Last year, I had a miscarriage. It’s a peculiar kind of grief. It’s a life that was, but wasn’t. The grief, more than anything, is over what never will be. We could have other children, but we will never have this child.
As I waited two days for the procedure to remove the pregnancy, my body felt like a tomb. I was a bearer of death. When I awoke from the procedure, I began to sob. Even though the child was dead, there was some comfort in cradling that death inside me. Once it was gone, I felt truly empty.
I thought of Mary, bearing a child destined for death. She held her son, helped him grow, only to watch him die in a cruel and painful way. I used to wonder how she could sit at the foot of the cross and watch him die. I now imagine the worst part of it all was when they rolled a great stone in front of his body, sealing him off from her forever.
One blessing is that my miscarriage happened in the spring. As I grieved, I was surrounded by new life everywhere I looked. Trees budded and flowers bloomed. My comfort, and the comfort of us all, is how God continuously brings life out of death. Plants die to fertilize the soil for new growth. God is this constant generative force, always promising, and always delivering new life. God rolled the stone away from Jesus’ tomb, bringing forth the promise of eternal life for us all. Even in the tomb there is the promise of life.
Prayer: Life-giving God, we thank you that nothing, not even death, can separate us from your love in Christ Jesus. Amen.
Amy Morgan
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