*Warning: reader discretion advised. This is a little graphic. But not more than what any woman who has ever had a period can handle.
When I saw the blood, my first thought was a panicky “oh no– I’m miscarrying again!” My mind jumped back to that day, watching the first fruits of my womb sink slowly into the toilet bowl, my heart sinking with them because there was nothing I could do to stop the process.
Then I had to remind myself this, today, is just another period. This is something healthy and normal for my body to do. But this month, I was hoping not to be caught in this cycle of expulsion and restarting. I’m mucking out the barn, turning the compost pile, when I wanted to be in sprouts and springtime. I was hoping we could move on to life this time.
I’m in the dark, holding a little box of matches and striking them month after month. Every month I start to see a spark, a little tiny flicker of hope that this will be it- and then it goes up in a plume of smoke.
The worst part of this journey is all that smoke. Once, we got a match lit, and we held it burning for a second. For just long enough to travel four states over and tell my parents and sisters we were expecting. And then, the next morning, to see that the flame had suddenly been extinguished. My eyes met that faceless, nameless little one far, far too soon.
Since that day, we have kept striking our matches. And every month when I start a period, I feel like I’m miscarrying all over again. The enemy sees my fear. He invites himself in without knocking, crouches beside the toilet and starts whispering his lies.
He starts with the first play in his playbook, the one that worked on Eve in the garden: questioning God’s goodness.
You’re being punished because you tried too hard to control this process. All your tracking and trying… of course God’s not going to give you a child until you can learn to really surrender this to him. He’s teaching you a lesson.
Or it’s the opposite tactic, trying to convince me I really am in control and I failed somehow. (Because he loves to play both sides, doesn’t he?)
This is your fault because you didn’t try hard enough. It was something you ate… something you drank… you need medication… you need to fix all these things before your body will be able to sustain another life.
Sometimes he tries to sow seeds of fear about the future.
You try to console yourself with science, saying “we got pregnant once… we can do it again. The books say most women who miscarry go on to have healthy pregnancies.” But you aren’t most women. Something happened when you had that miscarriage. You will never conceive again.
The fourth lie I hear is the worst one, where he piles on shame and pulls out the classic “don’t tell anyone” line by which I have learned to recognize his voice:
It’s your own fault you’re sad because you allowed yourself to think you were pregnant. There you go again, assuming you’re pregnant every single time. You’re an idiot. You didn’t deserve those naps you took this week. You owe that time back. You thought you had a reason to be tired, but no, those were just normal pre-period-week symptoms you misread.
…You got your own hopes up. Don’t go cry to your husband and burden him with this. And don’t tell your friends, because don’t you remember the girl who had the stillbirth? Her pain was so much worse than yours. You don’t have the right to grieve this. You have to get over this sorrow alone. It’s your fault because you failed to guard your heart this month.
Tell me, how can I “guard my heart” when what we’re talking about is a potential child? How can I walk around for two weeks knowing full well there could be a little piece of God’s image flickering into life inside me, whom I refuse to love, just on the off chance he or she doesn’t exist yet? How can I, even for a moment, allow someone to depend solely on my body for survival but not fully embrace him or her with my heart?
These little ones God has chosen since before the beginning of time to be blameless before him and adopted as his precious children, to whom he has given every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms in love, whom I believe God will entrust to us one day to care for and raise– how can I ignore them for those two weeks while there’s a chance they might already be here? How can I not love them already? How can I not hope?
It’s a heart-wrenching journey the Father has set out for us as women. We hope and love, and then we lose and grieve. A friend described it as a process of getting tenderized. It does feel like that. I’m at a wine press. The little grape I poured all my love into has been torn off the vine and I watch as it gets crushed. Or I’m in an olive press, getting squeezed out for all I’m worth. For that first drop of pure oil, which I can only believe God will use for his glory and my good.
May the pain be an offering to you, Lord. Have mercy on my already-bruised heart. I believe; help my unbelief. In my head, I know my days are in your hands and you will entrust children to us when it is your perfect time. Help my heart to trust you fully. I know you weave the stories of generations. I know you are good. You do not withhold good from those who are righteous through Jesus… who also went through the crushing of the wine press. You turned his sorrow into joy, and I believe you will redeem our sorrow too. I believe these momentary troubles are far outweighed by the eternal glory you will bring through them.
Walk with me, Jesus, in the waiting. Amen.
Thank you so much for sharing this – my husband and I tried for many years to conceive yet we now believe after 40 years of marriage that God had other plans. I still hold that pain and sorrow though. Someday I will be able to forgive myself and move on – your words are very helpful.
Oh, friend! First of all, it’s good to hear your voice. Thank you for commenting! My heart goes out to you in your sorrow and grief. He doesn’t write his stories the way we would write them, does he? My husband and I were just realizing the other day that when we look back on all this from 400 years in the future, we’ll probably see it all clearly and thank Him. But right now it just hurts. Much love to you!
For whose who consider and ponder as deeply as you do, such sensitivity creates a twisting and poignant road The end of it all however, is an empathy and depth that many aspire to but few achieve. Thank you for your candour and remember kindness to yourself, as well as the kindness you so beautifully display to others.
Thank you, Chris, for your kindness and for that timely reminder!
Beautiful, as always.
Thank you!
A profound, transparent narrative of personal sorrow, devout people and life as it is. Thank-you. The traveler is home; the unpredictable journey continues. A good compass though keeps the direction and destination clear – don’t leave home (for very long) without it.
Thank you for your poetic and genuine response, Jeff. I appreciate that perspective!
That was a very helpful article! Minus the miscarriage, I have a version of those thoughts every month. It’s comforting to know I’m not alone, and to recognize those as lies so I can combat it with truth.