The Empty Nursery
One year ago tonight, I couldn't sleep. I knew that early in the morning they would take my baby from me. Although my baby was already gone, the thought of our impending separation still kept me awake through the night as I said my goodbyes. That was the beginning of the Summer of Sadness (or, to rip off Steinbeck, the Summer of my Discontent. See, I'm channeling a literary genius here, not Lana del Rey). Two weeks later, one of my students drowned. A funeral home full of weeping, broken sixteen-year-olds being forced to face their own mortality for (probably) the first time via the tragic death of one of their friends is sobering, to say the least. Then my sister to whom I have been indescribably close both emotionally and geographically moved literally (I'm allowed to say that word because I have a degree that says I know how to use it correctly) across the globe another fortnight later. And, finally, my very dear grandfather left us as summer gifted us with its final delicious days. This was a summer that asked many questions and gave few answers.
Flash forward to today. It was a blissfully normal day for me. The school year is winding down in its typical spectacularly stressful and busy fashion, as evidenced by the condition of both my hair and my house. We have a three-year-old's birthday party to go to tomorrow. Graduation parties next weekend. I need to pick the peas again. I'm feverishly planning summer projects. Normal. But first on the list of summer projects is moving Lucy into her Big Girl Room. It's time. My almost-40-pound-almost-three-year-old still sleeps in a crib for a few reasons. 1.) She still hasn't figured out that she can climb out, and I wanted to milk that for as long as possible. 2.) See reason #1. 3.) I always figured that we'd move her out of the crib when we had someone we needed to move into it. So what do I do with the nursery now? Do I leave it undisturbed where it will embody this dichotomy of the hope of a future occupant coupled with the despair of its empty condition? Or do I take down the nursery furniture and turn it into a well-decorated guest room that denotes a mixture of defeat and the preservation of my sanity?
A year ago, that question of what to do with the empty nursery would have destroyed me. So what's the difference? Do you think I'm about to insert a cliche about time healing all wounds? Come on. Give me some credit here. Let me be clear, as an English teacher, I'm offended by cliches, and secondly, that cliche is a lie. Time heals nothing. Giving things over to God. Acceptance. Prayer. That's what heals. Time just gives you wrinkles. (Actually, I don't even think Time does that. Environmental factors give you wrinkles, but that just doesn't have the same poetic quality.)
You see, having a miscarriage was not the worst thing that could happen to me. Was it one of the hardest things I've experienced? Do I still grieve? Yes and Yes. A thousand times Yes. But He is still good. My Nana always used to say, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," but that always left me feeling a little hurt. I wanted to know why He chose to do things like that, and there just never seemed to be a "good" answer to that question. But then I heard a story. Upon the loss of a baby that was much further along that my own, a lovely couple chose to have Romans 8:28 read at their precious baby's funeral. "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to His purpose." Wait. What? Upon first hearing, it seems an unlikely verse to read at a funeral, let alone that of a child, but further meditation reveals it to be the best scripture for that situation, for the hope, the assurance, the comfort contained in that verse is immeasurable. In all things God works for the good of those who love Him. All. Things.
Losing the baby has revealed the sovereignty of God to me. Everything that God does is done out of love, and nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises Him. All things work for His good. Is it still difficult to go through these awful experiences? Absolutely. We still need to grieve and question and cry and even scream, but, in the end, there is no greater comfort than to know that God never wastes pain. All things work together. I think I'm about to use a cliche...well, actually, this is more like a metaphor, but still. Precious, valuable things like gold and silver are refined by fire and are made all the more strong and beautiful through this process. Are not we more precious than silver and gold to Him? In the same way, He refines us through fire so that we may be stronger, more faithful, and more alive.
Last week, I taught a Bible lesson that really drove this point home for me and put words to the feelings I'm experiencing a year later. We are studying the book Trusting God by Jerry Bridges, and the focus is on the sovereignty of God.
"Trusting God in the midst of our pain and heartache means that we accept it from Him. There is a vast difference between acceptance and either resignation or submission. We can resign ourselves to a difficult situation simply because we see no other alternative, or we can submit to the sovereignty of God in our circumstances with a certain amount of reluctance. But to accept our pain and heartache has the connotation of willingness. An attitude of acceptance says that we trust God, that he loves us and knows what is best for us."
Woah. So many times I've simply resigned myself to the fact that (insert calamity here) is just the way it is and that there is nothing I can do to change it, but that always leaves me defeated and wanting. Only through much grieving, prayer, and perspective can I say that I accept the loss of our baby. I really do. I know it was not punishment. I know that all things work together for the good of those that love Him.
Another question I had that was answered in this reading as if by divine flashlight shining onto the page was whether or not to keep praying for another baby. I thought, "Maybe God is trying to tell me something here. Am I praying so loudly that I'm talking right over His voice?" But the idea of no longer praying for something I so desperately want didn't seem right.
"Acceptance does not mean that we do not pray for physical healing, or for the conception and birth of a little one, or for our marriage [...] How do we know how long to pray? As long as we can pray trustingly with an attitude of acceptance of His will, we should pray as long as the desire remains."
So, a year later, do I still miss my baby? Yes. Do I still feel a pang of sadness with each pregnancy announcement I see regardless of how happy I am for the new parents? Yes. Do I want to drop some major bows each time some well-meaning person looks at me and says, "Well, at least you have one child"? YES. (By the by, as a public service announcement, please don't say that to someone who's had a miscarriage. It's very crass and cold regardless of whether it's true or not. Okay, PSA over.)
But I accept our situation now. We have a good life. No, we have a great life. We are blessed beyond measure. If I can praise God when times are good, what right do I have to turn around and curse His name when times are difficult? The truth remains that I will always want another child, but I accept God's will because "even if not...He is still good." (Daniel 3:18)
Flash forward to today. It was a blissfully normal day for me. The school year is winding down in its typical spectacularly stressful and busy fashion, as evidenced by the condition of both my hair and my house. We have a three-year-old's birthday party to go to tomorrow. Graduation parties next weekend. I need to pick the peas again. I'm feverishly planning summer projects. Normal. But first on the list of summer projects is moving Lucy into her Big Girl Room. It's time. My almost-40-pound-almost-three-year-old still sleeps in a crib for a few reasons. 1.) She still hasn't figured out that she can climb out, and I wanted to milk that for as long as possible. 2.) See reason #1. 3.) I always figured that we'd move her out of the crib when we had someone we needed to move into it. So what do I do with the nursery now? Do I leave it undisturbed where it will embody this dichotomy of the hope of a future occupant coupled with the despair of its empty condition? Or do I take down the nursery furniture and turn it into a well-decorated guest room that denotes a mixture of defeat and the preservation of my sanity?
A year ago, that question of what to do with the empty nursery would have destroyed me. So what's the difference? Do you think I'm about to insert a cliche about time healing all wounds? Come on. Give me some credit here. Let me be clear, as an English teacher, I'm offended by cliches, and secondly, that cliche is a lie. Time heals nothing. Giving things over to God. Acceptance. Prayer. That's what heals. Time just gives you wrinkles. (Actually, I don't even think Time does that. Environmental factors give you wrinkles, but that just doesn't have the same poetic quality.)
You see, having a miscarriage was not the worst thing that could happen to me. Was it one of the hardest things I've experienced? Do I still grieve? Yes and Yes. A thousand times Yes. But He is still good. My Nana always used to say, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," but that always left me feeling a little hurt. I wanted to know why He chose to do things like that, and there just never seemed to be a "good" answer to that question. But then I heard a story. Upon the loss of a baby that was much further along that my own, a lovely couple chose to have Romans 8:28 read at their precious baby's funeral. "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to His purpose." Wait. What? Upon first hearing, it seems an unlikely verse to read at a funeral, let alone that of a child, but further meditation reveals it to be the best scripture for that situation, for the hope, the assurance, the comfort contained in that verse is immeasurable. In all things God works for the good of those who love Him. All. Things.
Losing the baby has revealed the sovereignty of God to me. Everything that God does is done out of love, and nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises Him. All things work for His good. Is it still difficult to go through these awful experiences? Absolutely. We still need to grieve and question and cry and even scream, but, in the end, there is no greater comfort than to know that God never wastes pain. All things work together. I think I'm about to use a cliche...well, actually, this is more like a metaphor, but still. Precious, valuable things like gold and silver are refined by fire and are made all the more strong and beautiful through this process. Are not we more precious than silver and gold to Him? In the same way, He refines us through fire so that we may be stronger, more faithful, and more alive.
Last week, I taught a Bible lesson that really drove this point home for me and put words to the feelings I'm experiencing a year later. We are studying the book Trusting God by Jerry Bridges, and the focus is on the sovereignty of God.
"Trusting God in the midst of our pain and heartache means that we accept it from Him. There is a vast difference between acceptance and either resignation or submission. We can resign ourselves to a difficult situation simply because we see no other alternative, or we can submit to the sovereignty of God in our circumstances with a certain amount of reluctance. But to accept our pain and heartache has the connotation of willingness. An attitude of acceptance says that we trust God, that he loves us and knows what is best for us."
Woah. So many times I've simply resigned myself to the fact that (insert calamity here) is just the way it is and that there is nothing I can do to change it, but that always leaves me defeated and wanting. Only through much grieving, prayer, and perspective can I say that I accept the loss of our baby. I really do. I know it was not punishment. I know that all things work together for the good of those that love Him.
Another question I had that was answered in this reading as if by divine flashlight shining onto the page was whether or not to keep praying for another baby. I thought, "Maybe God is trying to tell me something here. Am I praying so loudly that I'm talking right over His voice?" But the idea of no longer praying for something I so desperately want didn't seem right.
"Acceptance does not mean that we do not pray for physical healing, or for the conception and birth of a little one, or for our marriage [...] How do we know how long to pray? As long as we can pray trustingly with an attitude of acceptance of His will, we should pray as long as the desire remains."
So, a year later, do I still miss my baby? Yes. Do I still feel a pang of sadness with each pregnancy announcement I see regardless of how happy I am for the new parents? Yes. Do I want to drop some major bows each time some well-meaning person looks at me and says, "Well, at least you have one child"? YES. (By the by, as a public service announcement, please don't say that to someone who's had a miscarriage. It's very crass and cold regardless of whether it's true or not. Okay, PSA over.)
But I accept our situation now. We have a good life. No, we have a great life. We are blessed beyond measure. If I can praise God when times are good, what right do I have to turn around and curse His name when times are difficult? The truth remains that I will always want another child, but I accept God's will because "even if not...He is still good." (Daniel 3:18)
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