The months following my miscarriage were traumatic, to say the least. I had no energy, no motivation to do anything - all I could do was cry. I cried for days and days, and the well of my tears never ran dry. People - well-meaning people all told me that it would get better, I should stop crying, 'It is well' and so on. I scoffed at them. How could it ever be well again? I know people face tragedies even worse than what I experienced, but this was the worst thing that had ever happened to me. To imagine that the human being growing inside me, who was alive and well just the day before had just stopped breathing? It was hard to fathom. I wondered endlessly whether he suffered...when there was no longer any way for him to breathe. I wondered if he struggled futilely for life before finally giving up. I tortured myself with thoughts like these. Maybe if I hadn't seen him afterwards, it might have been easier...maybe.
I was angry at God - "If You knew I would lose this baby, why did you bother bringing him in the first place?"; at my husband - "Don't tell me to stop crying. You just don't understand how I feel. Yes, I know it was your child too, but he was inside me!"; at my Dr - "She ought to have known better, she should have put me on bed-rest or something." I didn't feel like going to church anymore, so I stopped. I had a very valid reason - I was still physically drained from my ordeal. I stopped praying - what good did prayer do, if you still pray and bad things happen? Daily, I wet my pillow with my tears, still nothing changed.
After a few weeks of avoiding church, I couldn't avoid it anymore, so I started going. My first visit to church lasted all of ten minutes. During the worship session, I suddenly burst into tears - huge, body-wracking sobs. The choir was singing a song about God's faithfulness and it just didn't compute. If He was so faithful, why didn't he answer me?! My friend and neighbor graciously took me home. Subsequent visits were hardly better - I burst into tears at the sight of a baby carriage; my heart broke when I saw pregnant women and their firm, round bellies. 'Why me?' I screamed silently, but no one heard me. No one except Him.
Eventually, I was able to attend a full church service, but my heart wasn't in it. I danced to the praise music, but I was just moving my body. I raised my hands in worship but my heart was not engaged. I laughed when people came up and talked about the importance of prayer. I scoffed when people testified of how God answered prayer because I knew - I knew better than anyone else that God had favorites, and I was clearly not one of them. Why bother?
I don't even know when all this changed. I can't pinpoint the exact moment when God delivered me from the slippery slope I was on. I just know that one day I asked myself "So, what if God decides that I'll never have biological children. What if this is my first and last pregnancy?" It was a hard question, because the dream of my heart since I can remember is to have children. Preferably lots of them.
That was the moment I realized that God's purpose/will does not revolve around my physical comfort - the comforts of this life, the things I pray for, the things I want. Sometimes, the will of God for me may require me to face hardness, trials - why else would Paul have told Timothy to endure hardness as a good soldier of Christ? (2Tim 2:2-4). I realized then that this would not be the last challenge I would face in life - this would not be the last time I would cry. I decided that my faith would not...could not fail because I lost my unborn child.
God's love slowly - very slowly - but surely drew me back into His arms. I knew then that I had to find a way to live - really live and enjoy the life God has given me. I knew then that I would continue praying and asking God for my heart's desires. I knew that even though I would cry if He said 'No', ultimately, my life is in His hands. I surrendered control when I asked Jesus into my heart...and I could not be in better hands.