28 June 2009

If he snatches away, who can stop him? Who can say to him, “What are you doing?”

Miscarry. Mis-carry. Like, “Whoops! I dropped the baby! Next time I’m carrying a baby I really should try to be more careful!”

I don’t like that word.

I woke early, to the unmistakable pains of labor amidst a rush of blood. Since I wasn’t pregnant, this confused me. But then, in a collage of startling clarity, a hundred small happenings of the previous weeks crashed across my mind and I realized that I was indeed pregnant.

And then I wasn’t. Before I could comprehend that I carried a child, I had mis-carried him. I was left cradling, in hysteria-edged bewilderment, the nearly-intact miniature world that had been his home for the blink of his mortal life. All men are like grass. . .

I didn’t really need a second opinion to tell me that I had miscarried, but I visited my doctor anyway, to see what else she could tell me. She estimated that I had been 7-9 weeks along: a January baby.

We would have complained cheerfully about the “poor planning” of a child who entered the world in the least tax-practical month and in the middle of flu season. Instead, we ceased to speak of things too wonderful for us to understand. We put our hands over our mouths and returned to the dust: We visited a cemetery.

In the diocese of a largish city, we walked among the graves in the section reserved for little ones. Even without the weight of fresh personal grief, this via dolorosa would have been overwhelming. So many stones bore only a single date: babies who, like ours, had never drawn a breath. Babies who had lived a day, a week, a year. Infant and toddler siblings, buried together. Flowers, fresh and faded; toy trucks, both new and rusted; stuffed bears, some fluffy, some already rain-bedraggled. Crosses and verses scattered throughout grass salted by the splash of a million tears.

I could almost feel the groaning of the overburdened earth—its lovely surface gashed open and shoved full of the carnage of the Curse.

Our baby isn’t buried there, and the June memorial wasn’t yet erected (the tissue of early miscarriages is gathered, then buried together every few weeks in a joint service—oh, how many tears in each small, shared grave!). So we left our flower, as our Brephos, at the feet of Jesus. Those love-scarred feet! How painful the resolve, how deliberate the act of will by which our Lord turned those feet down the Via Dolorosa that must have seemed endless, to win for us an end to our way of mortal sorrow.

Surely, surely, the Day is coming when we will no longer weep our way along this grave-gashed, weed-wrecked ground.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus. Hasten the footsteps of your return. We long to shout together for joy at the sight of your feet, your most beautiful feet, returning to proclaim the death of Death our foe, to reclaim forever the life of your creation.


Rebekah said...

Oh, friend. :'(

Megan said...

Jesus weeps with you, as do many of us who don't even know you.

My baby, Peter, would have been due July 7th. He died in December.

My thoughts and prayers are with you. May Christ continue to strengthen you.

Liz said...

May the grace of God comfort you. I am crying with you; and will be praying for you.

Rev. Paul Beisel said...

Very heart-breaking indeed. We have been through this far too many times.

Cheryl said...

I'm so very sorry. God bless and grant you His peace, Reb. Mary.

Rev. Rick Stuckwisch said...

The Lord be with you and your husband, Rebekah Mary, and continue to comfort you with His victory over death and the grave. I grieve with you, even as I rejoice in the life that God has granted to your little one, according to His good and gracious will. Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.

EKGaunt said...

Indeed, quickly come!

I sorrow with you, though I know nothing of you but what I read here. Peace to you.

Beth said...

I am feeling pain for you, this should not happen to any of us.

Beth (wish my avatar wasn't smiling...)

Erich Heidenreich, DDS said...

May the Lord Jesus comfort you with His peace in the midst of your tears. We do not grieve as those who have no hope.

Joy said...

So, so very sorry. May the wounds of Christ be your strength and solace.
Pax Domini,

Pam said...

The peace of Christ be with you.

Whereas before I did not know how, now I grieve for you as well. I weep for you, sister.

MooreMama said...

Oh, Reb Mary. I'm so so sorry. It's a sad little club to belong to. You're so much more elequent than I. All I can come up with is - That sucks. And - It will scab over, but the scar is always there.

lisa said...

>>"Surely, surely, the Day is coming when we will no longer weep our way along this grave-gashed, weed-wrecked ground."

Yes, it is coming. Thanks be to our good God.



Reb. Mary said...

Thanks, all. I appreciate each of your words more than I can say right now.

So many small ones, missing from our arms but safe in our Savior's! So many tears!

What a joyful reunion that Day will bring, when those of us who haven't met in person on this earth can be united with each other--and with ALL of our children.

Dakotapam said...

I'm so sorry. Like Moore Mama said, it is a sad club.

I pray for comfort for you and your loved ones.

Gauntlets said...

Christ is coming. Our tears are not for nothing.


Kelly said...

So many have said it better than I ever could. Lord have mercy. :hugs:

Me said...

I am so very sorry.