Holy Week was emotionally exhausting. Some good friends, 38 weeks into a healthy pregnancy, lost their first child. The funeral was probably the saddest and yet most joyful I've ever been to. Our hearts go out to them and I ask you all to join me in praying for the family of Caleb Benedict.
For Travis and I it brought to the surface many, many feelings of sorrow and grief. Watching our friends grieve while placing their hope in God took us back to the first hours, days, and weeks of the NICU while also speaking to exactly where we are now. Balancing questions and worry with blind faith in a good God.
But our friends' loss made me hurt for Peter more than I have for a long, long time. It has always been hard for me that Peter's body - only about 4 weeks old - was just "broken down" by my body and then passed. I wish I could have held his body, studied this fingers and toes and lips, memorized his size and shape in my arms. I wish I could have breathed his scent, washed his body, dressed him in special clothes. I wish I could have given him a dignified burial.
Because it is one of my favorite posts I am reposting below something I wrote in January 2010.
January is the month that our first child, Peter, was due to be born. The 15th was his official due date, and it was a day that came and went without tears, just a brief acknowledgement that it was here and he wasn't.
I know that if Peter would have survived then Lydia would not be here, which is a tricky truth.
I bring him up, not for condolences, but because I want you to remember him the same way I do. He is always present to me as a great litany of questions and imagined features, giggles and hugs.
I suppose, more than anything, I want people to be more compassionate to mothers who have miscarried and to their families. I still grieve for the child I never knew.