I can’t feel them in my arms anymore.
It’s inexplicable, really. I’ve stared at four positive pregnancy tests in the last four years. And each time—without fail—I could immediately feel them in my arms.
The anticipation was instant, the bond immediate. Some may roll their eyes at such extreme statements, but the knowledge that a newly formed life had been purposefully and miraculously knitted inside of me took my breath away.
“At least it happened early, before you could get attached.”
I’ll never forget when those words were carelessly tossed in my direction. Words normally come to me easily. In that moment, I had none.
At least.
Two words that have no place in any conversation when a woman has lost a child.
I’ve lost three babies this year. Three. And the reality is this: it doesn’t matter how early it happens. The moment those hearts stopped beating, pieces of me died, too.
Some days I wake up thinking it’s all been a bad dream. Some days I forget that it’s happened, and I start mentally planning for due dates that will only leave me empty-handed once they arrive.
But then I’m reminded of John 14, of Jesus’ promise that he is preparing a place for me. How beautiful to know that before the world began, Jesus knew and planned that my true home would include the three children that have gone before me. What a gift to know that they are waiting for me!
And here is the beautiful truth that God has whispered to me in my pain: my coming reunion with Jesus Christ is the true ‘due date’ that my soul—and every soul—longs for.
And on that due date, my arms won’t be empty anymore.
This article first appeared on Just18Summers.com.
Mary Holloman 