Thursday, July 30, 2015

I'll confess it. I haven't watched the videos. I can't. I cannot make myself push play. I cannot watch people sift through parts of a human baby and laugh and barter on its price. I can't watch people who callously set prices on the organs of an unborn, dismembered child.

But, it's all hitting a very sensitive, raw place in my heart.

In the next week, I should have been giving birth. Had things been differently, I would be waddling around, complaining about how uncomfortable I was and giddy that we would be welcoming our fourth. My maternity clothes would be too tight. I would be lying awake at night, unable to sleep and making lots of trips to the bathroom. In the next week, had things been differently, I'd be feeling the cramping turn to contractions, timing them, guessing when it was time to leave.

In the next week, I would have been bringing my son into the world.

But, I never got that chance. Because my son died in utero at 18 weeks into the pregnancy.

As I was scrolling my newsfeed on Facebook this morning, I saw another video had been released regarding Planned Parenthood's atrocities. The link read, "Planned Parenthood worker comments that 'It's a boy.'"

It came flooding back.

I prayed that night, while the world slept. I writhed with grief so painful that it was blistering my soul. I begged my sisters, my mother to pray. I prayed that this child that had already opened its eyes to God was a girl. I could not stand the thought of losing another son.

And his beautiful body was born

"Oh, God, it's a boy!" I wailed. "I'm sorry, Richard! Oh, God, it's a boy. I lost another son."
And I still weep.

He was perfect. He looked exactly like his father. It was precious and heartbreaking. He had the chiseled face, the square shoulders that attracted me to this boy's father. His nose and his eyes. Everything. He was all Daddy. 

And his feet.

He was fearfully and wonderfully made. And I should be welcoming him into our family this week. I should be going into labor, praying that he's healthy. I shouldn't know he's a boy. Because we always wait until they are born to find out.

But, I found out too early. And I held him for hours. I had a meal with him, as he laid on my lap. I slept with him on my chest. And it was the most peaceful sleep I'd had. I held him. I stared at his beautiful self.

I took pictures.

I so want to share them. Post them. So people see that he and his brother, lost at 13 weeks into the pregnancy a few years ago, are not a clump of cells. They were fully formed human beings. Arms and legs. Fingers and toes. A body and a soul.

But people get so offended. It's too graphic. It's too much to see. A lion is worth anger and photos. But not a child lost in pregnancy.

I am so upset this week. All these films wherein the Planned Parenthood workers laugh and barter and sell children's body parts.

I should be welcoming my son into the world. Instead, as I stand in the shower everyday, I mourn my very thin waist. As I flew to a wedding I shouldn't have been able to attend, I remembered his absence. I sat on his grave that week, and wept. Oh, the irony.

I held them. I mourn them. I miss them. I am empty. Because these are human beings. Infinitely more valuable than a lion. Than a cheetah. Than an animal.

Because they are more than an animal. These are human beings. And if one wonderful thing can withstand all of this, it's that these sweet babies all sit before the throne of God. They sit with my sons. They sit with the children of my friends, with the souls of my own brothers and sisters. They sit with all the children lost during pregnancy, whether naturally or through abortion.

Try to name your price, Planned Parenthood. These infinitely valuable human beings look down upon you praying for your soul.

And I need to remember to pray, too.

St. John, pray for us. St. James, pray for us.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

To the Woman Who Lost Her Baby

I'm sorry.

You are now a member of a group of women that no one wants to be a part of. A secret, hushed club of strong, sometimes broken, always scarred women.

You may have lost your child yesterday, last week or a few months ago. Maybe you lost your child years ago. It doesn't matter.

It is your child.

People have said, "...but I was only four weeks along." "...eight weeks along." "...eighteen weeks along." Maybe you were twenty-two weeks, thirty weeks. Maybe you had made it to that blessed finish line. And something went horribly wrong. It doesn't matter.

It was your child.

People will try to comfort you. They will tell you, "Well, at least you have all those other little ones at home." Or, "You'll have more." It doesn't matter. This was your child.

There will be people who mean well. They will say horrible things, not knowing what they say is like knives to your already searing heart. It doesn't matter. There will be people who know what they say. They will say horrible, hurtful things. And they may walk away for awhile. They make walk away forever. It doesn't matter.

It was still your child.

And life will never be the same again.

You will feel those breaths that are hard and pounding. You will feel your pain rise from your depths and come out of your mouth in guttural sounds. Your heart will feel burning, searing pain. You may be surrounded by people and feel completely alone. You will do things you never thought you'd have to do.  See things you never thought you'd have to. Maybe more than once. You will wonder how you keep breathing. But you will.  Because it was your child.

If you feel every day is a swirling drowning torment of darkness, that is okay. If you only have days like that every few weeks or months, that is okay. Because it was your child. You will watch all of those moms give birth when you were supposed to. And you will feel empty. You will probably relive all of the pain again. And that is okay.

You will maybe pick a name, pick a casket, bury that child. Keep that child's name a daily part of your lives. Or you might not. And that--that is okay. Because it is your child. 

Give God what you have left. If it is the anger, the hurt, give it to Him. He will take it. Like an angry toddler that doesn't understand, approach our Father and give to Him what you have. Scripture is full of what others saw as unworthy gifts, and our Lord accepted them with beautiful gratitude. Bread that only the poor ate. A few coins that emptied a purse. A bleeding, broken body heaped in the dirt. Give it to Him. Because that is beautiful to Him. And you are His child.

Healing will come. It will take a long time, and it will require great Faith. God will supply it. He will pull you forward. Ask Him. Ask Him to show you He is there. Ask Him to take you by the hand, and He will. He is your Father. And you are His child.

Reach out. Talk to the other mothers that have walked this path. They share your grief. Just as our Lord shared his Cross with Simon, we must share our grief with those that don't walk away. That can stand those horrible, raw text messages when it feels like you're drowing. Again. Let them hunch down under that cross and help shoulder it with you. Because it was your child. And he or she mattered. 

Slowly, over time, it will get easier to bear. The pain, the scar will never be gone. Not completely. But, long after the loss, you will realize that you felt joy. Joy! It lept cautiously inside your heart. And, in the great heavens, our children rejoice for you. Because they were our children.