Weeping

Death march.

This is what I call the walk I take from Michigan Avenue up to St. Clair Avenue, past Northwestern Hospital and a big, empty construction lot, until I find myself at the revolving doors of 680.  

I know this walk well.  I could do it blind-folded if I had to.  

I loathe this walk.

I made this walk today and just like all the other times I have walked it, my knees were stiff and my jaw was tight.  I tried to focus on “whatever is good and pure,” but mostly I was rehearsing how I would react to news that I didn’t want to hear.

We did not get good news today about our baby.  In fact, there was no baby to be found on the monitor.  All that was there was an empty sac.  There are about 13 million different thoughts racing in my head about this.

To be honest, I don’t know if I can stomach any one of you telling me how sorry you are or that you are praying for us.  Both seem so cheap and could offer no comfort to me.

But who am I to keep you from sharing whatever it is that is on your heart.  After all, I invited you into this part of my life with the hopes that all of our collective prayers would find us in a different place than where we are now.

We cannot celebrate together.  So weep with me.  

Weep because you are a parent and you can't imagine what life would be like without your children.

Weep because you know some of this pain.

Weep because you know this longing.

Weep because you have gotten a taste for the frailty of life.

Weep because you know what it feels like when He gives.  And when He takes away.

Weep because you can.  

Weep because you must.

Weep because it hurts to live.

Weep because it's scary to hope.

I am weeping.  Even in my shock and numbness, I am weeping.