Every October 15 for the rest of my days, I will light two candles to shine on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. And when my girls are a few years older, I will talk to them about their two little angel siblings who never quite made it to earth.
My mom had four miscarriages, and while not talked about all the time, it was always a mystical fact intertwined in our family dynamic. There were four of us here on earth, and another four kids in heaven. We loved this. We marveled. We wondered what they might look like and how it would be to meet them someday.
I look back and I’m so proud of my mom, who took what I now know to be immense pain, and made it into something special, eternal, and shining, for her, for my dad, for their children. All eight of us.
People have different theories about miscarriages, and they always will. Is it a mass of tissue, or is it a baby? Does it have a soul, or doesn’t it? I, for one, will forever know in my heart’s deepest canyons that I, however briefly, carried two little souls. I felt their lives flickering, trying. I knew them. I loved them. Deeply. And I realize how morbid this probably sounds to some, but I also think of them as my sons. Watching over us, cheering us on, whispering silent prayers when we don’t have the words. To me, it’s not morbid at all. Now that I officially stand on the other side of the anguish, but only now, I can see and I can say that they were two of the most beautiful gifts I have ever been given.
Today, what I have to say about miscarriages is this: Remember. Cry. Talk about it. Honor what was, and what never will be. Smash any toxic shame to pure smithereens. Please don’t hide alone in your pain. After sharing my stories, I have talked to many, many women AND men who once experienced miscarriage and never spoke to another person about it. It’s more than OK to keep private if that’s truly what you feel is best. But if there is one other trustworthy human being who could wrap you up, wipe your tears and whisper to your heartache, “I know,” then take that healing step of vulnerability. And if you don’t have that person, it would be my honor to help shoulder your pain. Tell me your story. I will feel, and I will pray. And I will most certainly weep.
I may never have all the words for how my losses affected me, but today, I bow my head to honor them both. To thank God for their short but meaningful lives. And to pray for the women right in that pain. It is excruciating beyond comprehension. The bubbly giggles we never heard, the mirrored gazes we never held. Prayers that fell flat. All for what? It is quite frankly too much.
But, mysteriously, outrageously, the aching void is also redeemable. Maybe not always on earth, but the Lord will restore what the locusts have taken away. This truth carried me through my darkness and into the light. Because when we miscarry, if we look up, we will see the many who’ve gone before us. We will see that we’re surrounded by the bravest band of women imaginable, who have risen from their ashes of loss to one day smile again and, so very often, create the most holy and perfect rainbow babies. The angels who made it, to light up the world with their promise and hope.
Additionally, we will see that we are held and known by a massively greater power who never misses anything, ever—and never fails to carry our pain.
Love and hugs and honor today, for all of you women, and all of your angels. Release the pain only as you’re ready. You’re in a transformation. It’s making you. I promise. I paid a lot of attention to the sky in the past year, and something I noticed clearly and repeatedly was that you can’t actually see rays of sunshine, unless there are also clouds.
Hadley, Reese: My double rainbow arching toward heaven, breaking me open, stitching me back together, and bringing me so much closer to the God I have staked my life on and choose every day to believe in. Thank you for the infinite ways you have already changed me.
And to my preciously mourned and never forgotten angel babies.
I really can’t wait to meet you boys.
