Not so normal "birth-day"

It should be normal to see birthdays written all over my calendar, right?  All the cousins' birthdays, my siblings', my parent's, the in-laws', etc, so that I can "attempt" to get cards sent out to each of them on time (unfortunately, they usually get sent belated despite my best efforts).  Well, there is one "birth-day" that I have written on my calendar that still catches me off guard every year...causes me to stare, to pause, to remember.  On October 10th, in my flowery cursive I read:  Sebastian's birth into heaven.  And the memories come flooding back whether I want them to or not....  the last ultrasound with no beating heart, the birth into my hands at home, discovering God gave us another boy, naming him Sebastian, calling Paul to come home from work, baptizing him in our sink, my need for a picture to remember him, the scary D and C later that day, the way my throat hurt when I awoke, the burial with a few friends, designing a tombstone... 

Sebastian wasn't our first miscarriage, nor, sadly, would he be our last.  My first miscarriage was so early in my pregnancy (6 weeks) that it seemed easier for me to pretend it didn't happen.  I never marked it on a calendar.  I now wish I would have. He may not have a date marked on my calendar, but I did grieve and we did give him a name:  Christian.  With Sebastian, I was 15 weeks pregnant.  I was showing, I had ultrasounds with a bouncing baby, I had survived the morning sickness phase, I thought I was over the risk of miscarriage.  Grief this time took me for a tailspin into a deep depression that lasted for quite some time.  Our third baby born into heaven happened at 8 weeks, and we named him Frances.  I had learned from losing Sebastian that I would want to remember Frances' birthday, so it is written on my calendar on November 13th.  Seeing these "birth-days" on my calendar I'm sure will always be bittersweet, but they are also beautiful reminders of so many truths that I don't know that I would have fully grasped otherwise.  My miscarriages taught me that we are not in control, that life is fragile, that we were not really intended for this world.  Yes, I grieved at each of their "birth-days" very differently, and I still grieve a little each time I remember them, but I now have the faith to believe that I can call them by name and ask them to pray for me, and that I will meet them again in heaven someday.  And that is not bitter, but rather very sweet.

I have many friends who have also experienced the heartbreak of miscarrying.  One sweet friend recently miscarried at 20 weeks.  She delivered a little girl who she thought would join her family of two rambunctious boys.  She named her Lily after the lily-white Blessed Virgin.  Another close friend delivered her baby boy full-term, only to hold him alive for a few seconds due to a placental abruption that was not detected in time.  Life is full of pain.  What I am finding is that it's not healthy to run from it, nor to pretend it away.  I need to write it on my calendar, to embrace it with arms of faith to find its purpose.  Pain's purpose is usually to shape us more into Christ, whose life was filled with pain, and whose pain won for us the greatest of all gifts:  eternal life.  If our pain can bring us closer to that gift, it should be remembered, it should be written on our calendars, or if not there, at least on our hearts.

I will close with a reprint of a poem I wrote for another kindred spirit friend who has shared the pain of miscarriage.  Perhaps some of you reading have experienced a not so normal "birth-day" of a child into heaven as well, and I hope this poem may give some comfort.

Womb Now Empty

Womb now empty
Eyes brimming full
Questions without answers
Why given then taken, tiny soul?

Emotions so myriad,
Heart too numb to share
Flee to an inner cloister
A few friends welcome there

Cradle to be barren
Tiny saint in heaven instead
Comforting is the thought
Still many tears are shed

Womb now empty
But heart stretching full
Soon in Heaven reunited
Mother and child, same goal