It strikes at the most unexpected moments. That pang in your gut when you want so badly to bring the children you have lost back to life…bring them to your breakfast table…yet you know it can’t happen. At least not yet.
The lump in my throat. The tightness in my breath.
Selfishly I just want to hold them. I want to whisper in their tiny ears, “Mommy and Daddy love you so much.” To comfort them when they cry. To inhale the scent of their soft skin. To study their perfect and unique little faces.
This morning I had one of these moments.
It has been two years since our last miscarriage. Two sweet years of healing and resting. But not absent of longing.
As I sipped my black coffee, this was my thought progression. “Wow, Coleton and Annabelle are really sleeping in today! Thank you, Lord for the rain! But strangely I want to go get them up; they’re so sweet in the morning.”
That’s when the bag of bricks hit me from out of the blue.
I will never get to lift the babies we lost out of their cribs in the morning. I will never get to see their sleepy morning eyes. Never get to see their excited, dry smile as they jump up and down with a huge poofy diaper, so excited to start a new day.
I mean, maybe in heaven. But will they be babies? How old are babies who died in heaven? Surely they aren’t still preemies. Surely they are full and complete, whole and well. Happy and healthy. Jumping for joy in the most wonderful of ways.
It will someday be perfect, I know. My heavenly home is bursting at the seams with laughter and curls and children everywhere!
My six littles aren’t missing out on a thing, but I am.
I’m so grateful that they were spared pain and tears and every ounce of suffering, but I wasn’t.
So this morning, there are tears in my coffee.
Does this happen to anyone else? When did it hit you?