All Saints and Ghost Babies

November 1 was a rainy, cold day. Like many of you, I had what can only be described as a sugar hangover, the consequence of indulging too freely in the Halloween candy which was acquired from neighbors by my little elephant and little purple dragon the night before. 

 November 1 was also All Saints Day. Traditionally, the church held this as a day to recognize and remember not only the martyrs of the Christian faith whose blood helped to carry the church along, but to remember all those Christians who have led us, taught us, been examples to us, and gone to be with Jesus. On this day we reflect upon the “great cloud of witnesses” which surrounds us and encourages us. (Heb 12:1).

          

 There is nothing like looking one more time at the pictures of those who have died. The memories come, and with them the happy but sad knot that wells up in your throat and your stomach. Suddenly life feels like sand slipping through your fingers, like someone has pulled the rug out from under your feet. It is hard to put into words, even for this writer who dwells always in a cacophony of word-related delight.

This year I realized, for the very first time, that I know a lot of dead people. Until recently, my dead grandparents held a cherished place in my heart, but their deadness was a very far away thing; a very unique and unusual thing. Over these past years, I have seen many more join them, including two great uncles and a cherished aunt who all made their way to heaven last month within days of each other. Death has come a bit closer to me.

As I looked out the window at the sloppy wet leaves covering the driveway and sidewalk, I was hit by a grief-wave reminder. Death has come a bit closer to me not just by these relatives, but in my own home, in my own womb not too long ago.

            

We had a miscarriage in July. It was not the first time, but that did not make it any less strange or painful. It was very early in pregnancy, but this also did not make it any less strange or painful. We were not expecting to get pregnant, but again, this did not make it any less strange or painful. We have two healthy boys already, but this too did not make it any less strange or painful.

            

Statistics tells us that most women will have a miscarriage or several of them throughout the course of their life. Why is it that we hear so little about it? I have no scientific explanation for the quietness that surrounds miscarriage, but I can tell you why it simply had to be a lonely silence for me as I walked through it.

            

When I found I was pregnant, I was stunned, which is pretty much always the case went you aren’t expecting it. Surprise quickly turned into enormous excitement because THERE IS GOING TO BE ANOTHER BABY, and my friends, there is just no way to not be excited about that!

            

Hormones began to rage. I began to crave celery with grapes and blue cheese. Strange. The July heat led to headaches and nausea, part of the bitter sweetness of building a little person inside of you. We began to talk about how exhausted we already are with two boys, and how we might never sleep again. We began to cautiously dream of a quiet, soft, sweet little girl who would sleep through the night, snuggle with pink teddy bears, and generally not be another rough and tumble little boy.

So you begin to hope and dream, to imagine doctor appointments, labor, little fingers and little toes, curls and the smell of newborn skin. Big brothers. You experience the profound flicker of new life, the sense of wonder which makes you float like a balloon. And then, suddenly, the flicker goes out, like trying to light a match in the rain.

Anger comes, and part of me couldn’t help feeling like God was a big mean bully dangling a piece of the best candy ever in front of my face, only to snatch it away when I was just about to taste it. My prayer life for a while consisted only of the question – God, what in the world was the point of this rollercoaster ride?

           

Sadness and depression also came, and I walked around for weeks feeling like one big raw nerve ending exposed to the elements. Everything hurt, and something as soft as the wind blowing could send me into tears. More than anything else, I was tired.

            

A few people knew, and I coveted their prayers, knowing the waves could easily sweep me away, and someone ought to be praying for me. Yet for the most part, I kept it to myself, like most women do.

            

Why do we do this? Because while suffering alone is terrifying, it is preferable to suffering in public. There are a lot of things that I will put right out there for everyone to see, like my testimony of being a drunken drug addicted spiritually bankrupt fool until I was redeemed by Jesus thank you God.

            

But unlike testimony, which might help others, the thought of airing this searing pain in public was enough to send me running for the hills. All I had was a heavy sadness and a sense of blank emptiness – not only spiritually and emotionally, but literally physically too. I suffered in silence mainly because I had two little T-shirts in a bag under the bathroom sink (along with the positive pregnancy test) that both said “BIG BROTHER,” and I had been waiting for the right moment to put them on the boys and send them to see their grandparents. (The shirts are still there – I’m not ready to deal with that yet).

I didn’t want to talk about it because I had nothing to say, nothing but an overwhelming sense of nothing and stupid injustice and hateful death in a broken stupid Fallen world of misery.

Several months later I still don’t like it, but with grace I finally have enough acceptance that I think it could be helpful to others who suffer in silence.

It still feels unfair and really sad. But here is what I know – Scripture tells us that eternal life with Jesus is a real thing. Our little phantom baby of July is with Jesus, and with the rest of the Saints – and that is far more than I ever could have given that little one here.

            

C.S. Lewis says this: “We are very shy nowadays of even mentioning heaven. We are afraid of the jeer about ‘pie in the sky’, and of being told that we are trying to ‘escape’ from the duty of making a happy world here and now into dreams of a happy world elsewhere. But either there is ‘pie in the sky’ or there is not. If there is not, then Christianity is false, for this doctrine is woven into its whole fabric.”

            

Right you are, Mr. Lewis. While I don’t know what the other side looks like, I know that Jesus has my children – all of them, the ones on earth and the ones in that happy place with Him. God’s ways are not my own, because I want my babies, all of them, with me, today and forever, for my selfish enjoyment. His ways are better. 

            
Maybe you know someone who is silently suffering with the pain of a phantom baby. Maybe instead of trying to be helpful or offering her rational comforts, you can give her this article, and leave her to lay in bed in all her emptiness. We have to live in that empty place for a time. She will come out of it, because God is full of grace, and because ultimately we mothers can’t help but come to the conclusion that we, in all our motherliness, are not the Savior, and in truth it is at once sad, but restful and wonderful to know that He holds our little ones.