The Thrill of Hope

Today is my late Mudear's birthday. I miss her. I think she would've loved my husband and my baby.

BabIES.

I'm still in a little bit of denial. This morning, I rolled over to get out of bed, grazed my belly with my hand and said "Good morning, baby." And something in me drew back a little. It may be the first time I've personally, casually acknowledged the little life inside me. Not that I've been ignoring it (I can't, my whole body has already been hijacked by him/her)-- but I've chosen to let it be... not without care, but without much personality assumed or placed upon it.

It sounds a little rude. And it feels a little wrong. But I tell myself I'm just being cautious. I will eat, rest and care as best I can for this tiny one I carry-- but it's hard to let my heart really dive in and embrace everything that this baby could be. I just-- haven't. Not yet.

I know I'm not the only one who's felt this way. Cautiously excited, ready to plan but holding any real work or celebration or shopping at bay until... week 20? 30? 36? I'm not sure yet.

This December (Lord willing) Todd and Violet and I will welcome this sweet new babe into our lives and home. But I don't think we'll be able to do it without remembering another who would've joined our family late this summer. One who last Christmas, vanished as quickly as he/she came. I was just two months pregnant during the week of December 25th 2013, when suddenly, slowly, miserably I realized that something was wrong. After a week of suffering, the little one we hoped and prayed for was suddenly gone and we were left angry, impatient-- mourning the little person who would never get to spend a Christmas with our family.

In the midst of all our emotions, we were absolutely flooded with care and concern by our closest friends and family. I will never forget how they cared for us so selflessly while we grieved that little soul.

Having a miscarriage was my worst fear for most of my adult life-- and living through it was indeed traumatic-- but experiencing it was a different kind of grace. The further I get from the experience, the more I realize the power and the strength of the hope I have in Jesus, the one who conquered death and the grave. The more I realize the mercy of a God who entrusts us with the gift of little lives to nurture and love-- however short or long they may be. And I realize what a gift it is to have friends, sisters, bound by the same Spirit, who flooded me with words and tears and food and flowers and the knowledge that I wasn't alone. From such tragedy sprang such-- love... overflowing and steady, meeting every need as we recovered.

I'm so grateful for my community, far and near, who will love and support us through whatever the next six months bring. I'm so grateful for a faithful God, who carries us through moments we could never endure alone and loves us even more deeply through our moments of kicking and screaming. I'm grateful for the hope of Christmas, specifically this Christmas Eve, when Lord-willing, we will celebrate the birth of our Savior Jesus AND the birth of our second baby.

And for you, little lemon-sized baby Genteman-- you destroyer of tastebuds, stretcher of summer clothes and High Commander of Acid Reflux-- I'm grateful for you too. Keep on growing... and please maybe be a boy so I'm less tempted to do this whole thing again.