The Answer

I think of the one who delivered a stillborn baby girl at 36 weeks, to only miscarry two babies six months later. Then, the one who struggled with unexplained infertility for three or four years. Or the one who’s miscarried twice as often as she’s given birth. And still not forgetting the one who waits to know if the empty will ever be made full.

So I was wrong when I wrote earlier that the why doesn’t bother me, doesn’t wrestle with me in my dreams, doesn’t make me feel like each one drew the short straw. The uneasiness constricts my chest a little too tightly.

Maybe I stopped breathing when our questions, our uncertainties about Reed, were diagnosed with a name. Because Reed has a rare genetic make-up that explains his current delays and will likely present him with life-long challenges. The details are too new, the news still too raw, to share more specifics. But we’ve cried those salty tears of grief, all the while searching for hope.

Why is this our struggle, ours alone to stumble through? This answer helps me breathe again: you may not have the emotional stamina to walk through this with us if it was your struggle, too. I’ve walked with each one — the stillbirth, the infertility, and the miscarriages — giving out of my open spaces because my heart hadn’t been constricted in that way by that pain. Now, I’m thankful for those who may not know experientially our heartache but who have the open spaces to bring us in and hold us up.

Our hope stands on tiptoes, peering over this wall of hurt, and we see the most important things are still the most important. Love God. Love others. Our hope finds sure footing in open-hearted friends, in research knowledge and specialists, in the circling up of God-given community, and in the assurance that He will work even this out for good.