I wrote this a week before Christmas, when my arms were feeling empty even when they were (and are) so very full.
“You
know, often when God takes something from us He plans to give us something
else. It might be something we can see
or it might be part of our character, our walk with God…” his voice trailed
off, perhaps in response to my clenched jaw and fists.
I was
16, staring down into a grave scraped out of the frozen earth where my beloved
Labrador was buried, her back still arched with the internal havoc the poison
had wrought on her four year old body.
None of us knew how she had ingested the cause of her death, if it had
been intended by someone or simply found in the earth, a dead rat, some rotten
food. I didn’t understand why she was
there in the ground and my stomach boiled with anger at the words attempting to
comfort me. They came from a family friend
who had helped to dig the grave - quite a feat in the Rocky Mountains,
especially the day before a snowy Thanksgiving.
I choked down my bitter thoughts along with the tears that wouldn’t stop
for days.
I never
saw exactly what I gained from my puppy’s death. She had been the answer to my childhood dream
of having my own dog and to have it end so prematurely seemed deeply unfair at
the time. I suppose I gained character,
as our friend had said, and looking back now I know that I did although I couldn’t
put an exact name to it.
That was many years ago.
There
was a package in the mail last week from my sister. I smiled as I unwrapped a tiny pair of blue
and green crocheted booties just right for the little feet busily kicking the
air in my lap. And then, a much smaller
pair, wrapped in white tissue with a note: “December Baby”. Tiny little booties, crocheted from white
cotton, too small to fit anyone meant for this world. I gasped and a wrenching sob escaped from a
deep place inside that I thought had shut.
It all
came back. The loss two days before
Christmas, the weeks of bleeding, mornings when I didn’t want to get out of bed
to face another day, an internal battle mentally beating myself up wondering
what was wrong that something so many others face would affect me so deeply,
how I took three pregnancy tests two months later in disbelief and then for
months swung between the joy of another pregnancy and the desperate fear that my
baby would be taken from me again.
As I sat
there with these two pairs of shoes, one in each hand, I looked at the tiny
person in my lap and realized what had happened. This little man, with his big hazel eyes,
expressive mouth, decided opinions and big smiles, he wouldn’t exist had his
brother or sister continued to grow. Although
it wasn’t my choice, it was God’s plan.
I bowed my head, kissing a smooth baby forehead, thanking God
because I know He doesn’t always, but this time He has given me something
visible and tangible in place of what He had taken. It’s a strange thing, but this gift, my little Ethan, would not
have been possible without loss.
“You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
you have loosed my sackcloth
and clothed me with gladness,
that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!
Psalm
30:11-12
