My Ella, a kindred spirit of mine in all things, including her mutual love of this season, told me recently that one of her friends said, "Why do people even like Fall? Everything is dying. It's just dead leaves everywhere. It signifies death."
Later, when I was alone and I recalled that conversation, I realized that this season has signified death for our family.
~
It was late summer when I found out, to my great joy, that I was expecting another baby. I whispered the news to Mark and we were cautiously optimistic (cautious, because our last two pregnancies have ended in miscarriage. Optimistic, because what were the chances of that happening AGAIN? We have been content in this place, surrendered to the idea that I would likely not get pregnant again. So unexpected news felt like a great gift.) We decided to keep the news to ourselves for awhile (and not even tell the kids) because we wanted so much to protect their hearts. Some of the most heart-wrenching moments in my life are those that followed the telling to our children of our first loss: that the little baby brother or sister they were so eagerly anticipating had died within me.
And so we waited, and God gave us the strength to hope and He quieted my fears and I was really sick and we were counting down the days to the first ultrasound after which we would then get to reveal this amazing news to our kids.
The day for the ultrasound arrived, the appointment time came and I eagerly put on the gown and settled in to hear and see our baby. Except as the technician moved her wand over my tummy, the room was silent; the screen was still. My mind rushed to explain this: Maybe she just doesn't have the right angle yet. Maybe she still needs to zoom in.
I looked at Mark in the dim room with questions in my eyes-- he'll know if we should be worried right now-- and he was focused, searching himself.
Still I hoped. Until the truth was spoken aloud, I hoped. And then I was crushed. I can't even think of that day without the tears falling. I was so stunned. I had so hoped. Why, when we were so content, would God offer this sweet gift to us, allow us the joy of hoping and dreaming about this little life to join our family, and then retrieve that gift? For the third time?
We walked quietly out of the room, down the hall, through the office where minutes before I had filled out paperwork and cheerfully anticipated good news, opened the main door and stepped outside. We hesitated then, just outside the door. I sucked in air and said something to the effect of, "I can't believe we are here in this place again." And then we walked the rest of the way to our vehicle. It was only within the quiet of that space that I felt the freedom to cry.
Mark drove to his work to wrap things up for the day and come home with me early, and I had about half-hour in the car by myself. I remembered then Ellie Holcomb talking about the story behind her song Find You Here. She said that when her dad found out he had cancer, her parents invited all their friends and family over for a night of worship. Right there in the thick of the dark news. And that it was a beautiful night of proclaiming Jesus in the midst of the hurt.
It's not the news that any of us hoped that we would hear
It's not the road we would have chosen, no
The only thing that we can see is darkness up ahead
But You're asking us to lay our worry down and sing a song instead
You say that I should come to You with everything I need
You're asking me to thank You even when the pain is deep
You promise that You'll come and meet us on the road ahead
And no matter what the fear says, You give me a reason to be glad
Find You Here, Ellie Holcomb (first two verses)
So as I sat in our vehicle and waited for Mark to join me, I sang. I sang and sobbed right there when my pain was raw. I certainly didn't feel like singing, but I forced myself to. That song, and Praise the Lord (the Imperials).
And then we drove home to tell our kids the news I never wanted to have to tell them again.
