I'm not sure how to say Amen

Amen.

 

It’s what we say at the end of prayers. It is what I hear from the elderly gentleman who attends my church throughout the sermon.  Over the past 4 months I have tried to figure out how to say “Amen” and have faith behind the words.  Have the faith to truly mean Amen after my talk with God.

The song that is called Amen by I Am They is constantly on repeat as I drive to work each morning. The lyrics themselves have become a prayer. The tears that flow have become a prayer when words can’t escape my mouth.

I have no words to say

Don't know what I should pray

God, I need You

God, I need You

Oh Lord, my faith is tired

And tears fill up my eyes

But I will trust You, I will trust You

Whatever comes my way

You have taught me to say

Amen, let Your kingdom come

Amen, let Your will be done

And through the rise and fall

You're God above it all

Amen, we're singing Amen

When I can barely stand

You strengthen me again

I will seek You, I will seek You

Though troubles may arise

My hands reach to the skies

I will praise You, I will praise You”

       I was told for a second time in 4 months that the sweet baby growing inside me didn't have a heartbeat. Nothing can prepare for the sea of emotions that would overtake you in the days & weeks that follow. It wasn't just a few weeks of hope and dreams lost. A child lost. It was the first cry, the tucking in, bedtime prayers, and birthday--for a second time.  

 Miscarriage, nobody physically died…that’s what some have mentioned. It wasn’t a real somebody. It wasn’t fully formed. Not for anyone else to see. There was no "somebody". In most cases there is no physical evidence that there was a baby at all. So when a woman experiences a miscarriage, it is all silent and secret, just like the miracle that was meant to be growing inside of her. I was 8 weeks pregnant when my baby died. I was 8 weeks when I had an early pregnancy loss, but it is more than that. I was 8 weeks when I became a mother to an angel. My Angel. And nobody can take that away from me.
   

      Feeling alone and angry and raw and numb and shaken. All at the same time. I try and tell myself that I am over reacting. BUT I am supposed to be pregnant. Actually I am supposed to be almost 7-8 months pregnant right now or at least be 10 weeks pregnant right now.  If it were up to me. If I was the one who got to decide. I was the one who had planned out a nursery. Thought of a mountain scene above the crib. Envisioned it in my head across the hall. Picked out a baby girl name---knowing for sure I was going to have a boy. I was supposed to feel my baby kick and see the squishy nose on the ultrasound.  I'm supposed to have sickness and cravings.

But I'm not. It's not up to me. I didn't get a choice.

I wept again.

I felt almost in a daze the entire week.

Waiting. Wondering. Waiting.

Simple. But not so simple.

From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” (Psalm 61:2). If I was ever overwhelmed, it was now. Overwhelmed. I pictured what I felt… heartache,  waters crashing over me so much that I can't catch my breath; my feeble attempts of escaping it on my own are futile. I’m drowning. My vision stays blurry and nothing seems to focus but this one thing. I am losing my child.   

Then the overreacting kicks back in…I now don’t have to worry about solving our small house, two-bedroom dilemma. How we were going to change our daily schedules.  My early worries are now missed joys.

I wouldn’t be wearing the maternity sweater I’ve had in my closet for years.

We wouldn’t be celebrating my first Mother’s Day.

We wouldn’t be gawking over ultrasound pictures or talking to my sisters about becoming a mom.

It was back to normal. Except, it wasn’t.

My life is forever different. It looks the same to most. There are no visible signs of change. But my life is changed. And not merely changed back to what it was before I knew I was pregnant. I wish I could go back there. That pain…..the part of not being able. That was easier. That was manageable. This is pain----scars you.

It changed once when we discovered there was a baby. It changed when we discovered our Little One was gone (again).  You are frozen in certain moments in time.  I always fix my eyes on this one spot when I’m in an ultrasound. It’s a red mark on the ceiling. I focus on that and just hear the beeps of the machine, the clicks. The uncomfortable feeling of being there. I want to forget that.

Though it’s not easy to talk about. I will never forget it happened.

I remember when I  think about how I should have a growing belly.

I remember when I look in the mirror.

I remember when baby stuff pops up in my feed.

I remember when I see photos of  babies.

I remember when I see a friend’s due date.

I remember when I put away that sweater for another winter.

I remember when I open my eyes, when I breathe in, when I exhale.

     I am not sure how to do this.  
  
 I am not sure how to say....AMEN