I was grateful to awaken to the rain this morning. Its gentle pattering whispered the day in. I needed that. I sighed and buried my head back into my pillow, my room darker than usual. I wanted to stay there. I could hear Chris moving about in the other room. I breathed in the comfort of knowing I wasn’t alone.
Today marks the day we discovered our last child was no longer alive in my womb. I don’t want to give an acknowledgement to this anniversary. I want it to go away. I don’t intentionally remember this pain or even the date, but it comes and finds me anyway. My heart constricts. I pull the covers back and look into the face of this day. I light a candle in the kitchen and am consoled in its aroma and warmth. These candles, they bring comfort. They soothe the wound. Bring me a truckload today. I press down the peppermint coffee in the the french press, and find my favorite cup. The little things. The rituals. I pick up my journal and Bible, but just stare out the window at the rain. If this day were a garment, it would fit me perfectly.
Chris and I walked last night, and remembered together. He let me talk as I carefully trekked tenuous paths of pain. “Remember when we moved here,” I asked him, “and I said, it wouldn’t be a home until we brought a baby home to it?” “Yes,” he answers patiently. ” My heart was so full when I thought we would bring our fourth Morgan child home here…” I trail off. There is silence. The moon shines on us as we hold hands and walk down to the barn. I turn on the water for the horses. “And then I lost him”, I finish my broken sentence. “We”, he begins,”we lost him. It wasn’t your fault.” I am doubtful of his words. All this time, and I still feel responsible. It is just the mothering way. We always feel responsible.
I am grateful for the rain. Yes. A heavenly acknowledgement that I am not alone. That this day does not go unnoticed. This pain, this heart, this girl does not go unnoticed. The cold, the glossy leaves, just the wetness somehow affirms me. I feel alive. Hurting, but alive and not alone. For these things, I am grateful. And, I have friends. Faces who love me through their eyes, who sympathize, and and bring encouragement. They say, I don’t understand, but I love you and I am here.
I feel loved.
There is color in the seasons as they catapult us forward, even though we protest. This cannot be disputed. Pain makes the colors of life more vivid. I don’t know why.
Still. It hurts. 
Grateful for the rain…
14 Comments
I like Chris stepping up to say “we”. Thanks for sharing and may God continue to bless and heal and give you both strength.
Ken
I love the sound of your written voice.
Prayers are prayed through shuffling steps . . . Christ communes with my weariness and I remember that God routes his victory through pain.
Our cries pool together from our losses and somehow find a voice in gratitude. That is what i hear.
You know how I love beautiful sounds.
I’m so warmed by your humble strength – it is a display of grace.
I love you.
I hear your words and I sense your loss and your pain. I have thought the last few days of our baby and that soon I will meet him in heaven. That is a special thought for me. I love you and I remember.
hi mary anne–
you don’t know me directly, but i know the Pitts family & go to their church (CHBC). i, too, have gone through exactly what you’ve been through. it happened a year & a half ago, and it was just awfully painful. you’re NOT alone ! and it’s NOT your fault ! It will be sweet to see our wee ones when we get Home.
love you & love your beautiful pictures, too.
a.
“still it hurts”…there is a pain so deep that only GOD can touch it…wise you are to let Him, friend.
You are so Precious to God Mary Anne !! I have suffered pain in this world, but nothing compared to the “Glory” that awaits! My heart goes out too you and I hear your cry! The Lord loves you and he will be your comforter. Prayers lifted up for you Mary Anne , I pray for God’s healing and strength when your heart is touched by the memory of your loss.
Revelation 21:4
He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
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Mary Ann whenever you write I seem to hang on to every word. My husband, Chris, and I lost a child when he was 71/2 months old of SIDS just simply forgot to breath. Without a doubt the saddest time of our life. All the hopes and dreams just gone. We certainly don’t understand things like this but know our GOD is bigger and he has the ultimate plan. We celebrate his birthday every year in simple ways usually a cupcake and a visit to his grave. This year was a particularly hard year as he would have turned 16 and I know all the fun we would have had with the visit to the DMV for the driver’s licenses, the special birthday party and such. I am thankful for many things and have learned to be thankful for the small things in life. I love our precious family, our daughter , Lauren, 21 and of course my husband greatly. I also know Alex is smiling down on us each and every day. Thanks for writing, taking your beautiful pictures, and sharing your beautiful stories.
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