What Matters Most
musings on the mundane and magnificent from a Christian perspective
I’m supposed to be at a birthday party today.
Four years ago, I was pregnant for the first and only time, and December 30 was my due date. Today, of all days, I feel my lack so keenly.
I never got to experience what it’s like to feel a baby move inside me. There will never be a little human running around who looks like me. We didn’t even know if the baby was a boy or a girl, but I think she was a girl. Or at least, that’s how I’ve come to think of her. My feelings are all I have to go on. All I have are a few black and white ultrasound pictures and memories.
These are the thoughts swirling in my mind as I sit on the couch with my dog. Since I work from home, he is my constant companion. He sits in my lap when I read my Bible in the morning, he tries to do Pilates with me, he follows me all around the house. He’s my buddy! I’ve even prayed for him a time or two. Yes, I know he’s only a dog, but I said a quick prayer for him when we dropped him off at the kennel for the first time. I couldn’t stand it if he got loose or hit by a car because I just love him so much.
If this is how I feel for a dog, how much more would I feel for my child?
Love’s Long Ripening
I can imagine that love – a love I had for my children before I even got married, a love accumulating inside me over time. It was a love I poured out in prayers, journals, letters to my children. It was a love expressed in preparation; I stretched myself, worked on issues, and grew so I would be the best mom I could be for them.
And that love for my baby didn’t end when the pregnancy ended. Only now I don’t have anywhere to bestow it. It’s just hanging in the balance. A love years in the making not come to fruition.
I think of how great that love could be if it had been able to be fully expressed. If it had a recipient – a living, breathing child of my own. How amazing would it be if the love that had incubated in my heart could have been finally released?
I’ll never know what it’s like to love someone as a mother. And in the four years since the due date that never was, I’ve come to terms with that. I have grieved the loss of motherhood in general, and I’ve also grieved the loss of that individual life. I have mourned, and I have healed.
A few years ago, when the pain of miscarriage was still raw, when motherhood was a dream I was still hoping to attain, and when I was in counseling, my therapist suggested an activity to aid in healing. This was my journal entry from that time:
It came out of nowhere. A moment in between sight-seeing and movie-watching, after morning walks but before the turkey was carved, a brief moment last week where all I could think of was you – the daughter I miscarried.
It was a busy Thanksgiving week, busy in a good way. We did a lot. We saw a lot in our nation’s capital. And we enjoyed being together. We had so many memorable moments, but one moment in particular stands out to me – the moment where I couldn’t help but think of you.
I was sitting on the sofa, and almost everyone had left the room. We were getting ready to go somewhere or do something; I can’t quite remember what. I just remember gazing out of the window, looking at the trees, and having such a strong impression of you. Just you. Just the fact that you once existed. And the fact that you’re not here with us now, enjoying this full week with your relatives. Nothing specific triggered this feeling. It was just a quick, quiet moment where my thoughts drifted to you.
This doesn’t happen as often as it once did, but it still happens. Sometimes, I just can’t help but think of you. Sometimes, the feeling of your absence is palpable. My arms ache to hold you. I long to feel your head on my shoulder and stroke your hair. And I want so badly to share you with this family I love so much.
The Family You Never Met
Your aunt and uncle are both such naturals when it comes to children. They would have opened their lives to you, opened their home to you, opened their hearts to you and swallowed you up in love.
Your cousins would have adored you! I think they would have relished the role of your protector, your teacher, someone to show you the ropes. And I can think of no better role models than them. They are each so gifted in many ways, but they all share a sense of compassion, a sweetness that gives breath to all their other virtues. I would have loved for you to be the recipient of their sweet love.
Your grandma believed in you, waited for you along with me, even prayed you into existence. I had planned on having her in the delivery room with me because I wanted you and her to meet as soon as possible. I wanted the two of you to make the most of all the time you had together. And I know you would have. Her love would have been a staple in your life, her presence and constant encouragement a rock you could have relied on without fail.
They would’ve loved to love you.
And I would’ve loved to have seen it.
Looking Back
I was just missing you and imagining, for a brief moment, what it would have been like if you were here.
But you aren’t. Our memories don’t include you. Our family photos are void of your face. And our hearts miss the love we would have shared with you. And while I don’t think about this all the time, sometimes I can’t help it, even though it’s been a few years.
It’s not healthy to think along these lines every day, and it’s equally not healthy to never think about it at all. It’s therapeutic for me to remember you, to remember that you existed, even just briefly. I would rather remember than forget it ever happened, even if that means remembering and feeling the pain also.
Because remembering you also means remembering love – the love I felt for you instantly, a love I still have. I love the memory of you. And that’s why I think of you from time to time, like I did last week surrounded by the family you never knew. We would’ve loved to share you with your dad’s family as well. The people we love who would’ve loved you are many.
Looking Ahead
The one consolation in all this hit me in the most unexpected place. Since we were all together in Virginia, we took the short drive down to Arlington National Cemetery. Under the cover of fall leaves, with the backdrop of the D. C. skyline, we passed name after name, until we came to one – the name of your grandfather who died five years before you did.
Maybe there is a family member you’ve met. Maybe when I think of you, I can imagine the two of you together – the father I’ll always remember and the daughter I can’t forget.
My view from here is a wistful one. Through the window of my home office, I see my neighbor walk by with her toddler and her newborn in the stroller. The little girl is practically prancing down the street in her princess dress. It’s not Halloween anymore, and it doesn’t look like they’re having a birthday party. It’s just Thursday. And I guess that’s as good a reason as any to go full princess mode.
The whole thing made me smile as much as it made me cry. To see young mothers with their young daughters can’t help but grip my heart. I was never a young mother. I’ll never have a daughter. I’ll never have what I always wanted, and scenes like this are a vivid reminder of that loss.
I always wanted to be that young mother taking her kids outside for a mid-morning walk. I wanted to have a house full of kids, but I don’t. Instead, I have a household where the number of pets outweighs the number of children (two fur babies, one stepson).
But I take another look…
My view outside the home, my view inside the home – wherever I look I see evidence of God’s faithfulness, His goodness, His sovereign hand guiding me every step of the way. There’s so much I do have: a husband who loves me and is committed to me, a child in my home to love, friends, health, resources. I have things to look forward to. I have hope.
My view from home is not what I thought it would be, and I deal with the grief as it ebbs and flows. But regardless of what the view looks like, this is my home. This is my household. I choose to be thankful for all I do have and to steward it well.
So I pray…
“Regardless of what I have, regardless of what I don’t have, regardless of the circumstances and emotions, You are Lord, and You are good. You are worthy of my unwavering trust and undying devotion. I give all of me – the mess, the sadness, the things that I wish were different, the things that don’t come easily for me, the things I’m thankful for, the potential in me – I give it all freely to You. I’m Yours, Lord.
In the gap between what I always wanted and what I actually have, between hopeful expectation and bittersweet reality, I find You. And You give me the healing that is only found in You.”
That healing enables me to be surrounded by scenes of happy mothers and babies – like the one I witnessed today – but not be overcome by them. So, the next time my neighbors go for a walk, whether as princesses or fairies or superheroes, I can smile through my tears. I can rest in the knowledge that my view from home is something God sees, too. I am living my story, not somebody else’s, and He is with me as it unfolds.
As I look at my life, as I view my home, I look through the viewfinder of faith and see God, and that is enough for me.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18 NIV
This is going to be a tough one. Another seemingly innocuous situation that should be easy, but for me is anything but. It comes in different forms – a conversation, a moment in a TV show, a scene in a book – but it always has the same effect. Some reference to motherhood makes me flinch. The ramifications of infertility are endless.
Today, it’s in an English lesson I’m teaching online to a seven-year-old boy in China. I’m supposed to be teaching him to say, “This is my mom.” Slide after slide in the lesson shows a happy mom cuddled next to her child. Mom and daughter hugging. Toddler son kissing his mom. Mom after mom after mom.
There will never be anybody who says of me, “This is my mom.”
I do not resent the chain of events that led to this. It just is what it is. I was single throughout the years of my peak fertility. Once I finally got married, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, so we had to put pregnancy on hold. By the time my doctor gave us the green light to try for pregnancy, we were hardly spring chickens. My peers were posting pictures of proms and graduations of their kids – budding young adults – while I was just hoping for a baby. Just one.
We tried everything. I took medication to stimulate ovulation month after month until I hit the maximum dose. Then, we met with a fertility specialist. I read article after article. And I did all this prayerfully; I fasted, and people laid hands on me and prayed for me. We believed, and we hoped. And we waited. And then we tried again the next month. We exhausted all options including adoption, which my husband didn’t feel led to pursue because of our ages and season in life. We tried everything until there was nothing left to try.
My journey to motherhood came to an unexpected end.