When October comes each year, I watch the dates on my calendar.
The days arrive slowly, in order. The day I miscarried the first time, followed by Annie’s birthday.
She would have been six this year if we had been able to bring her home.
Slicing grief that still stings.
Grief that is muffled by the beauty of the miracles that followed: the date we met our son for the first time then our oldest daughter’s birthday followed by our miracle baby’s birthday.
Meetings and birthdays and joy, joy, joy– filling the end of October with brilliance.
But I still miss the babies who didn’t come home. My heart aches for them.
Especially Annie, with her tiny little fingers that once curled around mine– and all the six years she hasn’t been home.
Miracles are brilliant.
When we found out that I was expecting last year SO many people rejoiced with us and I loved it.
The emails, hugs, gifts, cards, phone calls. Every last piece was beautiful.
Miracles are just so fun, you know?
But lament is just as biblical as miracles.
So, the days when I share the grief in our story, it’s not to dishonor the glory of our miracle.
It’s to recognize the reality of lament.
It’s to remind others that hoping for a miracle is GOOD but if we don’t allow God to teach us contentment & joy without– then within moments after the gift arrives, the grief will attack us again & it can be devastating.
Here’s the unadulterated truth: we were able to adopt two beautiful children AND after almost 12 years of infertility, I gave birth to a baby girl and it’s the most glorious incredible thing.
And I also still feel the sting of loss.
Of the babies who never came home & the way my body is older now & struggling to adjust after giving birth, & how life is just plain different than what I expected.
I share this not because it’s the BIGGEST thing, but because it’s often muffled. We like the loudness of miracles–
but sometimes we need to allow the lament, because God is JUST AS PRESENT IN GRIEF as in miracles.
He’s here. Sitting with me in sorrow and comforting me in the changes in my body and remembering all my babies.
None of them forgotten by Him.
God cares about this part of my story. I know He does. I can feel His comfort and the way He holds me in the sorrow.
Every October, He walks through the grief with me– and YES, into the celebration too. But especially, especially in the hard days of sorrow.
If you’re experiencing muffled grief after a loud miracle, I want to be the one to remind you that God sees and is present with you. Every moment.
He’s just so good.