Owning Your Brokenness When All You Want to Do Is Be Whole Again After Loss

Four years.

It’s been four years this week since my husband and I lost our first baby to miscarriage.

I’d love to tell you I’m OK now … that it doesn’t still sting when God answers the prayers of another or when someone gets their “rainbow baby.” (If you’re not familiar with that term, a rainbow baby is a child after loss.) I’m happy for my friends, of course, but it still hurts to watch friend after friend receive the one thing we’ve been praying about for years. I can’t help but wonder, when is it going to be our turn to receive our rainbow?

I’d love to tell you I’m OK now, but I’m not. My heart is still very broken—both over our losses and over the reality that we might not have any more children.

Last week, a friend of mine buried her five-month-old baby girl named Nellie. At the funeral, the officiating minister said these words, “Time doesn’t heal all things. God does.”

I believe that to be true. I really do … but sometimes I wonder when. When is He going to heal all things? When is my friend going to feel whole again? And when am I going to feel whole again?

For the past two weeks, as tragedy after tragedy has struck my church, I have felt like such a schmuck. (Is that how you spell that word? I don’t think I’ve ever actually typed it out.)

There is so much pain around me, and I have no right to be upset for myself. My losses were two, three and four years ago. Who am I to feel sad for me, when there are those around me whose hearts are literally breaking because of fresh, painful wounds?

I feel as though I shouldn’t be upset about my own losses. Not anymore at least. I know my pain is real (I’ve lived it for years), but it feels so small compared to the pain of those around me.

It feels like I should be “over it” by now.

I’m tired of being “that girl.” You know the one … the one who can’t get over her loss. The one who can still cry anytime she hears the songs “Praise You In the Storm,” “You Hold Me Now,” “Desert Song” or “Blessings.” I’m tired of being the “miscarriage girl.” I guess I just want to be normal again … the normal before loss, the me before miscarriages.

But this week, even though I’m tired of being that girl, I’m going to be her. I’m not going to pretend I’m not still hurting, because I am. I’m not going to pretend I don’t long for another child, because I do. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t still miss the four babies I have lost, because my heart still longs for them just as much today as it did in the weeks after I lost them.

Four years ago, on October 15, I lost my Eden. I found this poem online right after we lost her, and the words are as true today as they were then (I have no idea who wrote this poem. If you know, please share so I can give the proper person credit.)

A thousand words could never bring you back, 
I know because I tried. 
Neither could a thousand tears,
I know because I cried. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely “OK” this side of heaven. I thought I would have been by now. It’s been two years since our most recent loss (our fourth miscarriage).

I do know this, though: If nothing else, I will be OK on the other side of eternity.

I might not be OK today. I might not be OK tomorrow. I might not be OK next year. But someday, God is going to wipe away every tear from my eyes and make everything right again. Click to tweet this

I love you, Eden, Jesse, Ella and Jadon. I think of you every single day. And I’m sorry I’m not there to hold you. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done more to save you. I wish my body wouldn’t have let you down like it did. Take care of each other. And you get a chance, ask God to help me out a little down here. I still feel so broken …


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Lindsey Bell
Lindsey Bell is the author of Searching for Sanity, a devotional book for busy moms. She's also a speaker for women's events, a blogger at www.lindsey-bell.com, and a stay-at-home mother of two. She's an avid reader and a lover of all things chocolate. You can find her online at www.lindseymbell.com.