Season of Mourning
“Amanda! Come here
real quick! There’s someone I want you to meet!”
I heard the familiar
voice of a long-time friend. I tried to use the impending start of kid’s
church as a reason to not be able to meet someone new. But she insisted again. You just have to meet them. They are your
age.
It was a Sunday. I ran children’s ministries. I probably
should have just stayed home. But staying home meant admitting that this was really happening.
For two weeks, I had been so full of wonder and excitement. We had laughed at the timing of Grandparent’s Day and
bought cards for our parents. It would have been the first grandchild on
both sides. But on that Sunday, I knew the worst was happening. That pregnancy
was ending.
I sighed deep, put on my bravest face—my most genuine fake
smile—and walked to the church foyer.
As I held out my hand, I saw her swollen belly. I couldn’t
take my eyes off of it. I forced the words, “Hi. I’m Amanda,” past the lump forming
in my throat. And when I realized that the most natural thing to small talk
over would involve a due date, or gender, or months along… I couldn’t do it. I
couldn’t even get out the obligatory “nice to meet you” or “please, excuse me.”
I bolted because I knew I was breaking.
When I got home from church, I laid on the couch. I stayed
there for a week. Every time I used the bathroom and was confronted with the
reality that the pregnancy was over, I wept. When the bleeding stopped, I
decided my grief should stop as well. Surely one week of doing nothing but
crying should suffice.
Afterwards, I put all my energy on getting pregnant again. I
thought I would find comfort in a new pregnancy.
When I got pregnant again and the changing hormones crashed
into the grieving I had not yet completed… I can tell you, another pregnancy is
not where you find comfort. Friends, I was so sick. And yes, it was definitely
morning sickness, but there wasn’t much excitement to pull me
through the sickness. I lost fifteen pounds and threw up till my esophagus was bleeding
raw. I closed myself up at home and watched Judge Judy and ate crackers and cried over dish piles for the smell of dish soap. It was more
than nausea-sick though. I was depressed-sick, and I couldn’t understand why.
Someone told me that they got through morning sickness by
remembering that each time they got sick it was just a reminder of a healthy
baby growing. This is how I coped with morning sickness with Jed. I looked at
my Addy-miracle and rejoiced for the joy I knew would come. This was not how I
got through the sickness with Addy. Because I still ached for the baby I lost,
and I hadn’t understood that you can’t replace the life involved in the failed
pregnancy for the life involved in a healthy pregnancy.
Miscarriage is more than a failed pregnancy. It’s the loss
of life—a life.
That particular genetic combination of you and your husband
that at conception fused together will never see the world... your olive skin
tone, your husband’s dimpled chin and wide smile, your husband’s easy going nature combined with your fiery passion for life. Whether you cringed at the bad timing or just rejoiced at the thought of a baby, that due date will not see the
birth of a child. The ways you imagined making your announcement, the names you
dreamed up, the decision you rolled around of when to find out the gender, the
thought of where in your house this baby would fit…. All of that potential
never got to be. It’s life. And its loss is worth mourning.
Here’s the words of Jesus: “Blessed are those who mourn
for they shall be comforted.”
When you fail to mourn, you fail to receive the comfort
found in the arms of our Father.
Maybe it’s just me, but each time I have lost, I have
searched for comfort everywhere else. I’ve thought that if I could just get pregnant again, I would be comforted. I’ve thought that if I could just understand why, I would be
comforted. I’ve thought that if I could just have some kind of proof of my loss,
some kind of validation, be far enough along so that I could bury something, I
would be comforted.
It wasn’t until I crumbled on the floor, cried crocodile
tears, wailed from the deepest part of me… it wasn’t until I got angry, and
slammed my fists on the table, punched my pillow, and spewed boiling hot words at God My Father of how much I wanted that life and how stupid this was and
why?!?!!!… it wasn’t until I let myself leak tears and linger reflective on
what might have been… when I let my guard down and pressed into Jesus and asked
Him to meet me here…
When I chose to walk out on deep water, across faith gaps,
places unexplainable… When I chose to eat the mystery rather than understand it,
when I spoke the bravest words I know: “It is well with my soul.”
Somewhere in the passing of time, in the permission to be
sad, in allowing mourning to be a season determined by the God who knows the
seasons and causes them to change without an ounce of help from anyone, somewhere
in opening my hands and handing over these broken pieces that I can’t make sense
of... I found comfort.
Sister, coming from someone who had a miscarriage in which I
found out I was pregnant in the morning and started cramping that afternoon…
yes, even that needed to be mourned. It didn’t look anything like grieving
after knowing for almost six weeks. But that doesn’t matter. You don't need to compare your grief to another, you just need to give yourself permission to walk through it.
Friends, this was a hard post to write, and I have a feeling if you have ever walked this road, it was hard to read too. I want you to know, I am praying for you. I have been praying for you. You are heavy on my heart because you are heavy on His. I think the best way to end is in His Word.
“Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted” Matthew 5:4.
“God is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in Spirit” Psalm 34:18.
“From the end of the earth will I cry unto you, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I” Psalm 61:2.
"He that goes forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him" Psalm 126:6.
How have you been at walking through the grieving process?
By Grace,
Amanda Conquers
If you missed the introduction to this series, you can find it HERE.
If you would like to continue reading, here are the rest of the posts in the series:
When You Are Trying to Make Something Out of Your AshesProject Still Hope
What Hope Really Looks Like
What You Need to Know When Fear is Suffocating You
Practical Advice for the Grieving Woman and Those Who Love Her