Of course I think about it when my eyes open this morning.
This is the day.
This is the day I should’ve risen early, heading to Mary Immaculate hospital for the birth of my sixth baby. This is the day I should’ve been having a c-section and meeting my new little one. This should’ve been a celebration day.
But it’s not.
And, seven months later, the ache of loss still feels pretty fresh.
The loss began at my eight week check up. It took six weeks to resolve, but it finally did resolve in a D&C. It was a long, painful in body and painful in spirit sort of an experience.
This was a very wanted baby.
I asked the Lord to show him to me, just so I would know who I was mourning…because that’s so hard, I think. You’ve lost someone you love, but you don’t know his or her name or even if she’s a him or her.
God showed me in my dreams a little boy who looked like Clairey, with brown hair instead of red. With a light sprinkle of freckles. God showed me my son as a baby first.
The next day, I was laying in bed, recovering and praying and thinking about all the people I’d lost. My other two miscarriages, friends, family members…God showed me my son again…
An older boy now, maybe around three, held on the hip of Jesus…cheek resting against His shoulder. His the face of contentment, resting in the arms of our one Jesus that holds us all together. I heard his name. Peter.
And so today, I think about that little boy.
Today, on what ought to have been his birthday…today, on the day we were supposed to meet face to face.
I think about Peter and I miss him. I mourn today, instead of rejoice. I ask Jesus to sing to Peter the song I’ve sung to every baby I’ve ever loved.
How sweet the sound
Now flowing down
From hands and feet
That were nailed to a tree
Grace flows down and covers me