What Might Have Been.

The end of November, 2012. Eight years and 1 week before I gave birth to my firstborn. The week that my new niece or nephew was due. A new date to remember. The week that we were anticipating a new life.

Gone. In a whisper. A few excerpts from a recent blog I discovered, found here.

 "Today all I can think about is what might have been...for me...the specifics of the miscarriage changed me from one kind of mother to another... It’s a broad sisterhood of women who don’t have easy conceptions and pregnancies, but to be honest, I liked being in the other group. It was so deeply moving to me that my body nurtured and nourished [my son], delivering him safely into the world, whole and healthy, and this miscarriage and its aftermath have forced me to ask some questions: Did my body fail me? Did I somehow fail it? We’ve had such a tenuous relationship in the past, my body and I; was this a breach of trust?...

If you’ve been marked by what might have been, you don’t forget. You know the day, the years. You know when the baby would have been born...You know exactly how old she’d be right now, if she were still alive. You’ll never forget the last time you saw your child, or the last time cancer was a word about someone else’s life, or the day that changed absolutely everything. It makes the calendar feel like a minefield, like you’re constantly tiptoeing over explosions of grief until one day you hit one, shattered by what might have been.

On most days, for me, it’s all right. We’ll have another baby someday. I hope we do. But for today, for a minute, it’s not all right. I understand that God is sovereign, that bodies are fragile and fallible. I understand that grief mellows over time, and that guarantees aren’t part of human life, as much as we’d like them to be. But on this day, looking out at the harsh white sky of a Chicago winter, I’m crying just a little for what might have been. . . . No one might ever notice January 31, and what it means for me. But I’ll always know."

I have never spoken outloud the name of the child that wasn't to be.

Isaac.

When I think about our loss, I see Isaac. In the Bible you read about Abraham and Sarah who were never able to have children. Then, miraculously, this elderly couple discovered that they were going to be parents! When The Lord told Sarah that would she would conceive in her old age, she laughed! As a kid it was suggested to me on more than one occasion that Sarah laughed because she lacked faith, that she laughed in God's face, saying, "Yeah, right!". She doubted and mocked.

But, after my surprise pregnancy, the one that shouldn't have happened, considering Mike's chemo treatments and vasectomy, I, too, laughed! It was a laughter mixed with joy and shock. It was the irony of it all. But never, ever was it a laughter filled with mockery towards our Great God. I believe Sarah's laughter was the same. She was in awe that something so incredible, so desired, could still happen to her. And she laughed at the wonder and marvel of it! A child! Finally!

And so, the child became Isaac. Isaac simply means, "Laughter".

As soon as Mike discovered the news of our surprise baby-to-be, immediately we looked at each other and said, "You know it's going to be a boy." We knew. Each of us knew in our spirits. God was sending us a son.

And then the tragedy. The weekend that changed everything. I won't go into the painful details now. It is still raw and I'm not ready to write it out. But when I knew that this baby would not be a child I would hold in my arms, God said, "His name is Isaac."

Like Abraham, I had to sacrifice my son Isaac on God's alter. Not by choice. It was, in a sense, a different test of faith for me. Fortunately, for Isaac, God provided a way out for him. He had passed God's ultimate test of faith and love.

More about that later...