I Will Learn to Lean (Grief)

"You've brought me to the wilderness where I will learn to sing. 

You let me know my barrenness so I will learn to lean."

(Laura Hackett, "Beautiful Mercy")

 I'm happy right now. I want you to know that before I type anything else.  My heart is full of laughter, and my soul gives thanks to God. I wrote those words last night as I looked at three beautiful pictures of three beautiful children who bring so much joy to my life. I am so blessed to have borne them in to this world, and to know them as MINE. My children. My heritage. My loves. 

Grief is a funny thing. It shows up in the oddest of places. It's not overwhelming, as I imagined it would be. At first of course, it is truly all encompassing. But as time goes on, it becomes threaded into your life in a way in which you don't notice at first. But when you smile, and you feel real, real joy... but then at the same moment, a tear springs to your eye. That's when you know grief isn't absent in happiness. But we all must learn to bear both emotions in sync. 

I can smile, I can laugh, I can sing and dance with my children across a room, and I can be perfectly happy in that moment. But truthfully, the ache of grief is still there. I don't forget it. And I don't betray that which I grieve by smiling either. 

When I post a picture of my three beautiful babies, I won't forget that there should be a fourth. 

I never knew miscarriage could be quite so hard. I imagined, and I guess I imagined wrong. I loved the baby that we lost. For 10 weeks I carried it's life in my womb and for 10 weeks it heard my heart beat. 

It's been almost 2 months now since our babe went to be with Jesus. And in some ways, we are only just beginning to grieve. I've needed time. My husband has needed time. 

I began this post with the words to a song by Laura Hackett. They rang so true in my heart as I heard them sung. "You brought me to the wilderness where I will learn to sing. You let me know my barrenness so I will learn to lean." I have been wrecked by this experience. I have been taken to the ground and destroyed. There is a part of me that will never be again. I hope that doesn't sound despairing or hopeless, because I'm not. I realize that there are parts of me that have to be re-born. There are thought processes that have been erased and are being rewritten. There is a silence in my heart that waits with bated breath for God to speak into it. I am tranquil. I am tearful. I am released. I hold tightly to His presence and I wait for His next move. I am undone. 

I am overwhelmed with happiness, and I am overwrought with grief. I don't know any other way to express it. 

Little things remind me of the baby. An ornament my mother in law had made for us before the loss... of a couple.. pregnant as we would have been now. The weird way in which I picked out a Christmas card with four spaces for children's pictures. The opening of my closet to find the maternity shirt I had planned to wear to Christmas Eve service. Even though she never saw this world, there are reminders of our sweet baby everywhere we look. My heart is full. 

I don't understand loss today any more than I did before I'd lost. I look in the mirror and I feel older. 

God's goodness is ever present. His love is sure. His compassion is new. His tender mercies are precious. I lean into Him and I take a breath. And again I wait. In this precious time, in this moment where my fear, my joy, my anguish, my gratitude... where everything meets and every song sings straight to my soul and every word speaks to my heart. God is near. He never has been far.  He brought me here. He doesn't rejoice in my loss, but He holds me here.

I am leaning. And He is holding.