Sweet Lord, what have I done?
Oklahoma winters are really, really cold, you guys. That’s all I can say about that.
All around me, people are giving birth and taking down names. My best friend is fostering and adopting her head off. Babies are going to start pouring out the window of our church nursery. It’s like spring at a barnyard, except it’s not spring and it’s not a barnyard and nobody will eat Christmas goose.
Call it “The Great Big Fat Giant Baby Explosion of 2014″.
I’m glad to be a part of it, but there’s something that keeps me from fully enjoying pregnancy–and it’s not the heat, and it’s not my aching back, and it’s not the diabeetus. (Ok, well it is a little that.)
If you were ever hoping for a baby and didn’t have one, then you’ll understand what I mean: I ache for my lost babies. I ache for the people that I know who have miscarried. I ache for the people who have tried for years to get pregnant with no success. The pain involved in these situations can be devastating, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt how incredibly blessed we are to have a new baby on the way.
My plans never seem to work out as I expect them to. Cheyenne came to me when I was 15 with a soul and a purpose. I found out I was pregnant with Mia despite meticulous planning and numerous preventative strategies. Caleb and I tried for 3 entire years to have a baby before Merrick came along.
In 2010 we had an early miscarriage and it seemed like the absolute end of the world. In 2013, we miscarried at 13 weeks–after that risky first trimester and well into the 100% euphoric phase of what we thought was a healthy pregnancy. 2 babies that we will never see here in this world–both precious in God’s sight, and both making an incredible impact on our family and our faith. I don’t wonder what might have been–they are exactly where God means for them to be at this moment.
But I will never be the same.
In January we found out we had another baby on the way; another life that may or may not survive more than a month, or two, or nine. This time I was so scared. We had already been through what felt like so much, too much. Could I handle losing another one?
I’m sitting pretty at 32 weeks and I still have trouble wrapping my head around the fact that by mid-September, I might be holding a beautiful baby girl. No thanks to doctors, no thanks to medicine, no thanks to a million $300 ultrasounds. No thanks to Caleb and his insistance on my doing nothing and going nowhere. No thanks to me and what I have done or haven’t done. This whole process is, and has always been, completely out of our hands.
I am profoundly thankful for the experience.
God keeps His promises. He never promised me four children, or even one. He never promised me a husband and a house and a loving family and a life of relative peace and happiness. These things are nice, for sure–but unexpected, undeserved, and temporary.
God does promise that He will remain with me through every up and down, and out and in and over and under. He will hold me up with His awesome right hand. I believe it with my whole heart.
“Behold, I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go.”–Genesis 28:15