I have been staring at a blinking cursor for a few minutes now, knowing all the words I have on my heart, but also feeling the weight of reliving them. Suffering is deep and personal. But, while suffering together is difficult, I have learned that there is almost no greater pain than suffering alone.
When my husband and I moved to Colorado last July, I was pregnant — not only with excitement, but also with our first child. Our heads were filled with dreams of how we would set up our new home to make space for the baby, what our spring adventures could look like with a newborn, and even what type of insurance plan would make the most sense for our growing family.
We had our first doctors’ appointment the week we moved here, and we were told it was an abnormal pregnancy, and we should expect to lose the baby soon. So, in the midst of starting a new job in a new city where we knew no one, I was filled with anxiety about waiting for the coming loss. I spent lunches alone in my car crying, already mourning this child before she was even gone.
At the follow up appointment two weeks later, we were told even scarier things about the rare type of pregnancy they feared it might be. There were signs that it was a “molar” pregnancy, a word I am now far too familiar with. The baby had no heartbeat, no further development. It was too risky to wait any longer; I would need surgery as soon as possible — this type of pregnancy forms a tumor inside of you and can become very dangerous. I don’t remember much, just things my doctor said like, “in case of too much blood loss,” “possible chemo,” and, “not being able to start a family.” I was scared. I was heartbroken. I spent the next few days waiting for the surgery, still having morning sickness, still feeling exhausted, still feeling like my body was preparing to be a mom.
The day of my surgery, I almost breathed a sigh of relief – and then felt guilty for that feeling of relief. It had been almost a month after receiving our initial news, and all the waiting was agonizing. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to move forward. That same day, my husband received word that his grandpa had passed away. He left that weekend to be with his family and attend the funeral, which means I was alone when I received a phone call that my pregnancy did come back as molar, and I would need to return to the doctor right away.
I’ve never felt such intense pain and loneliness — the kind you feel deep in your belly, that almost makes (or maybe does make) you physically sick. Again, I feared for the future, for my future, for my family’s future. But mostly, I was tired of feeling this extreme longing for what was supposed to be.
“The pain, the suffering, the heartache, the longing were all still there. But God was there, too.”
My husband and I visited a church soon after my surgery. I was still feeling so out of place in my own skin, betrayed by my body. Visiting a new church in such a painful, disoriented season was difficult, but we were desperate for any form of community. Right after the first service we attended, a couple immediately approached us and began talking with us. When they said, “I know this is fast, but we would love to have you over for dinner,” we both gave a quick YES! This couple soon asked to mentor us, all before knowing this was the greatest need we had during that time. The wife asked necessary questions that pushed me to face my grief. We felt like we had never connected with a church so quickly and naturally. How had this community form around us so fast? It felt like the most meaningful gift God could’ve given us.
Then, over the next six months, God slowly began showing me how much I matter; showing me that he sees me. It’s often hard to feel these moments when you’re in the middle of living them, but time and time again Adonai el roi, the God who sees me, has shown up — in the deepest moments of pain, and beyond. In the nights I spent in bed begging God to do something because the pain was too much. In the days pleading with God to give us friends and take away our loneliness. In the moments I wanted to shut myself away from the world, wanting to live in bitter envy of other growing families. In the longings, when all I wanted was to snuggle my baby girl and never let her go. God told me: I see you. I will take care of you. And he has.
The pain, the suffering, the heartache, the longing were all still there. But God was there, too.
My twin sister just had her first baby, about a month before I should’ve had mine. It’s strange how you can feel such joy and such pain in one moment. How can both coexist? It doesn’t make much sense.
If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that grief itself doesn’t make much sense. It can hit you out of nowhere, even on your best days. Grief is not linear. There’s no straight line from beginning to end with simple steps along the way until you make it to the finish line. It’s mountains and valleys, with breathtaking views and the darkest of nights all along the way. But God sees us in both.
I still think about Lydia, our baby, every day — most often with wonder. What would she have been like? Who would she have looked like? Would she have liked school, like her mom? Or been a troublemaker, like her dad? Some days I am filled with this deep desire for her to be our daughter here on this earth. To hold her, to raise her, to watch her play sports or do ballet or join the marching band.
But that is not my story. Right now, my story is filled with doctors’ appointments, blood work, monitoring this tumor, and still no option yet for our future family or what that may look like.
My story is also filled with hiking through the Rocky Mountains, gatherings around a campfire, playing board games with my husband by candlelight, and experimenting with new recipes in the kitchen. Both stories can be true. Some days my heart feels the weight of the first story, and that’s okay. Suffering is a part of this life. Knowing that the story of grief and pain can walk side by side with the story of joy and restoration is what has made all the difference.
Following is a poem I wrote in prayer. It feels like a dream — and an important part of this story.
Lydia
I picture your tiny little fingers
moving without cause
Your squinty hazel eyes
looking around in awe
Your dad holding you close
telling you how lovely you are
never wanting to let you go
never letting himself stray far
the first time you smile
and it taking our breath away
laying you down at night
but never wanting to walk away
Then you take your first steps
and we watch you grow so fast
Now we read you a story before bed
and wonder how so much time has passed
Pretty soon you don’t need a night light
You tell us you’re a big girl now
But when a scary storm takes the night
You snuggle up between us and you’re out
It feels like we just woke up from that sleep
Then suddenly you’re playing soccer and wearing braces
– Sorry,
You got that from me.
But you got your confidence and courage from you dad
maybe a little bit of his stubbornness too
still you’re the best big sister anyone could have
thanks for teaching little brother how to tie his shoes
Now the whole family is in the crowd
as we support big sister in her homecoming game
we aren’t ready for you to leave us yet
from the stands we chant your name
Lydia! Go Lydia!
our beautiful one, our noble one
our one who fights for what’s right
our one who brings about more fun
our one who is the keeper of such light
Lydi girl, your dad and I know it’s time to say goodbye
Now it’s on to your next adventure
And we’ll watch as you take on the world in the sky
