“For me writing has always felt like praying, even when I
wasn’t writing prayers, as I was often enough. You feel that you are with
someone…”
“Well, but how deeply I regret any sadness you have suffered
and how grateful I am in anticipation of any good you have enjoyed. That is to
say, I pray for you. And there’s an intimacy in it.”
-from Gilead by
Marilynne Robinson
In April of 2013, I picked up two pregnancy tests from
Walgreens and headed home. I paced around our small apartment, which was a very
small area in the men’s dorm room we inhabited. Feelings of nervousness and
claustrophobia eventually nudged me into the bathroom to take the test. I peed,
I waited, and then I stared. Yep. Pregnant.
We hadn’t been planning for a baby, so we were initially
shocked. I only guessed I might be pregnant because I was feeling so unlike
myself and carrying shooting lower back pain for two weeks. That little
positive sign on the stick sent panic through me. And then, my husband wrapped
his arms around me and reminded me of what this actually meant. We were having
a baby. We were starting our family,
the one we’d talked about and hoped for. This was good, as unplanned as it was.
We lived the next three weeks in anticipation. We couldn’t
wait for our first appointment to nail down exactly how far along I was.
Because it was so early and because I felt pretty clueless on protocol for baby
welcoming, we decided to hold onto the news until after our appointment. Those
weeks went by fairly normally, except for the fact that I had immediately
connected myself to this little one growing inside me.
About three weeks after discovering I was pregnant, I
started bleeding a little and feeling poorly. I called my doctor and she
assured me it was a part of early pregnancy. If it worsened, though, I was to
head to the ER. A few days later, the bleeding had only increased and my fears were
overwhelming me. We drove to the ER in silence and tears, hoping desperately
that this visit would simply quiet our anxiety. Three hours after we’d checked
in, we left deflated and weary. Our baby would not make it through the weekend.
I miscarried at home, in our bed and bathroom, on a Sunday
night. The fear and grief that filled that night seem so far off, and I’m
thankful for God’s grace in that. But the weeks and months that followed were
some of the hardest I’ve faced. My first few days of grieving were strange. I
was insecure and vulnerable, so I only shared the news with my family. As I
expected, they were amazing in their responses. There was such love and support
and truth extended to Reed and I in that time. We felt just a bit lighter in
those days because of the way our families helped carry the pain.
The strange part of grief came a couple days after we’d
shared with our families. I was on my way to work, riding in the passenger seat
because Reed had to use our one car for the day. I was pretty quiet and Reed
was trying to be encouraging. He asked me what my mind was doing, how I was
feeling about the day, what I hoped to do to rest later. I stared out the
window and cried my morning’s regular amount of tears. As he continued, I
became angrier. Not at him, but at the idea of working while my baby was gone.
At the idea of dealing with end-of-the-year grades and repeatedly asking
students to face their computer screen.
I was mad that this was so difficult and draining, and I wanted, more
than anything, for everything to stop.
We had just passed the sketchy McDonald’s and the industrial
buildings when Reed and I started to argue. He wanted me to take some days off,
but I was being characteristically stubborn and shutting everything down. As we
went back and forth, I finally screamed, “I SHOULD BE ABLE TO HANDLE THIS!”
Through my scream, angry, heavy tears spilled down my face. Reed grabbed my
phone, called my boss, and confidently announced that I wouldn’t be coming in
today. I slumped down into the seat, tired and secretly thankful.
The rest of the day was an odd, detached blur of shopping
and indulging. I needed to distract my brain from all those ping-ponging
thoughts. I wandered through the mall at 10 in the morning, buying white pants
and staring at bulldog puppies through the cloudy glass. When I finished, I
wasn’t ready to face home, so I settled down in the bookstore with coffee and a
book. I’d started Gilead by Marilynne
Robinson, but I’d barely read 15 pages before that day. As I read my book,
there, in the large, impersonal Barnes and Noble, I began to weep as I read
these words:
“Well, but how deeply
I regret any sadness you have suffered and how grateful I am in anticipation of
any good you have enjoyed. That is to say, I pray for you. And there’s an
intimacy in it.”
Gilead is the story of a dying father writing to his young
son. I was the mother writing to, praying for, her unborn child. It had all
happened so quickly. The fear, the excitement, the dreams for this little one.
And then, things changed very abruptly that night in the hospital. What a crazy
roller coaster it was. So as I read those words, I felt understood. My written
words were my prayers for the hope that would not be realized. I would never
know what this child loved or laughed for. I wouldn’t see this baby walk or
celebrate Christmas or play with cousins. Even more than that, though, the
realization hit me that I wouldn’t know this little one’s sadness. Something in
me attached myself very quickly to the idea of comforter and nurturer. I loved
that idea, the picture of God growing me to be more compassionate and patient
for this child of mine. I wanted to protect this baby. But I couldn’t.
I did my best to stubbornly avoid any real feelings that
day, but God had different plans. That book, those words – that was a pivotal
moment in my grieving process. That day I chose to continue praying. I chose to
embrace the huge, heavy sadness of this loss and cling to God. I felt like
someone knew my pain, even in this fictional, very different account. They knew
what it was to love a child, while at the same time losing out on the fullness
of the relationship.
Of course, there was more to grieve and more to work
through, but at that point, Robinson’s words were enough. The following year
was a hard one, and I often returned to that day’s journal entry for
encouragement. Writing as prayer, and prayer as intimacy. These are
realizations I will carry with me for years to come. I couldn’t be more
thankful for the book that came at the most appropriate of times.