LoveLossComfort

A Time to Heal

by Donna-Jean A. Breckenridge

The familiar scenes of farmland, endless hills and stretched-out highway rolled past my sight as I rode with my husband and children to my parents' vacation cottage on Lake Ontario for a family reunion. It is a trip I look forward to every year - and this year was to be even better. I had planned to tell my brother and his family, my aunt and uncle, and my cousins that my husband and I were expecting a baby. Mom and Dad already knew, and they were trying to keep from saying anything until we arrived. The news was especially sweet since we had miscarried a baby earlier in the year. I had envisioned the surprise, the laughter, the hugs, that accompany such an announcement.

But that was not to be. Instead of a feeling of happy anticipation, I felt a sense of dread. My heart was heavy, my body was weary - and my thoughts were filled with the grief of the last few days, and the loss of one more baby. Another miscarriage, another baby gone, another dream destroyed. We had visualized our future already with this baby present in every scene, in every Christmas, every summer and at every breakfast table for the rest of our lives. I had not even gotten to feel this little one move within me, yet I ached for the son or daughter who would never be, and missed my dearly loved little one. This baby had never been in my arms, yet those arms felt empty without him (or her - how I wish I knew for sure).

The miscarriage had occurred on the eve of the 13th anniversary of the birth of our very first child - a little boy. I had held his birthmother's hand as the doctor cut this beautiful baby free from her body - and we brought him into our home and our hearts a few days later. We loved him, named him, nursed him, and prayed for him - and then had to return him three weeks later when his birthmother revoked her consent and took him back. It was like a death, only there was no funeral. Somewhere on my heart there is still a scar, as the loss of that baby shaped me and my priorities forever.

In between our first child and the recent two miscarriages, Bill and I had been blessed beyond measure with three children. Our daughter came into our world five months after the loss of our son, and she brought love, joy, and a sunshine to pierce my darkness. Then came seven years - of waiting, of surgery, of medication, of hopes for adoptions raised and dashed - and finally one New Year's Eve, we brought home our little son. He brought energy and a zest for life that turns each day into an adventure. And one summer day, my world stood still in shock, when I learned that God had healed my endometriosis, and I was pregnant. Our second daughter's miraculous arrival sealed my heart with peace and confidence. These three precious children call me "Mama," and I thank God each day for fulfilling in me the words of Psalm 113:9, "He maketh the barren woman to keep house, and to be a joyful mother of children. Praise ye the Lord."

But even as I knew the love of my children in that ride to our vacation that day, I felt deeply the loss of my other three babies. I knew there were people who had gone through much more than I, yet in that moment, losing three babies seemed way too much sorrow for one woman. I began to question whether or not God really loved me.

I was ashamed to feel that way. I knew better intellectually. I had a college degree in Bible, I had walked with the Lord since I was a little girl, I had had the benefit of the teaching of many godly people in my life. God had proven Himself faithful over and over. But in that moment, my hurting heart found room only for grief - and for doubt. I picked up my Bible, and wanted to find the same comfort from the Word of God I had found at other times. This day, however, I could not seem to focus my attention on even one verse. God's love felt very, very distant.

The miles slipped away, and we came to the cottage. There were the usual greetings - a little subdued this time, but still the hugs and teasing from the nieces and nephews. I kept thinking of what might have been, of the way it was supposed to be. I was smiling, but I felt so much pain inside. Then I saw my Dad. He came over to me on the front lawn - it was dusk, the sky was still tinged with sunset, the water moving powerfully alongside the rocky shore. He put his arms around me and held me - and didn't let me go. He said nothing. He didn't need to. Somehow I was aware of a sudden quiet around us - awkward, respectful, nearly holy. And in that moment as I wept and my Dad held me, I knew once again that I have a Heavenly Father who loves me more than life, and Who gave me this priceless man who daily puts flesh and blood onto God's truth for me. I knew again that God's love for me is as dependable as my Dad's, as deep as my Dad's, as sacrificial as my Dad's, and, of course, is even more so - although I praise God that that last fact is hard for me to imagine. My healing had begun.

I spent the next several days regaining my strength. My husband went into town one afternoon and brought me back an early birthday present: two Audubon Field Guides, one on Trees, and the other on Wildflowers. I began to identify and read about the beauty around me, and I became more and more absorbed in God's immense and detailed handiwork.

The day before my brother and his family had to leave to return home, my 9 year old nephew got caught up in what I was doing. He brought me a frog, a bud from a tree, a 'cottage rock' from the shore, and several leaves. He began to draw in my nature notebook (with my permission!), and to color in some sketches I had made. Then he came with me on a nature walk.

The country road of the cottage is along the edge of Lake Ontario, and as we walked along, Eric spotted a tiny blue flower, in amongst the familiar and abundant Queen Anne's Lace and Chicory and Goldenrod. I had never seen it before - and he was thrilled to be able to identify it readily from the Field Guide. It was an Asiatic Dayflower - Eric was so excited, he was ready to call National Geographic with our spectacular find! He was further amazed when I read to him that this flower blooms for just one day. As I drew that small flower (sort of like a very little orchid, blue on the top petals, white on the bottom, and just a touch of yellow), I thought of the tiger lilies - the orange day lilies - that grow at my aunt's house on our street here at home. I remembered another nature walk - that time with my 5 year old son. Nathan and I were talking about those short-lived flowers, and Nathan said, "Mama! They have just one day to praise the Lord!"

Suddenly I realized that our baby, our "Lily," had just a brief time, just a 'day' to praise the Lord here on earth within my body. Now, that tiny life joins a sibling before the Throne to praise God in His presence, and one day (I pray our first baby, now being brought up by someone else, will join us, too) we will all be reunited in doing the same.

I began again to take my morning prayerwalks. As I walked on that country lane and looked out over the wide expanse of shimmering, sun-lit water, I realized how God's created world had illustrated for me the knowledge found in His written Word, the Bible - and had put wing and bark and petal onto spiritual truth, just as my Dad's embrace had wrapped human form around my understanding of my Heavenly Father's love.

Vacation is now over. The pain of losing those babies is not gone. I am aware of due dates, loss dates, other pregnant women, and wondering 'what might have been.' I look at my three children with a sense of awe and gratitude - and often seem to catch a glimpse of another child - and yet another - seated at our dinner table, before the image quickly fades and I remember those children are gone from this life. I will never again be the woman I was before those losses touched my heart.

I am now someone different - someone who has learned that God loves me even through my grief, that He speaks to me through His Word and through His magnificent creation, and that He has given me the hope of heaven as my truest comfort. He has given me a time to heal, and - in His arms - I know a measure of peace. And - in His arms - I can even rejoice, and take this 'day' that He gives me as a time to praise my Heavenly Father.