The house is dark and Micaiah sleeping. And I found myself again lying awake... eyes wide... mind racing. It's been four days since we left the ER. I don't think we ever really imagined four days could change the flow of our life so dramatically. We are simply overwhelmed at the sheer number of you who have called, written, offered to bring meals, visited, and brought our family before the throne of God in prayer. We are humbled beyond words. Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts... those of you who have entered into this with us and come alongside us. We are moved by your willingness to be Jesus to us.
For me... the last four days have seemed like weeks. As I lye still growing this sweet miracle I've had many hours to ponder in my heart the events in the last year of our lives. Micaiah and I never have moved slowly... life and the way we live it has always been at least slightly chaotic and incredibly full. We met and four months later were engaged, six months after that married, one month later I left college to come alongside Margy at Grace Refuge, eight months after that pregnant. Our life was full of children and messes and people and fellowship and our first year of marriage has flown by at an incredible pace. That night though, lying in the emergency room... everything in our lives just stopped. The blood kept coming and the tears burned hot in the corners of my eyes as we waited for what seemed like an eternity for them to bring in the ultrasound that would let us know. We walked out several hours later holding radiology reports and information on the signs of miscarriage. I don't know if it was the sheer exhaustion of it all or the simple fact that I was overwhelmed by how quickly things can change, but for the last four days... I've simply felt numb. I haven't cried, haven't known how to pray, or even how to feel. Kid's are no longer running wild... I'm no longer holding babies. The parents have started to look for someone else to care for their children. I'm not reading devotions to 3 year olds or praising Jesus for the 2 year old who finally learned how to use the potty. I'm not laughing with mommies at the end of the day as we revel over how fast they grow. Our house isn't loud and full and full of people. Now, I lye here... still and silent... and I wait. And I've just felt kind of numb to it all.
The tears are starting to come a little bit. The quiet and the stillness are starting to sink in. And I'm realizing why. I don't think I really know how I'm supposed to feel right now. I realize that many pregnancies survive this... and then I try to find as much information as I can about it... and hear the stories of those who have lost their babies because of it. The clot could dissipate completely in a day... or it could stay the same for weeks and months... or it could grow and cause things my mind just can't bear to think about right now. While I realize that on the grand scale of things that could go wrong... this is most certainly not the worst. For us... this is a pretty big thing. I'm caught in the middle. I trust God with my child... completely, wholeheartedly, fully trust Him. I know He can heal this baby in a second. And I told Him a long time ago when we first had complications that we would love Him and give Him praise nomatter what the outcome. Then, there is the other side. There is a very real chance something could go terribly wrong. What we fear most... could happen. And at the same time that I want to plead with Him to just make it all better... I remember something Beth Moore said a long time ago that has changed the way I've prayed. "God, protect us from everything but your glory." Because as much as I want Him to just make this better... I don't ever want to miss the glorious work he does in situations that, to us, seem most terrifying and uncertain.
I'm stuck in the middle. I trust Him... but I'm afraid. I love Him and know that all things work together for good... but I want my outcome. I want to see the world with His eyes and love with His heart... but I don't want it to have to take something like this. There is so much I want to tell Him right now... so many tears I want to let Him have.... and yet I'm unable to utter a word because maybe then I won't feel the full weight of it.
It's so tempting to want to look at the statistics, the medical explanations, to want to get an exact measurement of my hematoma so I can know how it compares and how much greater that puts this baby at risk. It's tempting to want human answers and try to fill the stillness of my days with knowledge of what this means. But today, I realized it changes nothing. The hardest words my Dr. said were these...
"For now, we watch and we wait."
I've never been very good at waiting. And a week seems like an eternity when you're waiting to make sure your baby is okay. A week of waiting before you get to watch that little heart beat is a very long time. But as I wait... I remember.
One of the most frequent and fervent prayers of my life... Jesus I long to have your heart...
As full and chaotic and vibrant as our life was just a week ago... I'm beginning to understand that at some point... a stillness and a waiting has to come. I have longed my whole life to have a heart like His... And as I lye here each day I'm gently nudged to hand over the pieces of my heart that I so desperatly want to hang on to. My dreams. My expectations. My flow of life. My fears. My deepest longings. There is nothing better than hours of silence to make you examine the places of your heart you have yet to offer Him.
And tonight... the numbness is slowly melting into tears and confessions. I feel the weight of it... but I also feel His hand.... And I've learned that when no human answers can satisfy... sometimes all I have to do is just hold His hand and give Him my heart.
It's been far too long since I spoke with Him for hours in the dark of night...
Jesus I long to have your heart.