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A Record of Kindness

A Record of God's Kindness During Loss Tuesday's diary: A deep, loving hug from a neighbor as I cry on her back porch on a gloomy, gray morning. She is mid-snip as she trims my five year old's hair when I begin crying. I suspect I lost my baby the night before, but then I've bled in pregnancy before. This feels different. The kind of different that makes you afraid. Wednesday's  diary : A visit in my home from the midwife, the ultrasound confirms an empty uterus. Hollow, and still. A gift to be in the comfort of my own home as she embraces me, prays over me, listens to me weep the better part of an hour, and lovingly prepares me physically and emotionally for the grief still to come. A wise encouragement to slow down, cancel my week, and take time to "close the loop" on recognizing the life I had carried, the child we loved, the value and dignity of the person who entered and left our family circle. A drive to take the older two kids to their music camp in

Dear God

Dear God, it hurts a lot. A very piece of me has washed away, stripped from my innermost being. My flesh and blood, as though passed away into oblivion. God, I wanted this child. See it, my heart? Enlarged, already having welcomed this one in. Weeks along, the slight expanding of my belly, gone. May my child never be passed away from your sight, Father. May this little one never be looked over, passed by, dishonored, or forgotten by You, Giver of Life, Namer of Souls. I read of the love and grief of Jesus, witnessed and recorded in John's narrative. The sorrow over the death of his friend twisting his visage, releasing rivers of salt and staining his lips.   Then Jesus wept. The people who were standing nearby said, 'See how much he loved him!' Surely then, He is close by here, not a distant force or impersonal power, but personal. Near. Here, while I grieve on this sofa. You etched the name of my child in your book, didn't You? My