I Remember

These past two weeks, four babies in my circles of friends and acquaintances have left this world for heaven. Two precious little ones after their birth and two other sweet babies while they were still growing in their mother's wombs. As I have heard of their situations, I have prayed for them throughout my days. Something or someone would turn my thoughts to them, I would send up a prayer for them and their families, then push them from my mind again and go about my day. It seems unkind to have not dwelt on them or their pain. But I couldn't. I didn't have time to think about this and get upset. I am very careful most all the time not think about babies dying. I am very careful not to touch those things in the closet. I am very careful not to pull out pictures. I am very careful not to look at that teddy bear.

 Because of these precious babies and their families coming into my life and thoughts in unusual numbers, I wasn't able to push those reflections away. I thought of them and how they would be feeling. How their coming days would be so hard. How that in the midst of this most difficult thing they would  have to chose to be faithful and tender and good or broken and hard and bitter.  How they would always carry those babies in their hearts and minds when others had long forgotten. Today, I lift them up and I remember.

I remember a fog. My body moved. I heard my voice. I ate. I slept. I cried. I prayed but none of it was clear. It was almost as I was watching myself do those things. A dream state. That's what it felt like. There would be no waking into the realization that everything was fine. Only harsh reality when I emerged from the fog.

I remember frustration. I don't make decisions, especially important ones, lightly. I want things to be right. I had to choose so many things so fast. Constant fear of living in regret over these decisions. These had to be right. I wasn't given the luxury or the agony of being able to plan for this event. I wanted people with me but then wanted to be alone at the same time. I wanted the chance to ask God to spare him. I wanted my boy.

I remember seeing things I never wanted to see. Knowing things I never wanted to know. Having to say things I never wanted to say. My breath being sucked from my body when I saw the tiny hole in the earth where my baby's body would lay.  Seeing my husband knees buckle under him as he leaned over our baby's casket for the last time. Having to tell our other children that their baby brother wouldn't come home with us after I delivered him. Having to answer their questions. Having to tell them that sometimes God doesn't raise people from the dead like they had heard from their Bible stories. 

I remember heaviness. My head, my heart, my arms, my feet, all so hard to hold up. The weight of grief so difficult to carry. Not wanting to wake, much less get out of bed and go throughout my day as if  everything was normal again when it wasn't.

I remember tears that wouldn't stop. Choking sobs. Suffocating sadness. Groans and gut wrenching mourning that involved my entire being.

I remember brokenness. Being so shattered that it felt like there was no hope of being put back together again. Would I ever be able to laugh? Would my smile ever stop being betrayed by the sadness in my eyes? My joy was in pieces. Part of my heart was torn from the whole and sent away from me to a place I couldn't be.  

I remember fear. Would someone ask me when I was due? Being post pregnancy with no baby, I looked pregnant. Would someone ask me how many children I have? I can't tell them I have 3 because I have 4. What will they say to me? I know they are trying to be kind but sometimes the words hurt. What if they don't say anything at all? When they didn't acknowledge my pain it felt almost as bad as when they did. What if I have to walk past the baby section when I have to shop?

I remember emptiness. Empty arms. Empty cradle. Empty picture frames. Clothes never worn. Bears never cuddled. Family pictures that weren't complete. Christmas cards without all the names.

But along with these above,

I remember clarity. The fog cleared and with the light of day, I knew what to do. God's word was beside us guiding us when we were uncertain or confused.

I remember peace. Though there are things I wish I had known or wish I had done, I never stewed over the decisions we made after we made them. I carried serenity when it was impossible within myself. It was a gift given me by the Father of all. The words of Psalm 23 calmed my soul and quieted my spirit.

I remember beauty. What a beautiful baby boy held forever in my heart! We always say it is so hard to see our children grow. He'll always our sweet small one who never grows up. I remember daffodils and tulips everywhere. The compassion and love I felt and experienced was lovely.

I remember being carried. Paul Lee read "Footprints in the Sand" at Jack's funeral. A poem I've known all my life that never held such meaning as it did in the coming days. When it as humanly and physically impossible, God carried us. My husband, my mom, my siblings, my close friends and family let me talk and talk and they listened and listened. They didn't try to fix me or change me. They talked sense to me when all I felt was nonsense. They helped carry my pain as if I gave them each a suitcase full of it. 

I remember comfort. Never before were the words of God more real. Never before had I felt His presence so strongly. He was almost palpable. I felt Him beside me all the time. We were in constant conversation. To know that my baby boy was in the best place he could be other than my arms brought such rest. My relationship with Eric was stronger than it had ever been. I wanted to be with him all the time. I needed to be near him. He let me follow him around the house. He held my hand all the time. I remember the ones who just hugged me and said they were praying for me. The ones who teared up too when I began to cry. I wasn't alone.

I remember love. I never felt more loved or cared for after Jack died. Our mailbox was full of cards everyday. Our house was filled with food and flowers. Gifts to remind us of God's love and their love. I felt the prayers said for us. Phone calls, visits, thoughts and prayers. They helped make everyday more bearable. "Being Held" just like Natalie Grant wrote. Our pain gave us the chance to be held.

I remember healing. The bad days got better. The black clouds receded and didn't come as often. I didn't cry everyday. My chest didn't hurt as bad as it once did. I was able to comfort others with what comforted me.

I remember fullness. My arms were filled with my family and friends. God allowed me to share with others how He had worked so miraculously in our lives. What joy to be able to share and comfort others because you have been there before. To have something in common with someone you've never met but be able to love on them from far away. And how wonderful when he gave us Dinah. What a sparkler! And how much more I am able to love the children I have because of the one who is away from me.

With the bad came the good. With the hard came the help. With the pain, came purpose. With the sadness came new joy.

The sadness and weeping may endure for the night (or what seems like a very long time) but joy comes in the morning (one day when you aren't expecting it). Psalm 30:5b

"Baby Jack Jack"

Jack Nathanael Lancaster

Born of Heaven February 19, 2008

(Portrait drawn by Cole Sanders)