I kind of hate this time of year. There are too many reasons to remember things that sometimes feel much better being forgotten.
I have been pregnant three times. Each time, I found out in late December/early January. Life is funny (or actually dreadfully unfunny) that way. Each of my last two pregnancies have ended with a baby to snuggle. Each have arrived in late August/early September. Both are wonderful joys.
But not my first.
My first ended with no baby to snuggle. The first time I was pregnant, I found out on January 11, 2010. By February 24, 2010, our child had died. Now, all those days constantly remind me of what was. I remember my husband kissing our belly and saying, "I love you," when we first knew of our child's existence. I remember walking hand-in-hand to our first ultrasound, joyous to see a heartbeat...which we never saw. I remember feeling robbed of a life we had started planning. I remember people trying to say the right things, some succeeding...most failing.
I remember.
My whole body remembers.
It has remembered every detail with each of my two subsequent pregnancies. They followed the same timeline, same due dates approximately, same milestones. Every ultrasound a terrible reminder. Every heartbeat heard with joy and sorrow. Every child born with the hope I would never stop remembering and yet dying to forget.
I know I have the hope of the resurrection. I know I do not mourn like those who have no hope.
I know those things.
When friends I know have lost children or I am told of a miscarriage, I answer with those things. Those words are needed.
But so is the freedom to just mourn. This is a freedom our culture tries to steal away from parents who have suffered through miscarriages. I refuse to let them steal it away from me. I will cry. I will remember. I will talk about it.
My child deserves to be remembered. Every child does.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
