A Dream to Hold

a poetic and scattered composition on miscarriage

I never grieved the partner I was losing. No - the relief washed over me. I never even missed him.

The sorrow of my children being from a broken home was present.

The guilt that my children may never know a loving earthly father was massive.

The burden of parenting alone was heavy.

But the grief I was unprepared for was grieving what may never be - the grief of giving up a dream.

The love I have for my three daughters is unexplainable and extraordinary and I always longed to love even more. I dreamed of a big family with many children.

The reality was, I may never have another child. It may always be just me and my three.

I grieved letting go of a dream that wasn’t mine to hold for a period of time, never knowing if I would be able to pick up that dream and hold it again.

I had cradled that dream in my two hands, held it close to my heart, my fingers tightly gripped around it. It was a dream I had carried since I was a little girl when baby dolls would surround me and I’d convince younger cousins to pretend to be my children. I always dreamed of arms, heart, and home full of joyful little lives.

And when it seemed my arms were only at half capacity,
When it seemed I had so much more love to share,
When it seemed that I could never grow weary of the sweet baby smells and squishy baby cuddles and all the baby things…
The Lord’s hands revealed themselves.

He held them out to me and asked me if I could trust Him with that dream.

I clutched it closer to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut, but the tears still slipped through.

I could feel His hands in front of me waiting, patiently waiting.
Until I loosened my grip, outstretched my arms, and placed that dream in His hands, entrusting it to Him, not knowing if I would ever get to hold that dream again. I’d held it for so long that it had become a part of me. Letting go of that dream was losing a piece of myself.

I practiced contentment.
I focused on the joy my three beauties brought me.
I rejoiced over others’ pregnancies.
I wept over friends’ lost babies.
I petitioned the Lord to answer the prayers of those holding their dream and waiting for their miracle.
I celebrated when their miracles became reality.

I waited. 

Not knowing if I would ever get to carry that dream again.

Then the day came.

It started off gray, cold, and raining, like the last three years of our lives had been, and really many years before that.
I stared out the window and waited.
I waited for the sun to rise and for the warmth to come.
I dressed myself in pink lace, curled my darling daughters’ hair, and waited.

We greeted our friends and family, walked down the aisle, and began to say our vows while the cold air tingled our faces and the gray clouds kept the sunlight from breaking through.

As we said, “I do”, entering into a precious covenant with one another and the Lord, I felt the warmth begin to consume my body, first hitting my face then spreading to my fingers and toes. I squinted towards my groom, his head eclipsing the light that had broken through the gray and dismal day. The clouds dissipated before our eyes and the blueness of the sky revealed all the promises the Lord had spoken over us. 

Then, with the sun pouring onto us, the Lord handed me back something He had held onto for over three years.

He handed me my dream.

I reached for it, and grabbed my groom’s hand to reach for it, too. Right below, my three girls jumped and giggled, reaching for this dream, as well. It wasn’t just mine to hold. It was ours to hold, now. Together.

When I whispered to him in the darkness of night, “I’m pregnant”, our dream didn’t feel so much like a dream anymore. It was real.

The excitement warmed me on the inside, making me giddy and wiggly. I remembered the feeling of a growing belly and looked at mine with no evidence of a baby at all, but knowing a baby was there nonetheless. A dream, a deep desire, a long aching, and an answered prayer - right there. The size of a poppy seed.

And then, as quickly as I began to love this answered prayer…
They left.

As we gathered around the tree on Christmas morning, celebrating the King who came because of our sin and the brokenness in the world, I felt the pain of brokenness deep within me. The brokenness dripped red. 

“But… my dream? Our dream…” I questioned the Lord in my head as I watched our girls rip apart the presents we’d carefully wrapped for them. 

“He wasn’t yours to hold.” 

He wasn’t ours to hold right now.
And we released him back to the Father. 

This dream became the size of a poppy seed - and a poppy seed is small, but it still is real, it is still tangible. I can still feel it between my fingers and I could feel this baby’s realness to the depths of my heart. 

Our tiny, little poppy seed of life held so much more - he held dreams that we’d learned to let go of, and dreams we got to hold onto again. Really, just getting to hold that dream was a dream come true. The ability to dream that something one day may be is a treasure when we’ve lived with the thought that we may never get to hold onto those dreams again. 

I grieved that this little life may never be. 
I celebrated that this little life was reality. 
I grieve that this little life will never grow to be more than the little poppy seed lost on a warm Christmas morning. 
I celebrate that this little life was a reality. 

And I hold onto my dream, so thankful that I can even hold it again.