Late have I loved You, O beauty so ancient and so new. Late have I loved You! You were within me while I have gone outside to seek You. Unlovely myself, I rushed towards all those lovely things You had made. And always You were with me.
Augustine
I don’t want to forget graduate school. How it came and went and with it consumerism latching its gold clasp around our ankles. We were the perfect example of Joshua Millburn’s phrase, “I made good money… but the problem was I spent even better money.” Healthy paychecks, minimum payments made, leftover funds going to vacations and shopping sprees. Student loan debt, pushed aside. For three years, life was carefree, and then, our world shattered.
I don’t want to forget the silence on a doppler twelve weeks into pregnancy. Everywhere I turned something reminding me of what I had so prematurely lost; the grey of emptiness and the loss of anticipation crowding everything we did. Eventually, the longing to create life became stronger than the fear of loss. Again my belly swelled, and my heart brimmed with anticipation. On ultrasound, we witnessed the pulsation confirming life inside, but we also observed a hemorrhage on the placenta that would either reabsorb or threaten the baby. As I grasped the magnitude of this, my heart plunged in my chest; I felt every fiber of my being tighten as I held back the stinging in my eyes.
I don’t want to forget, the smell of her skin, warmth snuggled against my bare chest, perfection- His gift to us. The brokenness I felt only months before, softening as I lift her tiny fingers to my lips. Holding her tightly, vowing to carry these moments in my soul, knowing she is my miracle. For eight weeks, my world wasn’t interrupted by workdays. Too quickly, the time came to leave my heart in a stranger’s hands. Do they know they are holding my world as the distance grows between us as I drive away at dawn? Acknowledging that I won’t rock her again until sometime in the twilight hours of the next day when she awakens, leaves a heaviness inside of me. How many times did I remind myself this is the path I had chosen?
I don’t want to forget; the overwhelm creeping into everything I did. Rising before dawn using the early moments of quiet to pay bills and sort paperwork. The days I had at home, stolen by the blur of breakfast, clean up, shopping lists, running errands, racing the next naptime. The chaos I created, occasionally broken on afternoons when I’d glance into the rearview and see her sleeping. As she dreamed, I would steal a few quiet moments for myself. The coffee shop drive-thru aided my survival, and I would spend a few hurried moments catching up on emails and social media. This evening I’d do it all again, racing from one responsibility to the next.
On weekdays we were co-existing as single parents—him while I was at work, and me on my days off. I missed out on bedtime stories and sleepy snuggles half of her childhood, so among the bustle, I attempted to treasure these moments, whispering hurried thank you prayers as I rocked her to sleep. As her breathing slowed, time stood still, and I silently wished for more time like this. But there’s too much to do. I emerge from the peacefulness to look around at the explosion of stuff. I began by shifting the stacks of paper on the counter, thankful to be interrupted by the buzzing reminder telling me it’s time to swap the laundry. I work tomorrow, and my less than ideal goal of getting 6 hours of sleep is quickly fading.
I don’t want to forget, again the mental anguish and physical pain of a baby, once alive trapped inside its watery grave. Last time I had waited, it left me writhing in pain on the bathroom floor. This time, as soon as I knew hope was lost, I chose the brief respite of anesthesia. Still groggy, I looked out the window watching Emmaline tumble in the snow with her Daddy. The thought of her growing up playing alone, bringing a wave of sadness over me. But knowing I couldn’t take this chance again.
Life swirled on and as she grew, so did my apathy in an attempt to push sadness protectively inside. In time, baby showers became slightly less painful to attend, but receiving invitations still brought a pang of dispiritedness over me. Friends only children now had siblings, and I felt closed out from conversations about adjusting to life with another child. My soul still ached for the babies I never held. The loss began to give me perspective, causing me to think more about the eternal. I pondered how I had spent so much time investing in my education while neglecting to study the Bible. Tired of emptiness, I decided to commit more time to seeking solace for the longing I felt deep inside.
She was five. A dash of freckles across her rosy cheeks, long pigtails, and bursting with giggles and morning hugs. She made me feel alive. The wondering of what life would be like if she had siblings, no longer dominated my thoughts, except for at night. In the quiet darkness my mind swirled. I’d been spending more time lately sifting through the Bible, and was beginning to feel more connected to life and the giver of life. In quiet times like these my questions to God filled the dark space. I didn’t anticipate this night to be any different. I fell into bed exhausted, prepared for my mind to begin unwinding the tangles of the day. As I shifted my focus to my only child, the stillness was broken by the question, why not adopt? So loud and clear were the words that I immediately found myself sitting up in bed, scanning my surroundings…Chad was sound asleep, the house was quiet. As I lowered my head back to my pillow, the words echoed in my mind, as I fell into a restless sleep.
To be continued.