Tonight is an exceptionally rare August evening in Kentucky – crystal clear skies and cool temperatures, so after an evening out, we turned off the outside lights, pulled chairs out into the middle of our driveway, and sat facing the eastern sky to watch the Perseid meteor shower.  We were not disappointed.  We saw quite a few, some faint and several so bright they left a light trail that stretched across the whole sky.  Not a bad way to spend the evening; feeling so very, very small in a very big universe.

I understand that feeling could be frightening, depending on your circumstances.  But often when I feel the smallest, God feels the closest.  Self isn’t big enough to get in the way, so there is nothing left to do but marvel at the complexity of creation.  This is a theme closer to my heart tonight than I could ever have thought possible.  I have shared here before about our longing for children.  I had no idea that just a few short weeks after that post, J and I would learn that I was pregnant.  There are no words for the delight and amazement we shared that our miracle had finally happened.  We were at the highest peak of joy, and then… last week we lost the baby, and we plunged into the deep agony of loss, our hopes crashing horribly to the ground.

These past days, I have felt very small, indeed.  In college I minored in biology, and I have a fairly good understanding of what can go wrong in pregnancy and human development, but head knowledge does not eliminate pain in the heart.  I’m still working my way through it all, but here are somethings I know for sure.  My husband is a gift from God.  We have cried, together and apart, but mostly together, holding each other through the hurt and growing closer together at a time when it would be easy to push each other away.  My family and friends are a blessing.  We hadn’t told very many about the baby as it was still so early, but it was sweet assurance to know I could call and ask for prayer and support and be instantly loved and lifted up.  And I know God is good, all the time.

Until we die (or He comes back), we must live in this frail world, and sorrow and death are a part of our human life.  But oh, there is hope.  I believe our baby is in His presence now, and while we didn’t get a chance to hold that little soul very long here on earth, I will live my life in anticipation of a joyful Heavenly reunion.  While my pregnancy didn’t last long, it was the sweetest answer to the long-asked question of whether it was even possible at all.   After a few days of tears, rest, and recovery, I launched back into my routine this week.  In a way, it was a relief to be busy, to be drawn out of my self-focus and remember that there was business to be done and people to love.  In the quiet moments, sorrow still washes over me, and the tears flow, but yesterday on the way home, I was alone in the car, and I realized I was singing one of my favorite songs:

Why should I feel discouraged?
Why should the shadows fall?
Why should my heart be lonely,
and long for Heaven and Home.
When Jesus is my portion,
My constant Friend is He.
His eye is on the sparrow,
and I know He watches me.
His eye is on the sparrow,
and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy!
I sing because I’m free!
For His eye is on the sparrow
and I know He watches me.

Tonight, the stars in the sky were brilliant but so small, and I was freshly aware of how far away even the brightest star is from our world.  But He does not watch us from those far-away stars.  We are under His ever-present care, every moment of every day.  Not everything in our life feels good, but rest assured that, as it’s poignantly expressed in The Message, He works all things together for good.  I have hugged and prayed with my friends who have also lost babies, but now I have an empathy I didn’t have before, and I am certain there will be a time when someone will need to hear the words “I’ve been there.”  If another baby does come into our lives, I will count the blessing even sweeter.  I will remember the rock my husband has been, even in his own sorrow, and I will cherish the bond we share.  And I will pray for grace to let Him make me “better, not bitter”, as our pastor’s wife so often says.  And even if it’s sometimes through tears, I will sing, because I am free.