together

Short and Precious

In a world where people seem to be always searching for ways to prolong their lives, I have been learning to find preciousness in the very short lives of my children.

This November, I had the privilege to practice, yet again, the art of having hope and joy in adverse circumstances.

I found out I was pregnant on October 16th. I felt good, confident that this pregnancy would work. As per my normal approach, we told family soon, as well as several friends who I knew would support me and my husband in prayer. I anticipated needing support, because being pregnant after miscarriage, let alone stillbirth, is a complicated, scary thing.

On November 2nd we chose a name, Ariel Joy. Lion of God; Joy

November 4th, I went to hospital in an ambulance, experiencing heavy bleeding. My friend and pastor went with me. My husband, and later her husband too, met us at the hospital.

There were various tests and checks. The obstetrician’s eyes were flooded with compassion as he held my hand and confirmed that it was indeed a miscarriage. Ariel Joy had gone to live with her brothers, Jeremiah and Theodore John.

Among it all, I had unexplainable peace. To be truthful, I was very surprised to miscarry this baby. Things felt different this time, and I truly believed that I would be raising this child.

It has greatly helped me to already be sure that my first two children are safely and joyfully living in heaven. Ariel has joined my sons in their glorious home. She is not lost to me.

As I have said to one or two friends, “Ariel has moved from my womb into my heart.”

Ariel’s short life is precious to me and treasured by me. I look forward to the day when I get to hold her in my arms at last, to cradle her against me, to feel her warm breath on my neck.

Ariel’s life, like the lives of her brothers before her, is short and precious.

And God? He is good.

Together

Yesterday I was reminded of a beautiful conversation with a four year old girl. This little conversation happened a couple of days after Theodore was born.

To give it a bit of background: after the miscarriage which happened in 2012, I struggled to think of the baby as anything more than a miscarried pregnancy. After all, we had never even seen him. Though we had decided to call the baby Jeremiah, we never referred to him as such. Rather, I thought of him predominantly as “the miscarried baby”.

The four year old I had the conversation with knew about Jeremiah. All through my pregnancy with Theodore, each time she saw me she would pat my tummy and say, “The other baby died. But this one’s not dead.” It was really funny and actually refreshing to have things stated so plainly.

On this occasion, two days after Theodore’s birth, sitting in church (because being at home without a baby two days after giving birth is surreal and awful), this girl was sitting on my lap.

“The baby died.”

“Yes, that’s right, Theodore died.”

“The other baby died too.” (As she is patting my arm.)

“Yes, he did.”

“Now they are both in heaven together.”

Wow. I wish I could put into words how that last sentence made me feel. It was like comfort was poured into my heart and like my whole world lit up with the joy of thinking of them together.

Two brothers, together.

One of my midwives said to me that maybe part of Theodore’s purpose was to help me heal after the loss of Jeremiah, and I think that is true.

Since having Theodore, Jeremiah is no longer referred to as “the miscarried baby”. Now, he is always referred to by name.

And whenever I close my eyes and picture them, they are always together.