Every time I start to get closer to who I used to be in my faith I come up against the same wall.
I cannot ever be the same spiritually because of Emma.
Emma was my first daughter, who I almost never talk about, though I still talk about her more than most people who have lost babies through miscarriage.
Every time my relationship with God deepens, and I work to get to know Him better, and I strive to live out His mission for me, I come up against losing her.
I will never forget the moment in the backyard after I had started bleeding a little worse than I had been, when I thought the worst was over. I completely lost control for the first time in my life. I couldn’t stop screaming about how it would never end. It never stops.
I think a part of me is still screaming the same thing.
Every time something bad happens, not just bad, but the truly unbearable-the mother losing a two year old in her sleep, the wife losing her husband when they have battled disease with joyful faithfulness for years, the mothers who long for babies and can’t have them, the mothers who keep having babies and can’t do anything to stop it, but are close to death because of it, the babies who are abandoned, the babies who are wounded, the fathers who are alone, the children who die-I am faced with it again.
There are some facebook posts by me before I lost Emma, where I talk about how God watches out for those He loves, and how beautiful His love is. I talked about how everything that happens in life is a part of God’s plan. I hate her when I read those posts. I hate her naive stupid little face. You don’t know what you are talking about. You have no idea what is in store for you. You are going to be faithful in ways that are unbelievaby difficult and they are going to hurt you so deeply, and the repayment you are going to get is excruciating pain, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, that is beyond your wildest nightmares. I hate her for being so stupid.
Maybe that’s why I can’t go back.
Maybe I am afraid that I will feel like a fool again.
Maybe I am afraid that my sacrifices will be answered with some pain that is even worse than I can imagine now, and the pain I can imagine now I could never have imagined before.
I am afraid. All the time. I am afraid that the babies I have now will die. I am afraid that I will die, I am afraid that my husband will die. I am afraid that something will happen and we will all wish were dead but we won’t be, but we will be in so much pain that it will be completely unbearable.
I am afraid that God will punish me. I am afraid that He will punish me for whatever sin it was that made Him take her away from me. Maybe just not being good enough, or ready enough to be a good mom to her. Maybe He will take away the babies I have now if I am not grateful enough for them, or if I get mad too many times.
I read a meditation yesterday by a woman who writes the most beautiful prayerful meditations. It was about how she found out she was having a miscarriage, and afterwards, she heard a praise and worship song about Christ’s peace being with her.
I. just. can’t.
Then, I found out that in real life, she just had another miscarriage, and I am so angry. I am so angry for her, that I want to cry out for blood, but the only one who it makes sense to cry it down on is God Himself, and please, God do not strike me down for being so angry, but how could you let this happen to her?
I can understand redemptive suffering when there is a positive outcome to it. My first live daughter’s birth was incredibly traumatic. It was terrifying and awful, and her first six weeks were full of stressful things, but rays straight from God’s hands were all over it, and I could recognize Him on every single page of that story. My second live daughter’s birth was less scary in ways, but with miracles that were a little less flashy, so a little less peaceful in some ways, but still, she is alive, and she is amazing, and she smiles at me all the time.
But Emma? Emma is the empty place in my arms. Emma is just pain. Emma is the story of how I lost my innocence, and how I may never feel the same kind of joy again. Emma is the story of how my hope was destroyed.
Emma is gone.
It’s almost five years now, and it’s dimmed. It’s not as intense as it used to be. I am ok, most of the time. I am not the same person anymore though, and I wish I could be.
Sometimes it feels like I can almost touch her, the me I used to be. I feel the sun opening up around me, and a belief in possibilities starts to shine. Then, a Scripture passage is worded just right about God’s protections and how He provides for His people, and all I can think is, “Yeah, but not always, and when He doesn’t you better watch out.”
I am sorry that I struggle with this. I wish I didn’t.
One day, maybe, He will heal me enough that I will posess a new hope (;-)), maybe even experience the kind of joy I lost when I lost my first baby girl.
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