the pills, the procedures. And our eyes were opened in ways I wouldn’t have necessarily asked for to the grief, the questions, the lament.

But there’s one more thing they don’t tell you about a miscarriage, and that’s the overwhelming, resounding, unwavering joy that comes with every second of your next pregnancy, should the Lord choose to allow it.

An early six-week ultrasound in a back-alley women’s clinic confirmed that pitter-patter heartbeat we never got to see on round one. The tears flowed freely, both from Joe and myself as we celebrated the gift of life growing inside me once again. We walked into that room knowing our worlds could be shattered, but trusting that the God who hems us in behind and before had a plan that was better than ours.

The room fell silent as I pleaded with the Lord to see a baby, to watch that precious little heart flicker fast and full of life. Trusting that this baby would live either in my womb or Heaven, and if God chose Heaven for our baby again, we would cling to the truth that we’d join them there soon.

But deep breaths in, and there it was. A girl, I was convinced, though there was no way to tell so soon. The resource center saints led us to a cove of hand-woven blankets recently donated and let us choose one to take home. I picked out pink with palm trees, both a nod to my stubborn belief that we’re having a girl and the fact that my mama loved palm trees, pink, and all things beach.

Pregnancy is not for the faint of heart. The days at school of trying to push through extreme fatigue and nausea were sometimes grueling. The bottom of our bathroom trash can became a quite familiar sight. I could hardly make it through an hour without crying, (although that, I will say, is not necessarily new ;)). Sometimes it felt tempting to groan as I dragged myself out of bed for another day of feeling awful, of gagging at the smell of coffee, of never being far from the toilet.

But then I remembered back to what it’s like when the nausea stops. When the fatigue fades to curious questions of “why don’t I feel different?” The feeling when stiffness and soreness give way to an unsettling sense of normalcy, stirring suspicion that this baby might not be growing after all. And so with every nauseous morning, I thank God. Every bout of fatigue that confines me to the couch has me celebrating the sweetness of new life. Every race for the trash can brings with it a gratitude: Thank you Lord that I get to carry this baby for however long you’ll let me.

So what they don’t tell you about a miscarriage is the absolute appreciation you have for every moment — the needle pricks for bloodwork, the gag-inducing vitamins, the times I’m so tired I think I’ll never wake up… And I pray I would never complain or take for granted the gift of this life. I pray that precious reminder would follow me through all of our baby’s years.

Furthermore, I pray the miscarried little one whose home is in Heaven would remind us that the goal of raising kids is not perfect behavior or professional athletes. It’s Heaven. Standing before God in all His glory and knowing we’ve raced with all our might. Whether it’s at the end of eight weeks or eighty years, we’ll all stand before God, so we’ll hold with open hands the lives entrusted to us, eyes fixed on eternity, until He calls us home.

We’ll swaddle our rainbow baby and think upon the promises of God — not a promise of children or health or an easy, comfy life. A promise of nearness. Of faithfulness through the ages. Of an inheritance that cannot be shaken, full of glory, in the presence of Christ. Because His promise to preserve a remnant still stands, and Jesus died that we might join the song of the redeemed.

But until then, we’ll celebrate the pukies.

Disclaimer: I write this with a heavy heart, knowing a rainbow baby is no guarantee. Nor is pregnancy. I weep for those who long for children and find that desire still unmet. My prayer is that you would cling to the God of all comfort, remembering that His heart is still for you and this broken world is not our home. You are so loved. So seen. So held by a God who sent His son to die for you. I know these announcements aren’t easy, so please know I’m praying for you. Lots of Love — CH