Tag: mourning

You Shall Embrace A Son

You Shall Embrace A Son

Little black sugar ants are apparently a “thing” in this part of the US. I have just swept and and run a Swiffer mop over the floor beneath our dining table, an area that only stays clean in the night and wee hours of the morning when no children are present to eat. In a few minutes I’ll spray some diluted peppermint oil around the baseboards and put down some ant gel. The kids don’t mind the ants – my son squishes them and my youngest daughter puts them on her arms and gives them all the same name (‘Lucy’).
 
Cleaning the floor has become a bit of a mania the past few days, as I’ve reached the final couple of weeks before Baby Boy’s due date, and am quite willing to go into active labor whenever it’s convenient for my body to do so. I’m at the stage where I spend at least a couple of hours a day lying on a flat surface in stiffness or just-achey-enough pain to either sleep fitfully, or lie there Googling things I already know, like “when will my water break” or “what do true labor contractions feel like” or “what is pregnancy really.”
 
It’s my fifth pregnancy – he will be the fifth baby I deliver. And yet when I speak with people there is a hesitation on how exactly to answer the question “Oh, how many children do you have?”
 
Well, I have the boy-who-eats-more-every-day, the blonde Valkyrie who sings about everything, and the cherry-mouthed redhead with round sea-color eyes. But there is another daughter who is far away from me in every sense possible, and she would have been one year old this month.
I looked at my daughter’s photos for the first time since last February – the photos we took of Baby Girl in our little bathroom before we wrapped her in brown satin fabric and rested her away in a little hand-painted box. She fit in the palms of my hands, a gentle heart-shape.
 
In my college days I took several semesters of figure drawing, and before we drew live models we spent weeks studying and sketching the human skeleton, the muscular system.
 
Looking at her fairy limbs, I am still in awe of the fine bonework, the tiny turn of a wrist with tiny fingers as frail as breath. Her jawline and wry curve of her mouth are an exact match for her older sister’s grin.
 
Seventeen weeks, in the safest and warmest and most loving environment on this diseased, war-ridden earth, and she was simply gone, with no explanation.
 
Fast-forward to the present. A few weeks ago I woke up with an anxious feeling that, in a matter of minutes, turned into the most terrifying panic attack I have experienced in the past year. I only started having them about fifteen months ago, but this one was so profound I decided to go into the hospital to make sure that I wasn’t actually having some kind of heart attack. (I wasn’t, everything checked out perfectly healthy. But now “anxiety” is on my chart, which is kind of discouraging.)
 
I went up the elevator to the Labor and Delivery floor. I felt somewhat apprehensive, never having come in before, but when I spoke with the nurse over that little phone and the doors swung open to admit me, I thought I would do all right.
 
I stepped into the hallway and approached the nurse’s station to explain my reason for coming in, and when I opened my mouth to greet them, I heard the tiny strained cry of a newborn. And my throat shuts up.
I am back in the Asian hospital on the Labor and Delivery floor – they have never written a death certificate for a seventeen-week old baby and they want a birth weight – the only scale they want to use is the one for living babies – I am standing in the hallway while my husband and our friend walk into the colorful glass-lined nursery and approach confused nurses in white satin hijabs – I thought I would do all right, and then I hear the tiny strained cry of a newborn. And my throat shuts up. I flee down the stairwell back to my hospital room and throw myself sobbing and screaming into the arms of a friend. “She will never cry, she will never know sorrow, she’ll never be sad,” she comforts me, but all I can reply is “But I am sad. I am sad. What will I do?
 
Present day: Last October, I was in a very broken place where healing had just had the opportunity to begin. We had decided to not return overseas for the time being, and had relocated to a new home in the Pacific Northwest. We began attending a church where, from the very first moments, my husband and I both felt a refreshment and balm to our tired spirits. I had only just begun to wonder if maybe – one day – we could dare to have another baby. The fear and trauma of miscarriage, burial, and funeral had only just ebbed enough to allow the minimal possibility of another pregnancy. It’s so different for every mother.
 
The Scripture for Sunday morning’s sermon was announced, and an elder stood up to read from 2 Kings. The present series was centered around the kings of old Israel, which ones had honored God and brought their kingdom into fruitful and blessed times, and the majority of the other kings who followed their own pride and vices and dragged the kingdom into ruin and disorder. I listened quietly, familiar with the passage they’d announced: one of the stories of the prophet Elisha, where the Shunnamite woman and her husband built a guest room for him on the roof of their home for his many travels. The elder began to read, and then he reached this verse:
 
“At this season, about this time next year, you shall embrace a son.”
 
There are no words that I can share with you save one, and that is ‘significant.’
 
When that phrase was spoken, I felt something significant, and looked up, looked around to see if anyone else had been affected in their chest like I had.
 
I struggled with this sensation for a while. I struggled with it when I took the pregnancy test in November. I struggled with it when we told our parents in December. But then I ended up in the emergency room with unrelated pains one night when this new baby was about 15 weeks along (a difficult time, as it was approaching Baby Girl’s time of death) – and when the nurse was running the precautionary ultrasound over my stomach, she asked “Did they tell you if it’s a boy or girl yet?” I immediately answered “No, but I think it is a boy.”
 
And it is. It certainly is a boy, and I’ll see him shortly.
 
I realize that no family’s story is the same when it comes to that first baby after miscarriage. I also realize that there are different reactions when people hear about personal encounters with the Holy Spirit speaking through the Word. I don’t know quite what to make of it myself, except that I believe it’s a chance for me to Trust Him in a way that stretches me on a daily basis. And I want to give Him glory for being the good God who is enough for me – on the darkest and most uncertain days, and on the most beautiful and peaceful days.
“The Water Was Rising”

“The Water Was Rising”

I tuned the radio to the local Christian station, where the DJ was in the middle of announcing an upcoming phone call with a man whose family had lost everything in the recent flooding, brought on by torrential rainstorms mere days after our arrival in-country.

When the recorded phone call was played, I heard a calm, Southern accent explain: “It was nighttime, and the rain kept coming down. It had been raining for hours. The electricity finally went out, and I found a portable radio – I turned on the radio to your station and just listened to the music. And you know, there’s just something… when the water was rising up to the house, just rising up slowly, and I knew we couldn’t do a thing about it…” – his voice broke – “… there was this peace, this peace I felt as I just sang hymns of praise to Jesus. We lost everything. But we had peace.”

I screamed out a sob, driving on the tollway feeder road.

It was the kind of choking sorrow that is so terrible in its silent wind-up, wrenching as it claws its way up your throat. It only lasted about a minute, but the catharsis was a true release. The picture of true helplessness – I pictured the man and his family, powerless against the brute force of Nature as they watched the dark waters swirl up closer and closer to their home in the deep hours of twilight.

And I understood. I understood the crushing weight of impotency, the paralyzing knowledge that something Awful has occurred, is occurring, and will occur, and I am without a single defense. As soon as we’d seen the ultrasound of our baby girl – still, small, and unmoving – the water had begun to rise. And those waters rose at an agonizing, slow pace until I was wheeled back to the operation room to deliver her. The waters began to slowly recede when we walked away from the mound of fresh earth and bright flowers at the cemetery.

But I also understood what the radio man meant by ‘Peace.’ I don’t know that the Lord has ever heard my heart more clearly than when I sang songs to Him during the rising flood. It was horrific and terrifying and heartbreaking. The ending was inevitable (unless He had chosen to intervene) but instead of panic and trepidation, I had been… sustained by Jesus. Held. Peaceful, in a very strange way.

Three months after her burial, now.

There are still sad moments, waves of depression that I feel creeping in around the corners, and I know they will come in, and crash, and then recede. But there are also sudden, deep pits of sorrow that open up under my feet without warning at time. Triggers are sometimes what you’d expect – on our recent family trip to the East Coast, we were driving through a charming downtown area – I was admiring the wisteria and red brickwork, and I stopped at a red light as some pedestrians made their way across. A family walked in front of our van, the mother with short-cropped red hair (like mine) and a very pregnant tummy with children laughing around her. I felt the lightness drain from my face like wax.

We attended a church service where the graduating students were being recognized. There was a beautiful and sweet slideshow of the young men and women, first as babies, then as high school seniors. I thought about the time, coming sooner than we think, when we’ll be putting our kids’ baby photos alongside their own senior portraits. And in the shadows of the church auditorium, I cried for the photographs we would never have of baby girl’s senior year.

For the past two years I have sung almost every night in my children’s room before they go to sleep. Even now, if the thought strikes me, I have to pause and collect myself before singing lullabies to them – because I will never hold Baby Girl and sing her to sleep.

And I tell myself – it seems to match up with the science – that at 17 weeks gestation, her tiny ears were developed enough to hear – oh, friends, you should have seen it: her ears were so very, very perfect and small – the tiny curl of the helix and lobe was one of the most beautiful and precise flourishes I have ever seen.

And I tell myself that perhaps I did, indeed, sing her to sleep.