Those Moments

In church this morning we sang a hymn that had something to do with holding a newborn baby and I... I just lost it. It's been 2 and a half months since I found out that our precious number 8's heart had stopped beating in my womb and over-all I'm doing well. I hope to share, in-depth, the whole journey but for now, let's just say that I'm doing well. I've been well-loved, well-comforted and well-cared for. I've grieved well and took my time with that so as not to miss any of the feelings that needed to surface. I've shared well with others in order to make sure that I'm not holding things in. I've done well at making new plans and am, well, moving on.

But there are still those moments.

Those moments when I'm driving down the road and a song comes on that, months ago, helped me through my grief but now when I hear it, it just stirs everything up again and I have to pull over and cry and then try to be thankful and move on but instead I just cry some more.

Those moments when I see a family at church bring their new baby and I get all excited for them and rush over to congratulate them and to gush over their perfect little gift and then I walk back to my pew full of my amazingly large family, yet for some reason, all of a sudden my genuine smile drops and I feel so empty inside because I should have a growing stomach and I should be pregnant and I should be looking forward to having my own newborn in a few months but instead I'm just... empty.

And that moment when we sang the song at church about holding a newborn baby and I got all choked up and I couldn't sing and everything went blurry and I couldn't read the words even if I could have sung and then my cheeks were all wet and my nose was running and I had to go to the bathroom and just cry and then clean up my face but just as I was getting control of the mascara mess, I started to cry more.

And then there's the moment when I have to walk back into church and I excuse my way back into my empty seat and scoot close to my husband who wraps his arm around me and holds me close and through the entire service, he's either rubbing my shoulder with his work-worn hands or he's holding my hand in his and every once in a while, giving it a knowing squeeze that says, "I'm sorry, Baby. I know how you feel and I'm here for you. I'm here for you."

And his silence speaks louder than the sermon.

Yes, there are those moments.