These last few weeks have been very emotional. Last week was Matthew's half birthday--which is why I wanted to make sure I wrote his birth story and John wrote about his life and death--so we could remember. I had always planned that since Matthew had a late November birthday, we'd have to celebrate his half-birthday so the poor boy would get to have a pool party or something fun and summery and not a dreary, cold and crazy-time-of-year party where kids probably wouldn't even be able to come to birthday parties and not a lot of outdoor options.
Last week was very hard. I have a therapist I speak with by phone once a month and just love. Last week was the first time we talked since I'd found out I was pregnant and so we were talking about that. She herself has suffered a 2nd-trimester miscarriage, so she can really understand a lot of what I deal with. We talked about how it was suggested (by someone else) that to take my mind off of things, perhaps I should focus on the new baby's room.
Thank God for this woman. She said, "Lori...dear Lord. I lost my dog two years ago and it took me a year before I could take his little bed out of the kitchen. I CANNOT imagine how you must be feeling as you contemplate what you need to do with Matthew's room and whether or not it is a nursery or Matthew's room."
She gets it. It IS Matthew's room. It is not just a nursery for an unknown baby. A new coat of paint and new bedding will not make that room anything different than what it is--MATTHEW'S ROOM. Maybe had he lived, and we had another baby, we'd have moved him into another big boy room and we'd have redone Matthew's room to be a nursery again, but that's just not how it is.
It's Matthew's room and I'm not ready for it to be anything else.
More, Linda reminded me that I'm in a really, really unique and tough position. Losing Matthew only happened 6 months ago...I am still deeply grieving the loss of my precious, precious boy.
At the same time, I am pregnant again...and trying to build another relationship with a precious, precious brother or sister.
To do both at the same time is hard.
Very, very hard.
And it's not just another relationship I am trying to build--for that just naturally comes along when a mother realizes she's carrying a sweet little life. It's the fear and the sheer terror I have that something is going to happen to this little life that I am already so in love with.
I know too much.
I've seen too much.
I've had too much happen.
The counselor that John and I see weekly talked to me last week and said, "You act as if you expect you may not bring this baby home."
Yep. I may not.
She then went on to say, "Well...what about your faith, though?"
And I said, "What about it?"
Because really, what about it? My faith doesn't mean that I get what I want. My faith doesn't allow me to just name it and claim it.
Crisis and tragedy are often the catalysts for one's faith being tried and defined. I am certainly no exception.
My faith is still being tried and defined, but I have had some proofs given to me thus far.
My faith assures me that I will survive. Whatever happens, I will survive. I am being held and am not alone.
Someone commented the other day that they didn't know how John or I put each foot in front of the other.
It's certainly not us doing it. This is how my faith has been proven. It's only through the grace of God that we breathe...we continue to walk and eat and survive.
I'm praying that my faith will allow me to cherish every second of this sweet baby's life...no matter how long it may be.
But I'm human and am still scared. In Sunday School a few weeks ago, we talked about how many like to claim that the safest place to be is at the center of God's will.
There's no doubt that Christ was at DEAD CENTER of God's will...and I dare anyone to read of what crucifixions were like and then tell me that was safe. It was not.
The glory in that is that He ultimately survived. And that's putting it mildly.
So, when I have little fears (or big ones), I just stop myself from letting it get big and as a friend asked of me, I give it to God. Right there. When stressing about the heartbeat, in my head, I say, "God--take this from me right now." I do this about 4087 times a day.
One day I will share some of the amazing things God has given to me through the words and actions of various people. Right now, I just keep them close to my heart as I feel like they are special for mostly John and me--comforts and reassurances that are priceless to me.
Friday, one of these amazing people told me that she'd heard from God, "This one, she will keep."
So in addition to giving it to God right then and there, all weekend, when I stress, I say in my head, "This one, she will keep."
And as I've been doing this since Friday, it's helped. Like I said, I do that a billion times a day, but it helps.
And the obsessive song going through my head for the last 36 hours?
The chorus from Phil Wickham's song 'Safe'. Over and over and over. In my sleep and every time I wake up as I toss and turn.
"You will be safe in His arms
You will be safe in His arms
'Cause the hands that hold the world are holding your heart
This is the promise He made
He will be with You always
When everything is falling apart
You will be safe in His arms"
I just know safe doesn't always mean safe in the way that I want it.