Feeble words

Miscarriage is a killing frost that drives a woman in on herself. It pushes her life into her roots, deep into private soils. It drives her into isolated darkness, wherein she meets and is measured by all that she has ever trusted, all that she has ever loved.

Miscarriage stands each woman apart on her own small patch of earth to grapple the brambles of death. It bids her to bleed alone; there is no other way. It bids her to cry alone, and to mourn alone. It traps her alone in a tomb of confusion and doubt, pain and anger, circumstance and superstition.

Miscarriage rends asunder, but Christ is risen from the dead. He is close to His daughters, much closer than death. He breathes upon them a Spirit of Life which cannot ever die and which cannot be driven down by the cold. He pours healing wine into their wounds and places into their mouths His Flesh, whereby He joins Himself to them in their very bones. And in His Church, He gives His daughters unto each other, that they might carry their burdens together. Alone in space, each is never alone in Him.

Sisters, it is dark where you stand, and so very terribly cold. But you are not alone. The morning comes which brings with it His blessed Eucharist, whereby we, His daughters, stand together and cry in our misery before Him who regards us so tenderly. And in the Morning (the signs abound!) we will each be called forth by name, never again to be alone in the tomb. And our children will be returned to our arms. And these tears, stored by God in His bottle, will be found credited to our accounts, already overfull with the merits of Christ Jesus our savior.

How long, oh, Lord? How long?