I waited in the half light and quiet, numb from the waist down, and He was with me, and we talked, and I prayed it would be fast, and that he’d carry me through.
There wasn’t a cry to cleanse the memory of the pain, no grip on my fingers to comfort. I had secretly wished for a miracle I knew couldn’t come.
But he was warm, and I held him, and took it in, so grateful that I didn’t have to share, that there was no one else I had to put a brave face on for. That I could wash his tiny body with my tears. That I could touch his toes and open his eyes, and sing to the tiny ears that couldn’t hear me. And so overwhelmingly thankful that he would never know the pain of this world, only the joy of being home.
Who am I to say unfair? I can’t reject or belittle the precious gift of my son with anger or bitterness. He was beautiful.
I thought my faith would perish in the fire of this trial, I thought, when I found out what had happened, when I realized what I would have to do, that I wouldn’t, that I couldn’t come through it. And I didn’t. He did.
And now I know, really know that God doesn’t make mistakes, I know that all things work together for good for those that love Him, and I know that I can do all this through Christ who strengthens me.
Photo credit: fadedlace