Redemption in loss

Weary of grief. That's the best way to describe how I felt when we had another miscarriage recently. It can feel like there is a limit to heartache, and there have been seasons where truly, it feels like we are at that threshold.

This is not my first pregnancy loss, which you will know if you are a longtime reader of my blog. I had two losses back to back after Cooper, before Finn– twins, and then another early loss. I don't have an answer for why. But I know this world is fallen and desperately in need of a Redeemer, and He came! And He gave everything so that we could have a relationship with the Father and the hope of eternity in heaven.

My friend Lauren wrote to me, "Asking the Lord to show you His nearness, as He is near to the brokenhearted. He is your keeper. He is Nicholas' keeper. And He is your baby's keeper."

Another friend, Rachael, sent me a copy of the Every Moment Holy, Volume III. She has given me all three volumes, over the years. And they have been a balm and a tool, when my heart aches to pray, but I don't have any words. I have found that for me, the prayers in these books translate any emotion (literally any) into a prayer. Joy and loss and heartache and stress and deep grief, and turn it into a conversation with the living God.

In Every Moment Holy, Volume II, there is one titled, "A liturgy for those who have suffered a miscarriage or stillbirth," and I wanted to share a few lines that are particularly moving for me:

And yet, even in our deep loss, O Lord, you have not abandoned us or left us without light and hope.

For we remember how you, Jesus, loved and welcomed little ones, touching their heads and blessing them, declaring that the kingdom of heaven belonged to these.

And you have told us that you promises are for us and for our children. [...]

Now, O Lord, we remember your past faithfulness. We receive your present comforts. We await your future redemptions.

Let us, in this and all sorrows, be met by your lovingkindness and consoled by your hope.

For yours, O Father, is the kingdom, and the power, and the glorious redemption of all our losses.

Even of this one.

Amen.

Several days later, our grief is a little less raw. Physically, I am healing. I feel a mixture of sorrow and joy in each day. I notice the beauty of the especially bright February sunshine, warm on my face or the tightness from hugs from Cooper and Finn and Nicholas. I have the comfort of friends checking in and praying for us, and the gift of knitting and bread making– ways to keep my hands busy, and keep my mind more calm. And above all, I have hope in Christ.

Thank you for those of you praying for us. What a difference it makes.