I’ve been feeling the impulse to cry, a lot. I miss my baby boy. His birthday would have been close to this season of life. It amazes me to see how far we’ve come in this journey of grief, and yet there are moments when I feel like I am still that bereft woman who wants to scream for her baby.
I keep thinking about the way he would look when he sleeps, and about how sweet he would smell after a bath.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds; instead I think that we simply learn how to numb our wounds, or how to adapt to our wounds.
After 16 years of grieving for my daughter that I miscarried, I had settled into acceptance. I miss her at times, but my loss of her no longer consumed every waking moment of my day. I am still her mother, even if I don’t shed a tear for her every day.
The depth of my grief this time still takes me by surprise. I don’t grieve Samuel’s death more; but it’s a newer grief. I am still mourning the death of the dreams and expectations that we would have had for him and beside him.
I confess that there are moments when my arms physically ache to hold a baby. I remember the same phenomenon after my first miscarriage; and I was told by my grief recovery group that it’s common.
There’s a fine line between being honest and sincere with my grief and being consumed by it.
If I filter life through the lens of my grief; if I am consumed with my loss, then I will become obsessed with control and I will unknowingly begin to push my dearest ones away from me.
If I filter life through the lens of all that I have lost, I will become bitter and isolated.
If I filter life through the lens of denial and put on a false face of bravado; I will become deceitful and over-busy.
If, instead, I unflinchingly admit that I am grieving; if I openly confess that I miss my baby boy as I look to God and ask him to walk beside me through the pain, then I filter life through the lens of His love for me. I cling to the reality that He carries me through my grief.
The following song captures our journey:
A bit ago, I took this picture. To me, it was a vivid reminder that my Grandpapa and Aunt Ann are in Heaven alongside my sweet babies.
Today, may we see life through the filter of His love for us…and heal.