“Time heals all wounds” … is a lie.
Time does not heal all wounds. I personally, from experience, do not believe it heals any wounds. If that were the case, therapy sessions would be extinct. Marriages that are abandoned due to resentment and bitterness would remain in tact. People would not hold grudges for various things until their own death. Time is tricky. Complicated. Time is not a verb. It cannot and does not do anything.
But I can.
I chose forgiveness.
For any bitterness that crept into my bed at night or the corners of mind to make me question my faith or what God’s best meant for me. In my darkest days, I forced myself to find something positive that came from having and loving a life cut so terribly short. For making me a mother, yet not having the opportunity to mother her.
Reading the autopsy that her lungs were perfectly formed, yet never took a breath on this earth. Touching her long fingers, all ten of them, and envisioning piano lessons that would never take place or the painful reality that she would never squeeze my finger with hers. The ruby red lips could never whisper “mommy” or tell me she loved me.
So when ugly thoughts entered my mind or doubts came into play, I still chose forgiveness to let go of the negative or any perceived injustice I thought this was.
I grew in maturity.
For years I would count the kids twice and still seemed to be missing something. There was a silent loss that remained like a dark shadow lurking just outside my reach. I felt unbalanced. Uncentered. Uneven. I would mentally calculate how old she would be now and what she would be doing. And I would grieve all over again for yet another milestone missed. Even with the other children, I could not help but wonder what her personality would be or what would have interested her.
But as my other three began to grow up, so did I. In these three faces that stared back at me daily, they have a combination of mature, silly, organized, messy, serious, witty, laid back, high strung, carefree and worrier. I don’t think I’ve missed out on anything. There’s nothing left to be brought into play amidst the crazy controlled chaos I’ve grown to love in my home.
It took a couple of years, but one night I asked Barry if we had to do it all over, and changing the outcome would not be an option, would he go through it all the same again, or choose to skip out on this painful chapter in our life. We agreed that never having her would be worse than losing her. That, my friend, takes some serious growing up on our part. Although we have never agreed on the color of her eyes.
I found grace.
For me, clinging to scripture kept me grounded and my faith strong.
Psalm 61:2, “From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
Psalm 34:18 “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 121:1-2 “I lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”
Job 1:21 “..the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed by the name of the Lord.”
To name a few.
Many will ask how it is that I can lean on and cry out to God that allowed this. Let it happen. Could have chosen a different outcome. I’ve learned to simply reply, “How can I not? I need something bigger than me to get through this.”
II Corinthians 12:9 “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” So I found grace in knowing that while I did not understand His reasoning, that I would still choose to love and find comfort in his Word.
I changed my perspective.
For anyone who has been thrown into the depths of the belly of grief, it is very difficult to see things any differently than at that moment at that time. I learned that Madison was gone at nearly 32 weeks of my pregnancy, without Barry. We were not expecting anything unusual, so I went alone. Blindsided would be an understatement. This was 20Dec, his birthday.
It would take 32 hours of labor to meet our firstborn. She would enter this world in complete silence. On my dad’s birthday. 22Dec94. There would be no newborn cry. Or heart monitoring device beeping. No excitement or bustling of nursing staff. Just the ticking of the clock in the room and faint cries down the hallway of others in the same situation as us, yet not at all. She would be handed to us by the doctor who says not a word. He doesn’t need to. His tear stained surgical mask speaks loudly.
Fast forward eleven months, and we find ourselves again in throws of labor and delivery. Terrified, worried, anxious. Still not allowing excitement to take its rightful place just yet. A little girl. Ruby lips. And stained surgical mask again, but with a faint husky whisper of “She’s beautiful.” and his attempt at the ceremonious “Congratu….” that faintly trailed off as he was unable to keep his composure.
Alexandria Siempre (meaning always in memory of her sister) entered our life 30Nov95. Then Albert Thomas 22July98. And finally Leisel Emerson 28Jan00.
I refuse to give into the world of regrets. Those do-overs and what-ifs will cripple the present and ruin the memory of the past. I know in my heart I would not have the children I do today had she lived. So how could I possibly continue to harbor remorse over her loss?
When I stand in my kitchen, as I did yesterday, and prepare this season’s goodies, and I watch them play and hear the beauty in my home and know how blessed I am to be their mom, I know that it took an active effort to not give into bitterness and reach forgiveness. That growing up with these three has matured me and forced me to move right along with them. Learning only to bring the positive good of Madison with me and leave all the hurt and longing behind. And I was only capable of doing either of those through God’s grace. I am not that strong. No one is. I am not the same person who gave birth in the quiet. I am more passionate and my heart, by this same grace of God, is more tender when it could be so hardened. I have an empathy for those that hurt because I know how it feels all too well. I see them from my own view and try to minister to their needs as best I can. I did not have this perspective two decades ago.
Although recovery from loss does take some time, it is the actions within time that lead to successful recovery. Time does not heal. It teaches us how to live with the pain. But live well.
My sincere prayer is that I have lived my life in such a way that this comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me. That my hurt did not spawn into hate. That my legacy left behind for my children will be that she cared and she cared deeply. And I cannot stress enough that I don’t hope or even assume I will see her again. I know without a shadow of doubt that God’s word is real and that without choosing to accept Him into my life, I would not be promised an afterlife with her.
It is this promise -that I will see her again- that keeps me sane.
“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosever believeth in Him should not perish, but have ever lasting life.” John 3:16
There are several songs for grief, written for parents who untimely bury their children. By far, Natalie Grant’s “Held” is dearest to my heart.
This is what it means to be held, how it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life and you survive.
This is what it is to be loved, and to know, that the promise was that when everything fell, we’d be held.
Merry Christmas,
K
*John W. James founded the Grief Recovery Institute thirty years ago as a solution when he couldn’t find the resources he needed to deal with his own overwhelming grief at the death of his infant son.