A Letter To Those Who Have Miscarried
This particular pain is dear to my heart, and, I think, to God's heart as well. I've written this letter, to my friends who have miscarried, but also to everyone who has experienced a miscarriage.
I see you, and I see your grief.
You tell me about your miscarriage so matter-of-factly, as if the sterile words will remove you from the reality. I’m sorry if I don’t know what to say, or how to act. I am not good at grief. But you are not either.I want to take your hands and hold them as we sit. Just sit.
Maybe I have walked with you through your dreams for this child, perhaps this is the first that I’m hearing about her, about him. Thank you for inviting me into this intimate circle of grief. To sit. Just sit.
I love you, and I love this baby, too. Tiny and beautifully formed by the Hands of God. She is your firstborn, perhaps, or maybe your third. He is always on your peripheral vision as his brother plays with Legos on the floor.
We don’t have to just sit. I will join you if you want to scream. This is worth screaming about. I am not afraid of your volume, your tears, or your depths. They belong to you.
I will bring food, or make tea. I will come close, or leave a space. I will stumble through this grief with you.
If you want to take a break, I will take over the righteous anger for a while. I will be angry about the words spoken without thinking, landing heavy, like a punch to the stomach. I will stand between you and those who tell you to get started trying again. Between you and those who tell you that you will have another baby. I will tell them that this baby is loved, seen, and known. I will tell them that this baby is irreplaceable.
When all of our words are gone, I will rock with you, side to side, if you’ll let me. I will help you put away the constant reminders. I will take you for tequila shots, and heat soup on your stove.
I will cry with you. I will pray for you, with and without words. I will hope with you.
I will remember, with you.
All my love,