We suffered a miscarriage over the summer. It was awful and painful and so very sad. My husband and I mourned together, and then kept on going, because that’s what you do. God has given us tremendous grace and peace over the past few months.
We got tattoos to remember our baby. I think about him (or her) every single day. We hit what would have been the halfway point, and I thought about what my growing belly would have looked like. We would have had a gender reveal party, and I know little Wrenn would have been so excited about being a big sister. We would have prepared a nursery, and fretted over how Wrenn would adjust to a new baby. We would have planned ahead – I would have planned to be out on maternity leave and away from work, we would have cleared our schedules for the spring as we soaked up the wonderfulness and pure craziness of those first few weeks with a newborn in the house.
Our sweet Truett Lennon would have been due today, March 12. March should have been a month of celebration – of holding our new child and inhaling that sweet baby smell. We would be exhausted from lack of sleep and round-the-clock nursings and sitting around all day staring at our tiny wrinkled darling.
But he’s not here. My arms are empty. Our schedule hasn’t been cleared. We aren’t making adjustments and Wrenn isn’t a big sister. Instead, I’m left with a hope that I will one day see my precious child in heaven. Until then, I will grieve and thank God for the comfort he provides me every day. Including today.