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When forced to look at room full of women who were celebrating what I didn’t have — many of whom had experienced that for which I had desperately prayed — I couldn’t run away from this question.
So when it was time for my own baby shower — a place to celebrate this little promise that now has a heartbeat and fingernails and eyelashes — a dozen drives to friends’ homes, when I had coached myself on the way there and cried to Him on the way home, came back to me. He formed me in those days that marked my lack.
Though dark days will likely come again, He’ll never hear my barren cry again. Though the promise of trouble in this earth will still weave its way into my story, He’ll never hold those particular tears, shed as I said — out loud — you are good to me, God over the dashboard, on the way home from another baby shower, while my heart didn’t feel it. The secret conversation where I bled words to Him in the elevator on the way down from another 4th-floor newborn visit to Martha Jefferson hospital has ended.
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