Rainbow Baby?

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I will never shy away from sharing of my loss.  And I am not sorry if I cause discomfort.

Miscarriage is a very silent loss.  It is a very wrenching loss.  It is a very soul-crying loss.

Miscarriage takes you from elation to depression sometimes within weeks.

Today I read many articles of women, very prolific writers, phew!  Writers that bore their souls of their miscarriage losses.  From first trimester to 16 weeks.

From listeria infections to sudden delivery.

Women that never shared the loss with their children.  And then some that, for some unknown reason, started the conversation in the car on the way to school.

I am sure many of us (especially if you are around my age) can recall the episode from Friends when Rachel, Monica, and Phoebe are in the bathroom during the reception of Monica and Chandler’s wedding.

And the two girls, Phoebe and Monica, had given Rachel another pregnancy test to take to see if she really was or wasn’t pregnant.

Phoebe read the results, “She (Rachel) was not pregnant.”

Rachel cried.  And said she was happy.  And that it was for the best…

Of course, Phoebe was not telling the truth.  She wanted to see how Rachel really felt.  And, obviously, Rachel felt a great loss once she thought she was not pregnant.

Now, let’s leave fiction and enter reality.

The character of Rachel shared the heart of many.  THAT pregnancy test.  That pee stick.  That unsanitary little thing carries a great weight.

And as soon as we see the sign “Positive” our lives change.

Our beings change.  Our hands fly to our bellies.  We smile secretly to ourselves, appearing looney to the rest of the world watching random woman lady walking around with dreamy smile on her face.

We envision blue.  And then pink.  And then blue.  And then pink.

We have already calculated how far along and potential birth dates before even the first doctor’s appointment.

Names.  I am sure that is the first Google search you did as soon as you got back on your computer, after the due date, before the Chinese gender calendar.

Names.  Beautiful names.  Crazy names.  Trendy names.  Old names.  New names.  World names.  Names and their meanings.  Social Security popularity on names.

And twins?!  I mean, after all, can’t you recall someone, somewhere in your family that had twins?  Therefore, what would the doctor share with you?  It’s TWINS!

Whether you lost your baby 24 hours after your positive pregnancy test or 12 weeks later…In those potentially 24 hours you knew you had your baby growing inside of you, you conquered the internet.   You looked at What to Expect-type websites.  You saw where the baby was and how you would grow, and you secretly tucked your favorite name away, knowing that even if you had to fight for it, that special name would become a part of your baby in some way, sort or form…Soon.  If 9 months is considered soon.

Miscarriage.  It rips the very soul out of you.

And even the most gut-wrenching cries cannot bring back what you want the most.  The realization of your baby.  In your arms.  In the 9th month.  Like it should be.

Miscarriage.  It is a devastating end to what was once a beautiful beginning.

For you.

My husband?  For him it still continues, too.

Two years after our miscarriage, my husband and I were in our car on our way to church.  Church is one hour away.  My husband is the pastor of the church.

We were on our way.  On the highway.  We were driving.

It hit my husband.  The loss.  The great, great, tremendous loss.

And as we were driving in the car at 80mph, he started to cry.  The car started veering.

Sobs.  Gut-wrenching sobs were escaping the soul of his being.  Tears that he had always stifled to be strong for his wife that suffered so much physically with the loss and hemorrhaging and emergency D and C to remove the placenta.

He was so strong for so long.  And then two years later, our son Maxwell nearly died.  And then Maxwell lived.

And then all of it hit Richard.  On the way to church.  In the car.  Traveling 80mph.

And we nearly wrecked the car.  He had to pull over on the abandoned highway.  And I had to sit there.  Stunned.

I sat there as Richard shouted at God.  “Why?”

Why?

I sat there as Richard shared his guilt.  He was in America when our baby’s heart stopped beating.

“Why, God?!”

I sat there as Richard cried.  And cried.  And cried.

I didn’t know what to do.  And that is probably exactly how he felt as I lived through my time of tears. He probably didn’t know what to do.

Miscarriage.  The silent shame?

Never!

Miscarriage.  The silent pain.

The pain of loss.  Such tremendous loss.  For the mom.  For the dad.  For the brothers and sisters.

For those that love you.  For you yourself.

No one knows what to do.

No one.

And that is probably why miscarriage remains such a silent topic.

Because what can you say about a baby that you loved and barely knew?  Except to the very core of your being you did know.  Just as well as you know the other children you have.

I read once that a rainbow baby is a baby that follows the storm of loss.  Just like a beautiful rainbow shines after the rain.

And I loved what I read.

So, today, I am here to say.  Miscarriage.

It is a loss that guts your soul.  And you feel it forever.

But miscarriage also taught me about life.  The beautiful value of how precious and yet fleeting life is.

I had never valued life so much until our baby lost it.

And then we, through the storm, saw our rainbow.

Eventually a double rainbow.

And their names are Maxwell Loren (2 years and a few months old now) and Josephine Diane (9 months old).

Our baby we never got to meet.  Sam.  Simply Sam.

And despite the beauty of our rainbows, there is not a day that goes by that we don’t reflect upon the gorgeous life of our Sam.

For Sam was our storm.  And Sam was our watering.  And Sam was our awakening.

Our awakening to compassion.

To beauty.

And to life.

Sam.  Oh how I miss the baby I barely had.  Then I look at my rainbow babies and I smile.  I smile at them while remembering Sam.  It’s as if there will never be one without the others.

Just like there will never be a rainbow without a storm.

And 3+ years later, I can smile.  Sadly smile.

The ultrasound of my perfect baby alive in my mind.  The heartbeat-strong.  The feeling of life-there.

And yet time has passed and life has changed.  And we have double rainbow blessings…

But today, Dear Sam, I raise my life and voice for you.  And for all women like myself.  And for all men like my husband.  And for all siblings like my Adelyne.

And I say loudly, without shame, you are loved deeply…even if it is only our hearts that get to hold you.

You were our storm.

But everyone knows—water is necessary for life.

And that is what you were.  A life.  A beautiful life.

Thank you, Sam.  Simply Sam.

Now, I am off to kiss my babies.  My rainbows after our storm.  And I am going to inhale deeply their scents.

And maybe even cry a little.

Because the world does spin, but my heart remains the same.

Mother.  To Sam.

No matter, I will go to bed with a smile.  Because my storm was beautiful.  And mine.  And forever I am changed.

So despite death.  I was taught life.

And I am happy about that.

Because life is beautiful.  Just like our storm.

Prayer. It’s not a magical potion.

Teaching our children about prayer, while living it in our own lives.

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Praying…we’re to pray without ceasing.  But sometimes we find that “ceaseless” prayer a hassle.  After all, we have to stop.  Close our eyes.  Bow our head.  And wait for commotion to cease around us.

Nope.  Not at all.  Truly, that’s not the case.

Prayer is a beautiful thing.

Praying is what gave us our Baby Sam.

And prayer is what saved our baby, Maxwell.

Prayer is not magic.  It’s not a guarantee that all will be “right” according to our standards.  And prayer definitely does not work “our way”.

Bummer?  Well, it depends on your perspective.

God is very specific about how we should pray.

One…We should come before Him.  And that’s a Him with a capital H.

Two…We should present our praises and petitions to Him.

Three…We should acknowledge what it is that we have done wrong in our lives.

Wait.  Right there.  That’s why I don’t pray.  I don’t want to keep acknowledging over and over and over and over (you get the idea) all of my wrongs.

Well, why not?  Because you don’t want to admit you were wrong?  Or you don’t want to change what you are doing that IS wrong?

If it’s either of the above cases, it’s a heart issue, my friends.  A heart issue.  Not a prayer issue.

Back to prayer…

And we are to pray the prayer that never fails…”God, thy will be done…”

You see.  It’s okay, great, fantastic, superb to go specifically before God with specific requests and specific hopes for your lives…

My daughter did for 3 years before God gave our Baby Sam to us (and took him home before we got to meet him here on earth)…

And as much as she prayed with all of her heart for a baby brother, and we thought our little baby was a miraculous answer to that prayer, we did not get to keep our baby.

Hearts were broken.  Lives changed.

BUT…

And this is where we see God’s hand at work.   If we had NEVER been given Sam, we would have never thought to try for Maxwell.

You see, it’s because God gave us Sam that hope was renewed in our hearts that perhaps…just maybe…we could have another.

And a year after our loss, 10 years into our marriage, and approaching our 36th year of life, we found ourselves for the first time ever at a clinic for a consult with a doctor.

And it was there that the doctor said to me in very broken English, “You see your right ovary there?”

“Yes…”

“Well, you will ovulate in 3 days.  Go home.  I should not see you again.”

And, 8 months later (because he came early), we had Maxwell.

Had God not given us Sam, we would have never ever thought to try for Maxwell…And today we wait (each day because I’m as baked as a Thanksgiving turkey) for Josephine.

All because my daughter prayed.  And prayed.  And prayed.  And she prayed ceaselessly.

Everything was not beautiful.  Baby Sam never made an entrance into this world alive.  Maxwell nearly died.  And Josephine wanted to come at 31 weeks.

But because everything was not beautiful, because there was heartbreak, because there was the feeling of complete hopelessness…we felt God.

We relied on Him.

We leaned on Him.

And we learned from Him.

We were students of “Thy will be done…”

Through Adelyne, we learned that it’s okay to present the “impossible” requests to God…such as asking for a brother or sister.

Through Sam, we learned that in utter darkness God is still there.

Through Maxwell, we learned to believe in miracles!  We learned that when God is prompting you to pray, to be faithful.  To pray.

My sister-in-law, Jennifer, was woken up at 3am one night when Maxwell was at the stage of his life in ICU when no one knew if he was going to live or die.  At 3am in Arizona, it was 12 noon in Poland.  This is very important to realize the time…

Because it was at that exact moment that she was woken up with the prompting to pray for Maxwell that Maxwell’s life was hanging in peril.  That he was bagged and the doctor had to be found.

And for an eternity no one knew what the outcome would be…Richard and I stood in the hallway crying out to God while my sister-in-law on the other side of the world was crying out to God.

And although it seemed like an eternity, the doctor finally made it to him and got his little life stable again.

Jennifer had no clue what was happening when she was awoken in the middle of the night.  And yet she obediently honored God’s prompting and began to pray for our baby.

Praying teaches great faith.  Faith that we are to go to God.

Prayer.  Every day before Adelyne leaves for school, I envelop her in my arms and together we cuddle, and this is what I say, “Dear Jesus, please be with Adelyne today.  May she be respectful and kind.  May she have listening ears and a spirit to help others.  May she be a shining example for you.   Amen.”

And every day my daughter awaits that moment, even though it’s the same prayer.

And every day I am reminded that my daughter enters her days knowing that she is loved and there is a God she can go before.

And throughout the day, whether it’s a silent or crazy day.  Whether I’m clean or a mess.  Whether I feel good or like crap…I pray.

I pray for my children, my family, those we meet, hearts that are broken, lives that are a mess, for those that need healing…

I pray—and my greatest prayer is always that through the moments in life that we all face, we come to know Him.

Because, yes, at times life is unbelievably painful—but with God survival is possible.

Prayer.  It’s not a magical potion—it’s so much more than that.

Prayer.  It’s a beautiful connection.

National Pregnancy and Infant Loss: Month of October.

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We have a baby in heaven…And that is how life sometimes goes.  But let me tell you that no matter how many babies seem to be popping out of my uterus at this stage of my life, there is not a single day that goes by where Rich, Adelyne, and I don’t mention our baby…Our Baby Sam.

To be truthful, the very day that I was in labor with Maxwell, and Rich and I actually had the delivery room to ourselves, we each took a moment and cried.

Not because we weren’t thankful for Maxwell—our precious boy fighter that was about to enter our world.  But because it is the day when we allowed ourselves, after the last year, to feel the unspeakable pain of our loss…Of our loss of Sam.

You see, they would be a year and a half apart.  And as much as we wanted Maxwell, we wanted Sam.

And there was that moment for both of us in the labor and delivery room that we sat crying.  Together.  In pain.  Even though great joy was around the corner.

Resurfacing were all of the questions:  could we have done something differently?  What if we had been in the States?  What if Rich hadn’t traveled to America?  What if we hadn’t lived in the that horrible house with the rusty pipes and moldy walls?  What if I had remained still-er and moved less?  What if…what if…what if…

You, at this moment, are probably ready to engulf us in your arms and say, “Oh children…This was just God’s timing.”

But I would like to stop you and say…”Please don’t.”

Anyone that has ever lost a pregnancy or a baby does not need you to tell them about God’s timing.  Maybe we will come to those conclusions on our own.

All we ever need is a hug and a “I’m sorry.”

For you see…the minute that test turns doubly pink, your heart expands and your lives change.  And ready or not—life will never be the same.

And that even means IF the baby doesn’t make it.

Your heart has already changed.  Your very existence too.  So even if the baby does not make it does not mean that your life will ever…ever…ever…go back to the way that it was.  And that is just the way that life works.

For the longest time after we lost our baby I kept a journal.  Everyone heals differently, and I like to write.  No, I don’t normally journal.  But this was not a journal for me.  This was a journal for my baby.  I would start with, “Today was your actual ‘birth’ day.  Your sister got all dressed up and wanted to make cupcakes to celebrate you today.  And so we all got gussied up, made cupcakes, sang happy birthday to you and read a book about babies.  You are not here, and yet you are always near…”

Each entry was raw.  And each filled with a memory or a lesson that we had learned from our loss.  And many were filled with scriptures that were carrying our souls.

And time.

And not being silent about one of the most silent subjects in the world.

Loss.

Today I think about all of these babies popping out of me.  And I stand in utter, humble awe.  I know to be able to get pregnant and keep the baby is a gift.

And my gifts have all come wrapped and delivered differently—but none of them will ever out value the other.  Even if I don’t have the privilege of raising all of them here on earth.

October.  It’s a month of golden sunshine and crimson leaves.  It signifies the changing of the seasons.  And it’s beautiful.  Just like the memory of my baby.

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Related Article:  http://assemblethemins.blogspot.com/2012/10/it-was-necessary.html

A Copper Miner’s Wife…Happy Grandparent’s Day, Tootsie!

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She was 15 and made a choice.  She hopped in the car of the handsome man and they took off.  They went to a county that permitted their love.  And they got hitched.

Yep, that’s how the legacy of my family was started.  My grandma, Marguerite Florence, married her handsome miner, Charles Emerson.  And although they were but babies, they married.

And they made it.   54 years, in fact, until he passed away—a great man with a great legacy and so many years of joy and laughter.

But life was not always as easy for Tootsie as that hop in the car or the signature on those papers.

My grandma watched her first beautiful baby boy born.  She saw him grow.  She loved him and his smile and laughter and beauty.  And then one day he was gone.

And their hearts were broken.

Then came along their second baby…sick.  And death claimed him but not before he also claimed their hearts.  She calls him Baby Boy.

Two.  Gone.  Sorrow was a cloud that hung over their hearts, lives, home.

And then they welcomed a beautiful baby with big blue eyes…And he thrived.

A daughter followed, my mother.

Then the War.  The War that men went off to fight, leaving behind the strongest generation of women.    Women that had to care for the house, work the fields, get the jobs, and raise the children.

And, ironically, the War that was the battle for the great continent that my husband and I now reside upon.  If my grandpa was alive, I wonder how he would reminisce about that fact?  That he fought for the people and the land where we now live?

He returned safely and worked his remaining days as a copper miner in Bisbee, Arizona.   Until 1991 when God called him home.

Now Tootsie, the toughest woman I know has a new title to her name…Widow.  The man that she met, married, and loved since she was 1 day 15…gone.  But her spirit remained strong.

Fast forward to 2006.

We had a little girl, and we named her Adelyne Marguerite after my amazing grandma.  And boy, my daughter genetically inherited her great-grandma’s spicy spirit.  And we’re thankful. In fact, there are times when we call Adelyne “Little Toots”!

Zoom again…It’s 2010. 

We’re in Poland, and we lost our baby in pregnancy.  And my mom told me my grandma just cried and cried upon hearing that news.  If anyone understood the loss of your very own heartbeat, it is my grandma.  At this point in her life, she has now buried 3 of her 4 children-her only living son has passed away too.

Many people said really nice things—but she knew the hollowness of losing your flesh and blood.  And it was something, a very sad something, that has bonded us beyond the fact that our daughter was given her name.

And once again, we move forward to 2012.

Our son.  He entered death and yet was given back to us.  He was 2 months old.  And our lives felt as if dump trucks had been thrown on top of us.

But he lived…God graciously gave him back to us.  We do not know why—but we will never stop thanking him for this gift of Maxwell’s life.

And, once again, my grandma cried.  Not because we lost Maxwell, but because he lived.

My daughter may have been named after my grandma, but it’s my son whose spirit fights on like my grandma—whose spirit that looks at adversity and difficulty in the eyes and says, “I’m going to walk on…I will persevere.”

Grandma Tootsie and Maxwell Loren—they know death.  They know difficulty.  And yet they know victory in Jesus.  And they smile.

Today, my son walks up to her.  Their unspoken bond is great.  And he, Maxwell, stares.  And then he smiles.

He smiles as if to say, “Thank you.”

“Thank you for being strong.  For carrying on.”

“I am not a replacement of your life and your losses.  I am a piece.  A piece of your life because although sorrow was at times overwhelming, you held on.  And joy has come in the morning.”

And she smiles at him.

And then he laughs.

And she laughs.

And the bond they share, the bond between a 91-year-old widower and a 15-month-old baby boy, is great.

Unspoken—unless smiles and laughter count as words.

My Nose Ring was NOT a Good Idea…And we got a puppy.

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(c. photo Hel Ka Photography)

Have you ever tried to compensate for something missing in your life?  For example, when Richard and I were struggling through infertility, I got a rabbit. This rabbit ruled the roost.  Literally.  I let this rabbit, named Sylvester, run wild.  It had free reign of our home…Of our balcony…Of our couch cushions—which it gnawed to smithereens…Of our electrical cords—which in turn had their revenge on Sylvester-shocking him 4 feet off the ground (Don’t worry—no bunny was hurt in that revenge.  Well, maybe temporarily).  This rabbit was my compensation for no children. When Adelyne arrived in our lives, rainbows abounded, the sun sang to us with its rays, birds chirped melodious tunes.  Life was so complete.  Life was so beautiful.  Life was richer than we had ever imagined. And Richard and I were completely content.  For nearly 5 glorious years of Adelyne’s life, we had more joy in our souls and family than imaginable. We had no idea, however, that life could get grander than Adelyne…That is, until we experienced Sam. When I first thought I was pregnant, neither my husband nor I believed it.  But after I saw two little pink stripes—I knew!  My husband took the rest of the day to let it sink in.  But, by the end of the day, I had a beautiful bouquet of flowers and our daughter dancing around the room at the news of her impending sibling. Let me say, the entire reason we were given our second baby is because I had a daughter that for two entire years of her life PRAYED faithfully for this sibling. Notice I said my daughter prayed.  I did not.  You see, Adelyne was miraculous enough.  I never thought God would grant us a second.  So I became content with my family and did not ask God for more.  And, despite my lack of faith, my daughter said, “I want to pray for a brother!”  And so, from the age of 3, she prayed.  Nightly.  Faithfully.  Beautifully.  Truly, I admired her great faith-even though I had none of my own. And, sure enough, 2 years after she started faithfully praying, God gave us our 2nd most amazing miracle.  Our Baby Sam. When I was pregnant with Adelyne I was in great shape.  I had no pain.  I had no complications.  The girl hung out in my belly for 42 weeks.  I went bike riding pregnant, rode alligator boats, swam with Manta Rays, was stung by a jelly fish, jumped off a mountain in Austria (jumped off a mountain before I knew I was 6 weeks pregnant) and off a 30-foot platform too (again-before I knew I was 6 weeks pregnant).  And through all of Adelyne’s belly adventures, I had the most gloriously easy pregnancy known to man. When my pain began with Sam, I was astonished.  But the pain was unmistakable.  And then the contractions began.  The bleeding was daily.  Through it all, the baby kept growing.  The doctors became confident that we were making it—although painfully—through the first trimester and would make it to the finish line. So when I woke up that morning—full of energy, without the need to run to the bathroom, and not starving my guts out—I knew.  I knew my baby that my daughter had prayed for years—My baby that I had fought so painfully hard for—My baby was gone. I went to the doctor the next day and received the beautiful picture—and the tragic news.  My baby was curled up with beautiful toes and a hand reaching to the sky.  But there was no heartbeat. I had never before in my life experienced such heart wrenching and hollow pain.  I curled up inside of myself.  I would lie in a dark room for hours at a time.  And I wondered if the pain would ever go away. And I told my husband to let me be.  I needed to grieve.  And he did.  He allowed me my grief. And my daughter—what could I do for her?  Her very being was crushed.  She cried for months after.  We lost our baby in the summer.  But one wintery and snowy day when I was picking her up from school, she started crying as I was putting her in the car. “Why, Momma?  Why doesn’t God give me a brother?” And she cried.  And she cried.  And she cried. I couldn’t even start the car.  The two of us sat in the car, and, despite the snow outside, we sat there and cried.  And we allowed our pain to reveal itself deeply in the car, in the parking lot, of her school. And that’s okay.  Because pain needs to be felt.  Pain needs to be shared.  Pain needs to be relieved. But what could I do? I couldn’t give Adelyne what she wanted most—and so I did something for her. I got her a puppy. You know, to replace her sibling.

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Does it really? No.  But that is what many of us do in life. We try to replace our pain with something else. For some, it’s alcohol.  For others, it’s eating.  For many men, it’s pornography.  For too many, it’s seeking love from the wrong places.  Others it’s shopping.  The list goes on. Compensation for pain is very real.  And it’s what I did.  With a puppy. As we headed into our second year of our loss, and our pain lessened, and our lives went on…I did two things to compensate for what my heart truly desired: First, I went car shopping—looking at a sporty little convertible (no—not a good idea for a freezing country like Poland).  We even took it on test drives.  At least I had fun, eh?! And secondly…I got a nose ring. Yep, an honest to goodness nose ring. Now, let me tell you…I am a HUGE fan of nose rings.  They.Are.Awesome…in my opinion.  And, I finally felt like—Hey!  This is something I can do.  This is a way that I can have a bit of control over my life—I can pierce my nose. I know.  I know.  But, again, like I said—we all try to compensate somehow…in some way…for something we have no control over.  And a nose ring was my way. Let me also share—getting your nose pierced in Poland is the MOST EXCRUCIATINGLY PAINFUL EXPERIENCE OF YOUR LIFE! The lady, in the little city next to our little village, said, “Lie back!”  And then she started the SLOW process of the Stone Age’s way of inserting a nose ring—she started screwing it through my nose. My sister-in-law, here in the States, has a nose ring.  I just found out that there is a FAR faster way to get said ring—and it’s called a nose ring gun.  Yep.  Didn’t have that.  Had the hammer and chisel way to go about getting what I could control. Talk about PAINFUL control, eh?!  Yep.  But, in the end, I had what I had control over—a nose ring!  And I loved it.  Or at least I thought I loved it. How, then?  How was your nose ring “snot” a good idea? Well—life is great at throwing us the unexpected. Just as my husband and I were preparing to fly a social worker out from Germany to Poland for a home visit so that we could start the process of adoption, we saw the most glorious two lines!  A positive pregnancy test…It is now eleven years into our marriage. This time, however, my heart smiled—but in smaller measure.  This time, however, we kept it a secret.  This time, however, we approached with great fear.  Not great rejoicing. And…all of our worst nightmares began to reveal themselves.  Pain.  Bleeding.  Cramping. And, so we did what many of us also do in life—we threw the “Hail Mary” pass.  We called up our families and said, “Please!  We’re pregnant and it’s not going well. PLEASE pray for us!” Friends, let me share now…Yes, sometimes touchdowns are scored on the Hail Mary pass—but God would ALWAYS prefer us to come immediately before his throne.  Don’t wait to seek His face.  Come first—and bring along your prayer warriors. Our families…they immediately responded to our pleas.  Prayer became intercessory around the clock for us, around the world, on behalf of our baby. But, despite the prayers—despite the support—despite it all…Fear became present in my very being.  In my core.  In my soul. The pain did not subside.  The cramping did not subside.  The bleeding did not subside. I did what any normal human would do—I cried.  A lot. And that’s when I realized that my nose ring was definitely “snot” a good idea. Here I was fighting for the life of my baby…crying…and snotting.  And so something had to go. I had to let go of the ONE thing that I had control over—my nose ring. I had no control over my body. I had no control over my baby. But I had control over the 1 thing that I got to exercise control—my nose ring. Isn’t it funny how in life we sometimes have to relinquish the one thing we have control over? And that’s how I went from awesomely cool momma with a nose ring (okay, that’s my opinion of myself) to fighting momma with a hole in my nose. I’ve learned a lot in my 37, going on 38, years of my life, and I’d like to share them with you. We have many desires in life.  Sometimes, we are freely granted the desires of our hearts.  Other times, we lose the desires of our hearts.  And, on occasion, we go through hell to get the desires of our hearts. But compensation for desires never fulfills your very heart.  Your very soul.  Your very being.  And, so, Friends, I leave you with this… When you are in pain—cry. When you are afraid—seek help. When you need to be alone—be. When you need a friend—tell them. When you need a hug—receive. But always, always, always go about your life with God. Compensation will never fill the void.  But God will always be there.

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I have found an article that I think beautifully states how we need to be very aware of how we speak to someone that has lost a child.  Please take the time to read “Why Miscarriage Matters When You are Pro-Life”.  It compares how Pro-Lifers react to abortion and how some of the very same people react to miscarriage.  It gently shares that many have the mentality, “one is a tragedy the other is a blessing”.

Both are losses.  Enjoy the read:

http://thelewisnote.blogspot.com/2014/02/why-miscarriage-matters-if-youre-pro.html?m=1