I was scrolling my Facebook “on this day” memories just now, trying to wake up my eyes for THIS day, when I came across this one from four years ago.
At the time, I shared no words with it.
First of all- I had no words then.
I had no hope of my own.
What I had was this persistent desire to have another baby, that try as I might I couldn’t get to go away, and yet every time we tried for another-
and got pregnant-
the pregnancies would fail.
We had lost 5 trying.
And my hope of another was GONE.
My ability to get my hopes up just done.
When I lost the last baby, the 5th one,
many people were there to comfort me.
But nobody dared say the words “try again”.
I don’t know if I would have said them to me either.
But I never will forget one of my friend’s words in the comments of the post I shared about having lost our baby.
She said something like “I’m so sorry, Daylene, my heart is broken for you. I’ll be praying for you when the time is right and you decide to try again.”
{Paraphrasing here because it’s been a lot of years, and because I don’t remember exactly to the T what she said- but I never will forget how it made me feel.}
The first thought that crossed my mind was “Bless your heart, honey, I’m not sure why on Earth you think I’d put my heart on the line again. Enough is enough. You must think I’m strong, but I can’t take one more. I have tried everything now. I can’t muster up one more ounce of hope. I’m just going to focus on the two I have, count my blessings, let go of my losses, and be done.”
Most seemed to agree with those sentiments.
2 is a blessing.
5 is a lot of losses.
Protect that heart,
put those dreams away in a drawer.
As a mother who has had so many losses,
one thing I usually advise others is not to comment in those kinds of ways to a bereaved parent.
It doesn’t matter how many children she already has, it doesn’t matter how far along her pregnancy was, it doesn’t matter if the baby was planned or a surprise… none of that matters to a grieving heart, and your trying to make sense of it or make light of it to her doesn’t help. And sometimes it causes more hurt.
So normally I steer clear of any comments besides “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“My heart hurts for you.” (It always does.)
“I will be praying for you.” (I do.)
I would also tell people that the fact that they comment— (again, a simple “my heart is aching for you” will do, or “I’m praying for you” (if you genuinely are)— or put a care symbol on the grief post)—DOES matter. The person might not respond, but they see it. To a mother of miscarriage, most times there is no funeral. So a post sort of takes the place of one. It’s how she’s expressing her loss to the world, mourning the dreams that have died along with her baby, and it’s an opportunity to express your condolences and support of her.
Doing so — even while understanding that she may not be ready for actual visitors, and she may not even be ready to carrry on a conversation via text or messenger- helps her know she is not alone. That it mattered to more than just her. That she matters. I cannot understate this for those who have not gone through it. It’s just as important to say SOMETHING simple and thoughtful, react in some (sensitive) way, as it is not to try to figure it out for her or say something stupid and insensitive.
I myself would typically not use the words “next time” or talk about trying again, in the comments of someone’s post about having lost a baby.
But on that day, my friend Kara gave me a gift.
Permission to hope again.
Affirmation that even if the rest of the whole world might think I was crazy, even if I thought it was too risky, at least one person would be on my side should I decide to go that route and risk heartbreak yet again- in pursuit of this promise I could feel, against all logic, in my soul.
I tucked that hope away for awhile.
I didn’t throw it away,
but I wasn’t ready to take it out just yet.
Later, 4 years ago on this day, I pulled it out.
It was time to put it back on.
And that’s when I truly learned
that hope doesn’t have to be something of our own
that we muster up.
{Hope has a name and it is Jesus.}
Hope doesn’t have to FEEL like confidence.
{In fact, when you decide to let Jesus take the wheel and you allow yourself to be vulnerable in believing for something He is showing you, that is in total opposition to what the natural shows is possible… it feels like fear. The opposite of self-confidence. It’s 100% placing your heart in God’s hands. It’s risking your heart.}
But this morning, as I’m seeing this message again,
“When the world says ‘Give up”
Hope whispers ‘Try it one more time”,
I’m so glad that I did.
(More accurately I’m glad I allowed Jesus to place His hope inside of me, when I had absolutely zero of my own left.)
Because the almost-three-year old boy laying next to me, in the middle of me and his dad, is the result of that “trusting again.”
And as much – back then- as I almost couldn’t bear to think about losing one more pregnancy,
putting myself in a position to grieve again if it went wrong,
Now- God has erased all of that pain from my heart.
He helped me get through by positioning myself in praise my entire pregnancy with him.
And he helped me see- like REALLY see-
that every day
with baby C and my other 2
is a GIFT from Him.
Even the Hope itself- that was a gift. ❤️
And this morning He encouraged me-
“Don’t be afraid to encourage someone else with it.” “Imagine if your friend didn’t.”
From Full 