I will never forget the exact moment when the process started. I was back-to-school shopping with my girls, looking for clothes for my up and coming kindergartner. In the midst of this milestone of an occasion, my heart started beating rapidly and I could no longer think straight. One quick trip to the bathroom and I was gripped with fear.
We finished shopping and made it out of the store in record timing. Once we were home I immediately locked myself in the bathroom and began to cry. That night was the worst. The cries turned into deep weeping and agonizing pain, as I begged and pleaded for an alternative explanation before the Lord. I knew that I had just experienced loss in January, but 5 years ago I had a similar scare and that child was heading to school in a matter of days.
The praise and worship music blasted in our bedroom and the tears continued to pour out of my eyes. I tried to allow my faith to be bigger than my fear. I was determined to walk by faith and not by sight even though it seemed an impossible task as the bleeding continued.
Over and over I said these words:
I declare that my baby is fine. I declare that my baby is fine. I declare that my baby is fine.
In Jesus’ Name.
I held onto hope as much as I possibly could. I wavered and crumbled and picked myself up time and time again. Those 5 days were the longest. Finally it stopped. I felt a sense of relief but it didn’t last. So what did this mean? I needed confirmation.
Two negative tests and an ultrasound later, I think I heard my heart actually breaking.
It happened again. I miscarried again. And I’m so angry about it.
It wasn’t the party we might have previously envisioned, and the circumstances were nothing we would have desired.
We weren’t at a restaurant of your choice. We weren’t shaking our heads as you pretended to scan the menu as if you’d actually try something different for a change.
We weren’t having a family game night, talking trash to one another as the cards fell across the table. We weren’t teasing lovingly commending your persistence even though you have a knack for coming in last place.
We weren’t even at your house because you’re not there. You’re not there and I know that’s the birthday wish that supersedes them all.
But you are here with us, which is a blessing in itself.
You’re here after that alarming text I received on the afternoon of April 4th.
Specifically women who, in many major circles, are placed in the category of the unthinkable. They’ve done the unimaginable and should be added to the list of the worst of the worst.
They’re talked about on Facebook like they’re heartless individuals who can’t see, feel, think or read. They’re often ripped apart by those who have never been in their position, yet jump to many conclusions as to how they got there or why they did what they did.
This is for the broken.
This is for the hurting.
This is for the lost, embarrassed and ashamed.
This is for the woman who needs to hear that she’s not alone.
This is for the one who needs to know there is forgiveness, freedom, liberty and boundless love in Christ.
This is for the woman who, like me, had an abortion that she regrets.