Maybe your baby is not here yet, but you've been praying for him every day. Maybe it's been months, years. Wondering if it will ever happen for you. Wondering if your heart will ever truly be at peace, if you'll be able to fulfill the longing to look into your baby's eyes and stroke her hair and know that this. THIS is what you had been waiting, hoping, praying for. What you already knew, in the depths of your being, was meant to be.
Maybe your mother's heart aches for a child that never was. For a lifetime of wishing, and finally accepting it will never be. Always wondering what kind of mom you would've been, whether he would've had your husband's dimpled chin or your blue eyes. Mourning the loss of someone who you never really knew, and yet knew better than anyone - all at the same time.
Maybe your child was on this earth, but has gone on to be with our Heavenly Father. Perhaps she was here for an hour, a day, or even years. Perhaps he never lived outside the comfort of your womb. And you wonder why God would bless you with such an incredible gift, only to take it away too soon. Because, when it comes to losing a child, it is always ALWAYS too soon. Your heart may now be filled with precious memories but also with sorrow for a loss that will never, ever fully heal.
Whatever the case may be, if you are one of these women, I imagine this weekend was incredibly painful for you. I imagine the cards, flowers, brunch reservations and macaroni artwork was all just too much for your broken mama's heart. And for that, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you didnt receive a card with finger painted flowers or a beautiful bouquet, and that no one brought you breakfast in bed. I'm sorry that you were inundated with the reminders of your child that isn't.
My heart hurts for you because I know.
I have a hard time even putting these words in writing for fear that someone may feel I am trivializing their pain. Believe me when I say, I'm not. Your pain is real and nothing I can say can take it away. But while I'm having pancakes and opening gifts, my heart is aching, too. I lost my first baby on Mother's Day a few years ago and, as too many of you know, it's a hurt you just don't forget.
We had grand plans of telling our own mothers that they would soon become grandmothers; that their Mother's Day gifts would soon be accompanied by toddler artwork and candid baby photos. But instead, a few days before, I was told it was not to be. That I wouldn't be having this baby. And on Mother's Day, I began to miscarry the child that would've made me a mother. The physical pain was intense, to say the least, but the emotional pain was tenfold. I spent a day that should've been a grand celebration curled in a ball, going in between broken sleep and crying. It was hard. And it got harder before it got easier.
I am one of the lucky ones, I know. I am beyond blessed to have quickly gotten pregnant and delivered our perfect London Claire. And I am doubly blessed to be carrying, and hopefully soon deliver, a son whom will fill my heart like I never knew possible. But that doesn't take away from my baby that wasn't. And it doesn't take away the hurt of all the women who should be mamas, but aren't.
So let this serve as an open letter of apology: I'm sorry. I'm sorry for whatever the reason your baby isn't here. And I'm sorry for the hurt you feel in the darkest parts of your soul. I'm sorry. I pray, pray, pray it gets easier for you. But I know that your mama's heart will never stop being a little bit broken. Because mine still is.