Easter fell two days before I officially found out I lost my baby. I say officially because in my heart I knew the truth long before that.
But up until Easter Sunday I had been daring God to give me a miracle.
I don’t know if you noticed but in my previous posts God was mentioned only briefly, many times in reference to my husband. That was not on purpose but the gravity of what that means is not lost on me.
After much reflection I realized that I never leaned into God during those two weeks when I was at my lowest, and most scared, and most confused. I chose to let others lean into God for me.
I let my husband say genuine prayers for the two of us, asking God for a miracle but letting Him know that we trusted His will for our baby’s life and thanking Him for the outcome no matter what. I let my mom and sister be pillars of strength, praying over me constantly, praying for my baby, but also ultimately giving my baby to God in order that His will be done.
I remember cringing inside during those prayers.
In my head I was screaming the opposite sentiments.
“No, God, you can’t take my baby.”
“I thought you loved me, God.”
“If you really love me you will give me this baby.”
“If you’re really God you’ll prove it to me by giving me a miracle.”
Those kinds of thoughts were endless. And only became more shameful. I was attempting to bully God into giving me what I wanted. With each passing day my doubt grew bigger and my faith grew smaller. . . until God met me right where I was on Easter Sunday of 2015.
I woke up that morning, put on my Easter dress, forced a smile, and went to church. We grabbed our seats, Mitch on one side and my sister on the other. I remember feeling so heavy. How was I supposed to stand and sing praises to a God that didn’t care about me or my baby? How could I worship a God who boasts miracles but can’t do this one thing for me?
The worship team started to play and sing. I mouthed the words, detached and going through the motions.
And then I felt God surround me. The best way I can describe that moment is the feeling when you’re little and you get hurt and you hold it together so that no one can see how bad you’re hurting but then your mom says your name and bends down to hug you and just like that you lose it because in the safety of your mom’s arms you can’t hide it anymore.
There, in church, surrounded by hundreds of people, God bent down, wrapped me in a hug, and told me who He was.
He told me He loved me.
He told me He heard me.
He told me He knew what it felt like to lose a child.
He told me that death couldn’t hold Jesus.
He told me that death didn’t hold my baby.
He told me He held my baby.
He told me that one day He will wipe every tear from my eyes, there will be no more crying, no more pain (Revelation 21:4).
He showered me in His promises. He showered me in His love. As I cried I could feel the weight being lifted. In the safety of God’s arms I gave my baby up.
The mourning would continue.
The pain would linger.
But there was hope in my Savior.
And it was well with my soul.