Wrestling with Hope, Trust, and Fear
While my aunt was in town, we tackled the nursery together. Although we emptied the closet after Isabella died, we had not boxed up the dresser, so it was still full of pink blankets, bows, and frilly clothes. With our son coming in less than two weeks, it was time to make room for newly washed baby boy clothes and prepare the nursery again. I knew it would be a hard task, and it was. My heart ached and I cried as we sorted through each drawer, deciding whether these socks were neutral enough, whether a swaddle with grey, black, and pink could be used for a boy, and folding the favorite baby clothes from the 80s and 90s that my sisters and I wore. While there is no reason he could not wear clothes more stereotypically girl, I know that my heart would hurt whenever someone in a grocery store asked how old my girl was. The pain I felt while sorting through items was not new, nor was the sorrow in putting away unworn clothing. This time, though, I felt a mixture of the tremendous loss that packing each floral sunhat represented along with the tremulous hope that we will actually use the dresser and closet for a baby. It was stepping out in faith, choosing to hope that we will bring this baby home and that the next time I box up nursery items, it will be because he has outgrown them.
In addition to this month being a time of anticipating our son’s arrive, it is also full of navigating life without Mom. Her birthday is/was this month and, one week later, the first anniversary of her death. A week after that is our son’s scheduled delivery. I passed the date that marked a year since I last saw my mom. My husband was hosting men’s group at our house so I decided to invite myself over to my parents’ house. We made waffles, I brought Mom honey with comb and flowers for her birthday, which was the next day. After we ate, I sat with Mom on their sofa with my head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat. At the time, I had the strangest thought that her heart would not beat in a casket. Eight days later, she had taken her own life.
She had promised that she would be here for our next child’s birth. That will not happen. While one of her dearest friends is coming into town for his birth, no one is a substitute for Mom. My husband and I have had numerous discussions over many weeks trying to both figure out who we want at the hospital personally, as well as what are the familial repercussions of inviting/not inviting others. Everything within me wants my mom there, but that is not an option. I also want my dad there to meet our son the day he is born, but I do not want his girlfriend there that day. She is not our son’s grandma and she is not my mom. Dad is planning on being there the day our son is born and his girlfriend can meet him a different day, when our emotions about welcoming a healthy child, mourning Isabella, and missing Mom are not as raw. Again, wrestling with the hope we can actually hold our son, the fear that we will alienate my father, and trusting that, somehow, God will use this next season for reconciliation and new life.
We’ve begun reading baby books to prepare to raise our son. It’s tough being parents, yet not having any experience raising a child. On a side note, I’ve discovered how much it hurts when people who have walked beside us after Isabella died, say that my husband “will be a great dad” or that I “will be a great mom.” Even though our daughter is not alive, we are parents. Parenting the last 21 months has looked nothing like we expected or desired, but we are still parents. So while we are parents, we have never changed our child’s diaper, applied the information learned in a breastfeeding class, experienced the interrupted sleep of caring for a newborn, or taken our child to the pediatrician. Simply reading about bringing home a baby is an act of faith and trust, while fully aware that there are no guarantees.
My fear has somewhat diminished this week, compared to last week. If he comes now, he is fully developed and should be able to survive. I had to write, should be, because we know that even full-term infants can die. It’s easy to picture something going wrong - that is our only experience with parenthood. Yet I’m learning to acknowledge the fear that he will die this week from whatever horrific story of loss I’ve heard and begin to personalize, without dwelling on the terror. I’m learning what it looks like to continually lean into the Lord and trust him. Trust that he loves my children more than I ever can, trust that we will see his goodness in the land of the living (Psalm 27:13), trust that he has a plan for our son and nothing can thwart that. I trust that the days of our son’s life are already numbered (Psalm 139:16) and my fear that his will be in the single digits does not impact God’s sovereignty. Indulging in my fears will not cause him to die as a baby nor live to his 90s. I’m learning that I continue to trust God with Isabella - her life was not a mistake and her death did not surprise God. If I trust that God is continuing to use Isabella for his glory, the child we longed for and buried, then I can also trust God with the child within me. I trust that God is and will always watch over him. I trust that God will guide him, protect him, discipline him, and grow him in ways I would never choose, yet will enable him to become a man of God. It means I know I don’t have control and that is for the best, for God does have control. So as my fear diminishes, my trust in the Lord grows along with my hope that we will bring our son home.
When our fears overwhelm our hope and trust, we talk. We talk about Isabella, how much we miss her, how different it would look right now to have an almost two-year-old, what it would be like to prepare her to welcome a little brother, and how we never want to experience the death of another child. We talk about specific fears - another NICU stay, returning another car seat, walking out of the hospital without our baby, again. And we talk about our dreams for him - learning how to parent a living child, learning how to discipline well while knowing we will mess up many times, anticipating the joy of simply watching his chest rise and fall in sleep, of hearing him cry because it means he is alive, and of holding him. Time keeps moving. We will hold him soon and we pray that we bring him home.
In addition to this month being a time of anticipating our son’s arrive, it is also full of navigating life without Mom. Her birthday is/was this month and, one week later, the first anniversary of her death. A week after that is our son’s scheduled delivery. I passed the date that marked a year since I last saw my mom. My husband was hosting men’s group at our house so I decided to invite myself over to my parents’ house. We made waffles, I brought Mom honey with comb and flowers for her birthday, which was the next day. After we ate, I sat with Mom on their sofa with my head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat. At the time, I had the strangest thought that her heart would not beat in a casket. Eight days later, she had taken her own life.
She had promised that she would be here for our next child’s birth. That will not happen. While one of her dearest friends is coming into town for his birth, no one is a substitute for Mom. My husband and I have had numerous discussions over many weeks trying to both figure out who we want at the hospital personally, as well as what are the familial repercussions of inviting/not inviting others. Everything within me wants my mom there, but that is not an option. I also want my dad there to meet our son the day he is born, but I do not want his girlfriend there that day. She is not our son’s grandma and she is not my mom. Dad is planning on being there the day our son is born and his girlfriend can meet him a different day, when our emotions about welcoming a healthy child, mourning Isabella, and missing Mom are not as raw. Again, wrestling with the hope we can actually hold our son, the fear that we will alienate my father, and trusting that, somehow, God will use this next season for reconciliation and new life.
We’ve begun reading baby books to prepare to raise our son. It’s tough being parents, yet not having any experience raising a child. On a side note, I’ve discovered how much it hurts when people who have walked beside us after Isabella died, say that my husband “will be a great dad” or that I “will be a great mom.” Even though our daughter is not alive, we are parents. Parenting the last 21 months has looked nothing like we expected or desired, but we are still parents. So while we are parents, we have never changed our child’s diaper, applied the information learned in a breastfeeding class, experienced the interrupted sleep of caring for a newborn, or taken our child to the pediatrician. Simply reading about bringing home a baby is an act of faith and trust, while fully aware that there are no guarantees.
My fear has somewhat diminished this week, compared to last week. If he comes now, he is fully developed and should be able to survive. I had to write, should be, because we know that even full-term infants can die. It’s easy to picture something going wrong - that is our only experience with parenthood. Yet I’m learning to acknowledge the fear that he will die this week from whatever horrific story of loss I’ve heard and begin to personalize, without dwelling on the terror. I’m learning what it looks like to continually lean into the Lord and trust him. Trust that he loves my children more than I ever can, trust that we will see his goodness in the land of the living (Psalm 27:13), trust that he has a plan for our son and nothing can thwart that. I trust that the days of our son’s life are already numbered (Psalm 139:16) and my fear that his will be in the single digits does not impact God’s sovereignty. Indulging in my fears will not cause him to die as a baby nor live to his 90s. I’m learning that I continue to trust God with Isabella - her life was not a mistake and her death did not surprise God. If I trust that God is continuing to use Isabella for his glory, the child we longed for and buried, then I can also trust God with the child within me. I trust that God is and will always watch over him. I trust that God will guide him, protect him, discipline him, and grow him in ways I would never choose, yet will enable him to become a man of God. It means I know I don’t have control and that is for the best, for God does have control. So as my fear diminishes, my trust in the Lord grows along with my hope that we will bring our son home.
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