Coincidence? I think not.

It's funny how the Lord always gives us what we need when we're needing it the most.

If you are one of the few people who has made it known they are uncomfortable with my talking about my miscarriage, you should leave this post now and discontinue reading. I am not "whining," or "being dramatic" or "trying to get attention." I am currently going through something heartbreaking, and talking about it is the only thing getting me through. Keep your hurtful comments to yourself- if it bothers you, I am pretty sure there is a large "X" at the top of your browser. Now that I've gotten that out of the way, let me share what's on my heart today.

I've had a difficult time lately- each day, my spirit and body become more aware that my child is gone. On Christmas Eve, I would have been 20 weeks pregnant. Halfway there. Instead, I'll celebrate Christmas with my child and husband, and instead of looking forward to our new child, I'll be missing this one. I could sit here and expound on each and every "would be milestone" that is going to be difficult for me. Instead, I will talk about what the Lord gave me yesterday.

Yesterday, my devotion was about handling grief, and what to do when people close to you are grieving. The devotion talked about the Jewish tradition of the Shiva, in which they grieve for their loved ones for seven days. Any visitors to the home within those days does not speak unless one of the hosts speaks to them first. The families of the deceased simply sit there in quiet, comforted only by one another's presence. Words are not necessary.

The accompanying Scripture was from John, the story of Lazarus. I immediately read about the grief of Jesus for his friend, and how he wept for his friend.

Too often, when someone close to us loses someone, we try to almost take on the role of the Lord and explain what can't be explained. We don't know why death happens. We don't know why divorce happens. We don't know why miscarriage happens. Silence should be enough. We don't need to say anything because there isn't anything we can say. I've been guilty of this so many times- just wanting to say something because I didn't know what to say. A simple "I'm sorry," or "I'm praying for you" should have been it.

I've struggled lately to feel the Lord's presence. I know he is still here and he is hurting along with me. Some horrible part of me just wants to close off, shut down and just grieve. I'm trying hard to stay positive and to just trust Him, but this is hard. I should have thought about how Jesus raised Lazarus and how if he can raise Lazarus from the dead, he can get me through this. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't think about that. He also makes the statement in this passage that through Lazarus' rest, God will be brought glory. I don't know what his plan for me is. I don't know why my baby was called home. I know somehow he'll be glorified through it. I know these things, even though it is hard for me to understand it at the moment.

Please keep praying. I need it more than I ever have.

Be still and know...

For the past four days, this verse has been my constant. I actually read this verse the morning of September 2, 2014, when I found out Emorie was going to be a big sister. We had two ultrasounds, the first one showing me being two weeks off. Two weeks later, we had another ultrasound. The baby measured only one week larger, but the heart was beating. I felt hopeful.

Then, I began experiencing complications. On about Wednesday of last week, I could no longer deny something was wrong. I went in for an emergency ultrasound on Friday, only to discover the baby had not grown and the heartbeat was slowing. My heart sank. I began calling family members and friends. I posted a message to our friends and family on Facebook: "It's hard to say goodbye when you never got to say hello. Please pray for us during this difficult time."

On Saturday, the contractions began and I truly knew it was over. My body is still aching, but the pain is slowing. My heart is still aching, but I am beginning to feel a little bit better. While at this point I am unsure what will happen next, and whether or not we will attempt to have more children, I am sure of this. I am definitely not alone.

To the lady who saw me crying in the waiting room and asked if she could pray for me, thank you. To the ultrasound nurse who held me and let me cry, thank you. To the doctor who sat with me and told me not to apologize for my tears, thank you.  So many of my family members, co-workers, and church family members have sent messages, cards, and have called, and for that I thank you. My coworkers gave me a card and a gift card. My teammates prepared my classroom for testing so I wouldn't have to do it when I returned to school.

I never realized before how many of my friends and family members have experienced this before. I miscarried Emorie's twin, but chose to instead dwell on having one healthy baby remaining. I really didn't feel the loss until after Emorie was a year old. This time though, it's completely different.

I don't write this entry to seek attention. I don't write it to be graphic or to share too much with others. I write it because miscarriage is something people don't typically talk about. Talking about it is the only thing helping me right now. Maybe someone someday will be in the same place, will find this entry and it will help them. Maybe when things are better, I'll read this again and realize how far the Lord has brought me.

I have read numerous blog entries from other mothers who have experienced loss. I've spent time talking to my family members, church family members, and friends who have experienced miscarriages. I am hurting but not alone. Keep us in your prayers. Our hearts are broken but we will be OK.

And God is still God.