1 of 2
I stand at the kitchen counter, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, jotting on a notepad, listening. Listening as my friend pours out the sad news of the loss of her tiny unborn baby. I wipe away my own tears, understanding all too well the anguish of this mother's broken heart, as I scribble circles and lines—and the words to a song: "Little one, loved before knowing … Precious one, in dreams so fair … "
Only a few weeks before, my friend had called, ecstatic that a test had confirmed the presence of the little life within her. She even rejoiced when the nausea started. Then the nausea abruptly stopped—and the spotting began. And now the baby was gone. Her hopes and dreams, her plans for new curtains in the nursery, somehow must be laid away.
She weeps, and I with her. Most people don't understand. They smile and pat her shoulder and say she can always have another one. How thankful she should be for her other children. Doesn't she think she has enough children already? Or they don't know what to say at all, so they chat aimlessly about the weather and the kids' ball games. She wants to scream at them, "Don't you see? My baby died! I'll never see him (or was it her?) play ball. This was not an illness. This was a human life—a life I loved—and I am grieving!" I understand. How well I understand.
We share. We cry. I tell her I'll bring supper tonight and we hang up. Memories flood back as I sip my tea.
Three babies (I wonder what they're like?) wait for me in heaven. All were born only a few short weeks after their lives began, before onlookers could even tell they were there. But I knew. I already loved them, and now I understand my friend's lonely grief.
After my third miscarriage—a beautiful little baby only about an inch long, with fingers and toes and eyes—I cried out to Jesus in my helpless, agonizing loss. And the idea of finding some sort of memorial surfaced. (It's tough, losing a son or daughter so early; there's no funeral, no grave, no memorial. Some people act as though there were no baby.) I went shopping, asking the Lord to help me find what he'd chosen. I wandered aisles, not even knowing what I was looking for, then stopped. There, sitting high on a shelf, was a tiny, live green bush with pink miniature roses breathing out a fragrance vibrant with life. I knew I'd found it.
Our whole family planted it together that evening in the corner of our yard by the fence. As we patted the soft soil around the little roots, we explained to our children that a rosebud sometimes may swell on this side of the fence, but if the stem grows through that barrier, it actually blooms on the other side. Our baby was like the little rose. He began here, but went on to live with Jesus before he "bloomed"--before we could know him. That seemed to make sense to them, and soon, though they were disappointed, they were content to anticipate getting to know this brother or sister in heaven.
 E-mail this page   Print this article  Post a comment |
