A Reflection On Our Second Miscarriage
Dear Friends,
Over this past weekend, the Lord has invited my husband and I into a sacrifice of praise, and on Thanksgiving we were called to worship and give thanks that our son has joined his big sister, Noel, in heaven. We named him Leo after our favorite pope, Leo XIII, “the rosary pope.”
With all grief, it’s hard to put into words what is rattling and settling and breaking into our hearts: namely, the memory of seeing his heart beating wildly alive, and the memory of seeing his heart so still. Above all, the moment I passed our baby boy was undoubtedly the most profound and possibly the most sacred moment of my life: to see and hold him, searing into my heart the total miracle of life.
“He’s right there. That’s Leo,” I cried. “He was alive. He was so alive.”
Peter pointed out his little eyes (which I’m sure were blue), and I pointed out his little, adorable stubby arms. And this grieving mama gently stroked his teeny, tiny body as he lay swaddled in my blood, gently held in daddy’s hands.
And yet, our praise cuts through it all. Praise is a duty that we owe to our Lord. Thomas Aquinas writes that worship falls under the virtue of justice: it’s simply what is due. Chesterton even wrote that “Praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul.”
Leo was a pure gift, and we are eternally thankful that we get to bare this cross so that our child can enter into the glories of heaven.
Our crosses are usually the ones we would never pick for ourselves. I have memories of publishing articles on miscarriages and infertility, and something in me always refused to read them, somehow knowing I was trying to defend myself from the shadow of that exact cross that I could just vaguely make out in my future. “Anything but that,” we might find ourselves telling God. “I’ll do anything to become a saint, but just not that.” And odds are, it’s probably that.
But that doesn’t mean he’ll leave us totally destitute and wanting. It doesn’t mean forever. It doesn’t even mean totally. It just means right now, this is our cross.
So to all the dear women who carry this cross as well, join me in the prayer that’s been at the center of my heart for over a year now: “Jesus, I will bleed for you.” Every month, every labor. This is when our marital sacrament takes on a supernatural fertility and it becomes life giving in ways we don’t fully understand. Our blood mingles with the blood and water that gushed forth from the side of our Lord on the Cross. It takes on a paschal dimension. I’ve heard that the words, “This is my body, given up for you,” hits different as a pregnant woman (and it does), but I’ve learned that the words, “And this is my blood, poured out for you,” hits different as a woman who lost a child or is experiencing infertility.
Let’s pray for the unborn together, and let us enter into this War on the Womb with our eyes affixed on that soon-to-be filled cradle, trusting in the Lord’s victory over death.
Our Lady of Expectation, pray for us.
xo Carolyn
