Remembering Our Babies

Tonight I join millions of mothers across the world who are lighting candles in memory of a baby (or babies) they've lost either before, during, or shortly after giving birth to them. At 7 pm in every time zone, for at least one hour, we are remembering our babies.

I took two small, new candles, fresh from their wrappers, both similar but each unique, and inhaled their wonderful fragrance. One was buttercream, the other strawberry with buttercream. They represented my babies, Joy Christine and Hope Kathryn. I know for a fact that the first baby I lost was a girl (the pathologist's report noted two X's). The second is only conjecture, but in my heart she has always been a girl.
The dates I said goodbye to them: December 31, 1996, and September 13, 1999, respectively.

At 7 pm this evening, in barefeet, shorts and Paul's brown Myrtle Beach T-shirt, I stepped outside into the brisk autumn air. I carried my candles to the front porch railing, tears already streaming down my face. I then went back into the house for my camera, came out for a photo of my little lights, and sat down in the rocker.

I was alone (Paul is in California on business), but I didn't feel alone. Just like when I lost my babies, I knew that others grieved with me, and some understood firsthand the pain of losing a baby before seeing her face. Tonight I gave thanks for fertility, having known it so well that some people made fun of me, and for having known infertility for awhile later in life. I gave thanks for my four living children, and thanked God for sustaining me through the loss of the other two. For teaching me the difference between wanting a child and demanding a child. For proving to me that I am not in control; He is. And that He is good, no matter what.

He gives and takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

The candles flickered in the wind. How long would they shine in the womblike darkness of this night?

My voice cracked as I tried to sing a prayer to God from my aching heart.

You are my King... and my God...
You love me and ...you're holding my babies
...oh so tenderly..
just like you're ...holding me...
my Savior, Beautiful Jesus, thank You...
for giving me babies...
some to keep ...and some to give...
Lights of joy...and hope...

I rocked and watched the tiny flames fight for breath.

A smoldering reed He will not snuff out. I remembered that verse given to me from a friend who had had six miscarriages. At the time I lost my first baby, I was struggling to believe that I would not die from grief. I felt like a dying ember, and that God was about to snuff out every last ounce of life from my baby and me. It felt like a punishment which I knew I deserved for all my sins past and present, and yet I screamed, "Don't take my baby, God! Take something else, just let me keep my baby!"

And that is when I realized my personal pronouns were amiss and that I was believing a lie. This baby was not mine. This baby was His. He could lend this baby to me if He wanted, and He could take it back whenever He wanted. The taking was not punishment on me; Jesus had already taken all the punishment at the cross for me. Satan was trying to tell me that One Sacrifice was not enough, that I had to give my child up to death as well. That I should suffer over and over till maybe someday God would accept my tears as payment for my sins. It was such screwy thinking from the pit of hell! Oh, how I hate Satan, and oh, how I love Jesus!

The deep understanding I reaped from the experience of losing the first baby prepared me tremendously for our second loss. We were on vacation at my sister's, and the physical signs I began to notice the first day there pointed to one thing: miscarriage. I cried and told Paul. He held me close to his chest, quietly; what a comfort to hear your husband's heart beating into your ear when you think your baby's heartbeat may have stopped. I lay in bed thinking of whom I'd invite to a funeral on our deck, and if that was too sappy or weird, because there is no coffin, no body, no picture, no shared memories. I decided I didn't want to risk the awkwardness. I would deal with it privately. Within a few days we were in the ER, bidding farewell. But this time I was at peace. The pain did not eclipse my awareness of God's presence. This time I felt He was suffering with me over the wages of sin, the consequences that all people suffer in a broken world: death. I felt a measure of God's heart as a parent this time. He understood separation and loss better than anyone.

As I sat in my rocker, I watched the wind blow out first one candle and then the other. It was all over. I looked up at the sky, the half moon surrounded by a white glow. Mama is the part everyone sees; baby is gone from sight, but still there.

And in the stillness, You are there,
God.
And you are here.
Thank You .