In Remembrance of Our Children Who Have Attained the Prize of Heaven

Not that I have already obtained it or have already become perfect, but I press on so that I may lay hold of that for which also I was laid hold of by Christ Jesus.  Brethren, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.  Philippians 3:12-14

This past Saturday was the due date of the baby we lost in October.  Russ and I were talking over the weekend about the honor of having two babies who have already attained the prize of Heaven.  We personally still have so much reaching and striving through sin and its effects to do, so much to press on through.  And we witness, every day, that same struggle and striving in our children on Earth.  

To be responsible for forming our children's hearts for Christ, while simultaneously working out our own salvation with fear and trembling, is an overwhelming and humbling thing for a parent.  I admit there are days that the earthly toil is so exasperating, I hardly give a thought to my heavenly home.  Even as I was trying to take a quiet and somewhat emotional moment to write this, Ruth came down from her afternoon rest time.  She was in tears.  And there was a large round hairbrush stuck in her hair.   Like really stuck.  The cycle of disobedient child (she knows not to go in my drawers), exasperated parent, earthy consequence (ten minutes worth of tugging and detangling), and apology and reconciliation, is a familiar one.  


I'm no fool.  I know that this is my relationship with my Heavenly Father as well.  But I have two children that haven't known this struggle.  They only know the prize!  

What an emotional dichotomy it is to be a Christian parent mourning a child.  I long to hold my child, to know what she looks like, to smell her baby skin.  But she's in Heaven. I wish I could see my other children hold her and kiss her and snuggle her so excessvely that I have to say, "Ok, enough for now!  You'll smother her!"  But she's in Heaven.  I want to introduce her to our friends.  I want her to be in our family photos.  I want to hear her cry and hold her close to nurse.  I want to see her personality develop, her loveliness bloom, her love for her siblings deepen.  These are all the things I want for me.  But she's in Heaven!!!!   And there is nothing more I want for her.  

Russ and I have talked about finally naming the two babies that we have lost to miscarriage.  The fact that we're having some, ahem, arguments about the names themselves, is a good indication that we've truly embraced these little ones as our own and are not taking the honor of naming them lightly ;)  Among other reasons, we think naming these dear children will help make them more relatable in conversation, and approachable in prayer, to their siblings here on Earth.  To refer to a brother or sister by name, one who is truly living in the arms of our Lord in the company of Our Lady and the angels and saints, is a reminder that their home is also our home.  There are two Blackstones already home.  I pray that those of us still striving will live this life - the daily struggles, the times of immense joy, the crazy loud fun of wrestling in the basement or splashing in the creek, the quiet moments of sadness, and life's little hairbrush dramas - so as to lay hold of the prize - eternal life in the presence of the living God.  Laying hold of that prize will also mean a reunion with our babies in the true home of the Blackstone family.  

                               

Thoughts on Loving Our Recently Miscarried Baby

Forgive me if my thoughts are muddled... they seemed clear enough in my heart and  head when I started writing... but what I end up writing doesn't always reflect my clarity of thought or conviction of heart...

I recently miscarried a child.  It was only seven days after I took a pregnancy test.  I had spent a few days in shock and a few days allowing my excitement to grow, and then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.  

How does one process that?  What should I feel?

I struggled for a brief time, wondering what is the appropriate amount of sorrow to feel or exhibit over the loss of a pregnancy that was so short and that hardly anyone knew about. 

And I started to wonder what other people would think.  And soon, their imaginary thoughts became my own... 

You were hardly pregnant for a month, so it's not that traumatic, not like a loss at 12, or 14, or 20 weeks...

This is your second miscarriage so it shouldn't come as a surprise and it's nothing new and you know how to handle it.  You'll move on.

Well, what's one miscarriage when you have five other living children?  

Don't spend too much time grieving, or you'll look like you don't appreciate the blessing of the family that you already have.  

I was truly having a hard time knowing how to grieve for this baby whose existence I barely had time to wrap my head around.  And is it self-indulgent to mourn the loss of a child when I have so many others?  
  
One of many.  And only a brief physical reality.  Never known, cuddled, or caressed.   Do I harden my heart, repress my grief, and move on?

I thought about putting on my c'est la vie face and "moving on."  

But Love intervened, and He spoke to me through friends -- a friend who encouraged me to mourn instead of ignore, a friend who reminded me of my comforting thoughts to her after her own miscarriage, a friend who shared the prayer which made me appreciate our little one's place in our family, and a friend who wrote about her own experience with suffering and loss...

In a recent blog post, In Defense of Suffering, Annery wrote about baring her vulnerable heart for the sake of a child who deserved unreserved love.  

When we started down the road of fostering, we heard a lot of voices expressing concern for how we would guard our hearts against the possibility of loss...  [Yet] God gives us no promises on any of our children.  I'm not guarding my heart, she deserves it....  I poured love into her with reckless abandon.  I was her mother.  What were the options?  She deserved nothing less than all of me.  This precious child entrusted to our care.   

Love is risky.  Isn't it?  When we choose to bare our hearts and love without holding back, there are no guarantees we will not be hurt.

And yet, isn't that how parents love their children?  Recklessly, without calculation or caution, often at the risk of personal loss or suffering?  Love and sacrifice are intertwined and inseparable when it comes to parenting.  To be given a child and asked to be his or her guardian on the "fast track" to Heaven is not how we typically envision "parenthood" but it's no less significant.  It's parental sacrifice of a different kind.  The sacrifice isn't the daily grind of diapers and dinners, and discipline that we're used to, it's not knowing your child, never holding your child, never celebrating her birthdays with her, not tucking her in and kissing her goodnight, not peeking in on her after she's fallen asleep.  

There is sacrifice in every form of motherhood.  
  
The children that we conceived and have lost truly were precious ones entrusted to our care.  I am honored and humbled that they have only known two homes - my womb and the Heavenly Kingdom.  That's no small wonder!   It's a distinction that I hope every mother who has lost a baby embraces!  

I believe I learned a new love lesson with this miscarriage -- A guarded heart in the face a miscarriage is a selfish attempt to protect myself from the pain and sorrow of the loss.  A guarded heart is about me and ignores the child, the significance of the life within, the life that was, the unique personhood of a baby... my baby.  I know that our babies are now living out my deepest longing for all my family - a sainted life in the presence of  God the all-loving Father, Christ the King, Mary our tender mother, the ever-praising choirs of angels, and the saints of the Church Triumphant.  When I finally join them and run to my children in Heaven and hold them, I want to greet them knowing that I loved them unreservedly.  I do not want to know the regret of withholding love from them simply because they had never physically been born to me.   

Guarding our hearts against the loss of a miscarriage deprives our babies of dignity and love.  We should allow ourselves to love our miscarried babies recklessly and mourn their loss deeply because they deserve nothing less than the unguarded love we bestow on all our children.  I carried two babies only for a short time, and they were ours.  No less real, no less a Blackstone, no less loved.