Just Amy

Heartache, loss and bitter tears —

Hope nearly turned to despair;

When I thought my arms would stay empty,

My Miracle came through answered prayer.

Nothing in my life had prepared me for the two long years we would have leading up to the birth of Ryan.

I believe there is a bubble we live in as Christians, that gives us a false sense of security. If we love the Lord, if we pray, if we serve in church, if we believe without wavering, God will work it all out the way we think He should.

And I lived there. Feeling protected in some spiritual bubble I had fabricated in my mind. I believed in a promise that God had never given, the promise that says, “I will make it easy for you.” Or “if you pray, I will grant your wishes.” Or simply “it won’t happen to me.” And I walked confidently and ignorantly until the early spring of 2002.

Ethan was two and a half years old, I unexpectedly became pregnant. We knew we wanted more children but we didn’t know when and hadn’t exactly planned on now. We were shocked a little but overjoyed nonetheless.

Just a few weeks later, I lost that child and experience my first miscarriage. I was sad. But not defeated. Disappointed but very hopeful. It’s a very strange thing to grieve someone you never knew, never saw, never held. But we decided, we’d made an investment in heaven, and we’d try again soon.

I would have three more miscarriages over the next 15ish months. All first trimester but two would require D&Cs, one of them would be an emergency.

One day I will share the full story of my miscarriages and loss because I believe it needs to be shared. And I want to share how God carried me through that process even when I didn’t see it.

In the months between that first miscarriage and getting pregnant with Ryan, my faith was tried like never before. I dealt with several stages of grief. I was heartbroken with the second (July 2002). Angry with the third (February 2003) and almost hopeless with the fourth (July 2003). Where was God in all my deep aching? I questioned my self-worth. Hating my body. Begging for God to fix it. And my emotions and hormones were all over the place with everyone and everything.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, we were preparing for a church family Thanksgiving dinner, and the smells of all the food made me feel like I needed to dart for the bathroom. And in that moment, I knew I was pregnant again. I wish I could tell you this time I had total peace. That this time I wasn’t an anxious mess about losing this baby. But that wasn’t the case. God hadn’t allowed me to carry the previous four, so why would this be any different?

All I know is, I had an army of people in my family, in my church, in previous churches, friends from all over the country and friends of friends praying fervently for this pregnancy, for this baby. And I prayed. Through my grief and anger and doubt and tears, I prayed.

And if I’m honest, there were moments I thought of turning away from God during that time. Not in fleeting moments or angry fits. I really considered it. I mean, a God who wouldn’t grant one of his children another child they are begging for … why follow him? Why believe in him at all?

I know all the right answers to this question then just like I do now. I know all the scripture to back up all those right answers too. But as I battled with the questions, I can to one very sobering thought. If I turned away from God, where was I going to go? The truth of the matter is this: what I feared more was living life alone, without God, than I did living life with God, without a second child. I knew I needed God no matter what. And the fork in the road was deciding to trust God even when it didn’t feel like or look like he was answering my prayers. It was HUGE growth for me spiritually. And growth that was terribly painful.

I began to pray Hannah’s prayer. And there were days that I am sure others would have thought, like Eli did of Hannah, that I was so weepy and distraught in my praying, that I was drunk or something was emotionally wrong with me. But I prayed.

On July 27, 2004, seven days before my due date, I was admitted to the hospital and labor was induced around 8:00a. It was a terribly hard labor. The contractions came so hard and fast without any warning or build up. It went from no labor pain to a 12 on a scale of 10 in minutes. They started an epidural that wasn’t working and had to stop the anesthesia because my blood pressure bottomed out. And when I was finally pushing, I was told to quickly STOP because the cord was wrapped around Ryan’s neck. I recall my OBGYN standing up and working to turn Ryan enough to loosen the cord so I could deliver. And when he was delivered, hearing no baby cries, just the soft words of the doctor saying, “C’mon, Jet (born on 7/27 so he gave him that nickname). Breath” as he was blowing in his face. And after a few time-stopping moments, Ryan cried.

They let me hold him and Jason hold him for a few minutes each then whisked him away to the nursery because his body temp was too low. We didn’t see him again for hours.

But when we did, he was worth every minute of the wait. Not just the hours post delivery, the days, weeks, months and years prior to his arrival.

I don’t know why God chose to not let me hold those other four babies here on this earth. I’ll never know their faces this side of heaven. I’ll never know if they were boys or girls, what their life would have been. There was even some grieving to do after Ryan arrived. But I do know those babies are a part of my story. They made an impact on my life eternally. And they impacted all the people who walked that journey of miscarriages and loss with us. And I’m so grateful even in the sorrow.

But Ryan … he is my walking, breathing, living reminder that God is still in the business of miracles. Even in the life of this doubting, imperfect child of God. He is so good. He’s My Miracle … and this is not the only time Ryan has proven to be a miracle either.

But that’s another story for another time.