loss

My eyes rimmed red from crying
I did not expect your death
I thought you'd be here in the spring
Taking that first breath

Instead you went from mother's womb
Straight to the Father's hands
He brought you home and held you close
We never got the chance

You'll never know the pain or joy
of living here with us
Instead you'll worship endlessly
the King so glorious

We wish you could be here with us
to hold and love, yet still
we are content to wait on God
and meet you when He wills.

12/21/2011

On Wednesday my niece was stillborn at 20 weeks. I wrote the above poem as a way to process. The first stanza is where I am, and the last is where I want to be. I want to smile at the thought of her safe with Jesus, rather than mourn the fact she is not here. I want to say her name with a smile, not a leaden heart. But I'm not there yet. I crave a cry I've never heard, from a child who wasn't even mine! I feel like I have no right to these emotions, but here they are, raw and deep.

The emotions aren't the only thing I don't think I'm entitled to, but have nonetheless. Another one is comfort food. It is everywhere anyway because of the season, and the voice that says "Not worth it!" is now drowned out by "YOU'RE GRIEVING! It's okay."

It doesn't help that this practice is more or less socially accepted. On Wednesday night, I was caught by a friend with my hand in the cookie jar figuratively and literally. She knew what I was feeling, and all I had to say was "I'm medicating" for her to ignore the sugar binge. Then I said "One day I won't need this anymore, but for today it works."

This statement is still resonating days later. When is my one day going to be? When Jesus comes back and says "I'm here. Put the cookie down!" When I run out of reasons to medicate? When I run out of food?

The answer is none of these. My one day is when I DECIDE to stop and call on God for help, when I choose a healthy me over a temporarily satisfied me, when I listen for the Voice of life over the conniving whispers of the enemy.