green

Yesterday I mostly finished my belly book for the little man bouncing around inside me. All I have left is one more weekly update and the details of his arrival. I then waddled over to the shelf where I keep all the Belly Books, and I slid it in its place-- right next to the other four. On each spine I had numbered the pregnancy for easy reference: #1, #2, #3, #4, and this one, #5. And for the first time in awhile the discrepancy between the number of books on that shelf to the number of children in my home looked me in the face.

I remember putting that #4 book up on the shelf last year-- remember stuffing it with cards so many friends and family had sent during that loss. I printed out the reflections I wrote during that time and pasted them in next to the sonogram pictures of our baby at eight weeks in the womb, another at 11 weeks. And then I taped in the final sonogram, at 14 weeks, our baby clearly formed but with a heart that had stopped beating. And after that? Weeks 15 through 40 remain blank.

Putting that book up on that shelf last year seemed like another little step in the large grieving process of losing our baby. But now I realize that, while there were no more pictures of my belly growing and swelling with baby Jordan inside of me, I could have filled that book with so much other growth inside myself and inside of my family.

A few days after my miscarriage was confirmed, I wrote about the Israelites crossing the Jordan River and building an altar with rocks from the bottom of that exposed bed. And they said that when people asked, "What do these rocks mean?", they would be able to tell of God's faithfulness; of His deliverance and guidance and sovereign love and kindness.

A couple months after I miscarried, we got a large rock for our yard. And when I look at it, I am reminded of those very things the Israelites were reminded of, and we get to tell our girls, our friends, and our neighbors. We get to tell them of God's kindness to us; of his deliverance even in the midst of such grief and loss.

Last August 15th I was met with news I never expected-- news I wasn't prepared for. And that news brought me running to scripture. My soul felt like the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel and I needed to read about life being breathed back into them. I remember reading Hebrews a lot during this time, as well. I read about a great high priest-- Jesus-- who reminded me I could take hold of hope set before me. Hope in the midst of pain. He was an anchor keeping our souls firm and secure in the midst of the storm-- not removing us from the pain but giving us an anchor to hold onto through it. And in Hebrews four I was reminded again that God's Word is alive and active-- that through it everything is uncovered and laid bare and I asked God to give me the humility to always welcome the counsel of scripture, especially through our loss.

And that's when I saw them, out in the margin on that very page in Hebrews: the lyrics to a song [by Aaron Ivey] that had struck me and so I had scribbled them down several months prior:

May you plant us in your mercy. May your words supply the branches, so when the fire comes you'll keep us green. 

And there I was, in the fire, but being kept green by the Truth of scripture and the comfort of the Spirit.

You know the story of Jonah? He runs from God and should be dead but finds himself in the deep, dark belly of whale. And while still in the belly-- not rescued yet, just sitting in the stench-- Jonah says, "You raised my life from the pit, Lord my God." And that's what I felt like last August. I was still in the belly, but I was praising God for the already and the not yet-- for the rescue that had already come through Christ and the rescue that I knew was coming for my grief.

That whale spit us out on the shores, but our time in the belly was raw and real and hard. And yet, our time there also revealed the goodness of our God in ways we had not yet experienced so tangibly, and reminded us anew that when the fire comes He will keep us green. Last night as we laid in bed, Brent wrapped his arms around me and asked, "How are you feeling about tomorrow?" And my answer was, "I'm really good."

"Me too," he responded.

And we are. We are good. We are good not because I have another baby ready to join us [at any moment!]. We are good not because we already had three little girls when we lost our baby Jordan. We are good not because our days are mostly happy.

We are good because we have a God who was in the belly with us.
We have a God who said, "Me too" when we were grieving and who says "Me too" with us now in our joy.

That number four belly book is just one of the many reminders we have of the baby we lost. Blythe asked just last week why baby Jordan is in heaven and baby brother got to stay in my tummy. And there is no answer to that question except that God is good and kind in both scenarios.

That's what the rocks mean, after all.

And today, please know: Whether you are in the deepest belly-of-a-whale-moment. or high on a mountain, or somewhere in the large space between-- whether you are recovering, or reeling, or rejoicing-- you are already and forever rescued from the pit by our good God who sees you there. He is a good God who wants our screams and our tears, but also wants our hearts to remember the Truth of His character. Your current circumstances will never outweigh the His eternal promises to you. He sees you. He will make a way through the river for you, too.