“Come Here…”

February 12^th. For the last 3 years, this has been a day of remembrance for me. A day to remember the babes that didn’t make it to term. The ones who never opened their eyes to the sunshine or breathed Earth air. My little Tayten Shalom and Lael Grace. But this year, something is different. It will be the first time since I lost my babies that I face the day with another baby in my arms. A baby that another woman brought into the world. One that I love as my own, but whose forever future in my arms is yet uncertain. And it feels strange somehow. A mixture of grief and joy as past and present collide. Reflecting on the journey that has brought me from that day to this has left me in awe, when I consider the depths that God has raised me from. When I consider the treasure I found in the midst of what I lost.

Three years ago on this day, I was sitting in a doctor’s office. Sitting because there was no possible way I could stand. Struggling to breathe as the words were spoken. Words so final. So unreal. “There is no heartbeat.” In fact, it was calculated that my little Tayten had slipped away 2 weeks before. Without my body even noticing. Without me even noticing. How was that possible? How had it happened? What had I done? I didn’t know in that moment that only a few months later, the exact same situation would play out again and this time we would say good-bye to Lael. And I’m glad I couldn’t see the future or I don’t think I could have gone on another day.

Shock. Denial. Bone-crushing grief. As, I slipped through the stages, fluidly weaving my way back and forth through grief , I finally came to anger. I was so angry. I felt betrayed. Abandoned by God. Angry that He had done nothing to stop this from happening. I felt He had broken my trust and I was left empty, bereft of hope, unable to see through the dark. I stopped praying, except to ask “why?” again and again and then to vent my fury at His silence. I stopped trying to find comfort in the pages of His Word, where I had been sustained through terrible loss before. This time was different, somehow, I thought. This time it’s gone too far.

After losing my mother when I was 17, I thought that it would be her presence that I would have pined for the most while walking through this loss. What surprised me, however, was that it was my father’s presence I longed for. I wanted nothing more than to see my father with arms outstretched and to hear him say “Come here, baby girl. I’ve got you.” To feel the strength and comfort that his embrace had to offer. To know the kind of fierce protectiveness of a daddy for his daughter. To have an anchor in this storm. My relationship with my own father in reality is rather distant. His response to my news was dismissive and far from healing. Instead his indifference only added wounds to my already battered heart. So, I found myself longing for something that would never be. For a father I would never have.

For a time I was merely adrift in a sea of restless grief, but then slowly, painfully slowly, the fog began to clear. The emotions were exhausting and no answers were to be found there, so I turned instead to my intellect and reason. I would find an answer. Something logical. There had to be a way to know. And while the medical world couldn’t seem to give me answers, I would search out why God could allow such a thing to happen. I wanted Him to answer for His betrayal. And by searching, I started down the path that would lead me out of the vale of shadows and into the light of the living again.

It would take too long to explain all the remarkable things I discovered in my searching, but suffice it to say that this journey changed my life forever. Even in my anger, I never doubted the existence of God, only His goodness. In order to trust someone, you must know them and in order to know them, you must know about them, so out of necessity, I found myself immersed in the Word of God. And the start of any search must start at the beginning. So, I searched for the beginning of knowledge. And what I found blew me away. Proverbs 1:7 says “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge, But fools despise wisdom and instruction.” I read those words and suddenly felt as Job must have when the Almighty answered him or Isaiah did when he saw the Lord on His throne. I was undone. Not condemned, for I truly believe that God would rather our honesty with Him than our indifference, but humbled beyond words. In my grief, I had lost the fear of the Lord – the reverence, the awe at Who He is – and in the process I had lost my “sight”. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge. And I recognized what my anger had done. It had put me in the place of judge and jury. I, who have no control over the number of my days or the hairs on my head, had demanded the Creator answer me. In that moment, I felt crushed; all my anger disappeared and I was left in humble awe and strangely quieted, despite the turmoil that had been wrapped my soul for weeks.

From this quiet place, the Good Shepherd restored my soul, leading me by way of the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5 – a passage I had read dozens of times and even memorized – but as I read it that day, it was like reading it for the first time. Suddenly, verse 4 leaped off the page and it felt as though it physically grabbed me. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Comforted. I dug deeper. Further study revealed that the original Greek word for “comforted” used here was the word “parakaleo”. But it was the meaning of the word that left me breathless. It was so much more than just being consoled or having someone attempt to ease your grief. It means “to call near, invite – to beseech/call for comfort”. I read those words and suddenly I could see – my Heavenly Father, standing there arms outstretched, speaking the very words my heart longed to hear. “Come here, Baby Girl. I’ve got you.” Questions fell away. Grief was enveloped in the embrace of perfect Love. And in that hallowed moment, I found the answer to a question I did not know I had been asking. I discovered God as Abba – Father. And I felt cherished as I never have.

I’d like to say that everything was peachy after that and that the pain of losing my children was less poignant, but that wouldn’t be true. That isn’t the nature of the waves of grief. But, one thing is true – I knew I was not alone. Yes, I had the support and love of my wonderful husband and family and friends, but this went far deeper. Abba understood on a far more intimate level than anyone else what it was to lose a Son. And even more, He understood me. I knew that even if I did not have the answer to “why?” I had the Love of the One who did. And that was enough to get me through the day. And the next. Each day a deeper discovery of the heart of the Father. Each discovery, the building of a greater trust. So, that when the second loss hit, I was not shattered beyond repair, because I already knew Who could make something beautiful of the pieces.

I honestly believe that it was this road to discovery that allowed me to open my heart to the possibility of becoming a foster parent. Now, that I began to know my Abba’s heart, I felt His call, asking me to open my arms wide. I will miss Tayten and Lael until the day I get to see their beautiful faces, but for now, I have been called to let another little head rest on my shoulder. Another tiny hand clasp mine. Another little heart steal mine. To snuggle and whisper the healing words “Come here. I’ve got you,” to another child in need of His Love. Because after “Come here”, comes the command “Follow Me”. Love like that isn’t meant to be hoarded. It’s meant to overwhelm, to spill over like a flood. It has allowed me to do something I never thought possible – to open my heart and be vulnerable, to chance getting hurt. To hold a child in my heart and my arms, knowing that tomorrow I may have to say goodbye. To allow their lives to be changed by taking a part of my heart with them wherever they may end up. To extend grace, support, and compassion to birth family and shine the Light of Christ into their dark places. Knowing that if not for His Light in my own life, I could be walking along similar paths. So, that like the children of my womb, they too may be wildly celebrated, fiercely loved, deeply cherished. Because that’s what my Father has done for me. And what He’s done for you. No matter where we are, or what we’ve done, or what our storm looks like, He leans close, with arms wide open and whispers “Come here…”.

So, today, I remember Tayten and Lael. My precious angels, though your earthly stay was short – you made a profound impact. As I look into the very expressive eyes of the Bundle in my arms, know that even though you aren’t here you have changed the lives of two beautiful baby boys, so far. And Mama wants you to know that your memory lives on in that.