I knelt on the sand path between the patches of scraggly grass leading to the beach. This morning was the last we'd all be together at our 2017 seaside family reunion, and it was time for some group yoga on the shore. It was my husband's mom's family, and I'd previously only briefly met most of them, because although we'd been married 8 years, we live a great distance apart.
My one-year-old son tagged along with me, mixing his small footprints with mine. From far away, where most of the family gathered on the beach, it probably looked as if I had stooped for him.
But that's not why I knelt down. My body was spotting this morning for the third day in a row, but today the spotting was red, unlike the brown of the days before. At ten weeks pregnant with our fourth child, I knew this was not a good sign.
I was very likely miscarrying, and I looked for ways to be OK with that--to be open to what I could not change. Beach yoga seemed a pleasant distraction and my extended family-in-law offered casual connection, so my first tactic was a to cling to the promise of God's goodness and keep moving.
Yet, although I had made it out the door, dressed and determined, I suddenly saw that this was not a healing course to take. The very thought of looking any one of those strangers who were family in the eye was just too much to ask of my soul at this moment.
Tears threatened, and I held my little one close and turned my face inland, where I saw my husband coming up the path with our two older daughters. He knew about the spotting, but neither of us knew how to experience this.
I stood up into his arms, and we turned our children back in the direction of our hotel room. My husband held me, prayed with me, let me cry, and entertained the kids all day, but he had a plane to catch that night and unforgiving shifts to fill at work. When he left, I still had an inkling of hope that we would get to keep this tiny baby.
I slept alone that night with three little ones near me, under my care. I woke around midnight to an obvious passing of our smallest little one, and lay awake a couple hours after I took care of it, bleeding and cramping.
And feeling. I felt the loss, felt the muted emptiness where there had once been a lively fullness. I watched my grief take different forms: an apology to my older children that the baby they anticipated would not be coming, a concern that my family wasn't growing in my time frame, a remorse that I had simply expected this miracle to fully develop, rather than reverencing the forward movement manifested each day...until now.
Outside, a streetlamp shone in the parking lot, painting my window blinds against the wall, reminding me of my childhood bedroom windows at night. From there, I stepped into my young memories, wandering through countless hopeful and happy vistas, and knowing to my core that God is good. He works in our lives, shifts our plays, whispers peace into our chaos, and never leaves us hurting. He orchestrates in the greatest compassion, and there is a blessing here.
Holding to the promise of that blessing, I fell asleep at peace.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head...
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour:
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.
--God Moves in a Mysterious Way
There will always be a hole in my heart, but it is not empty. It is purposefully filling with treasure--the hidden kind (2 Colossians 2:2-3, D&C 89:18-19), illuminated by Christ in the forms of compassion, empathy, acceptance. I am more than I was before this encounter, and Christ is more than I understood Him to be. What I hold today could have come in no other way, so I gladly bow myself to the One who saw fit to lead me along this path.
This post is shared as part of my life's endeavors I wish to document.
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