I hugged him and held him tightly. I thought I would cry, but the tears didn’t come. A dark ache throbbed somewhere deep inside, a silent cry wailed and echoed off the walls of my empty heart.
My very soul felt anguished, but I did not bleed. The scar beat, like a heart, with the empty throb of tortured grief.
The tears have dried up. The deep, inward wound is knotted and tied, bleeding no more. The grief has left a scar. Behind the daily smile and the laugher, flow silent, unseen tears that ache and throb with the pulsation of a dream.
And he remembered. He remembered that a year ago I clawed my way through heart-rending anguish and screamed at the world and asked God “Why?” a thousand times because my arms were empty. He remembered that the miracle life I’d felt flutter inside, twisting and turning my insides upside down with momentary illness, had flowed out of me in a rush of ugly blood. He remembered how I’d wailed like never before and asked him, wild-eyed, “WHY would God would give a barren, infertile woman a baby for six weeks?” He remembered the bitter anger that curled my lip and raised my eyebrow and tortured my soul.
On Mother’s Day 2011, he remembered when no one else did, that I WAS and AM a mother. In his own quiet way, he slipped some presents under my pillow and poured me a glass of sparkling grape juice and smiled with his eyes. And I saw his own pain and his own longing riddled in the depths of his creamy brown iris.
He held me quietly and it was just what my parched soul needed… his arms around me, telling me that he loved me – baby or not. He understood, with his touch, that the pain feels more keen a year later, fueled only by the gruesome memory of death.
Somewhere my soul finds the breath to say “thank-you” for six weeks and the sovereignty of God. Somewhere my heart finds the audacity to hope in the face of the impossible. And I smile, because he remembered.
I am beautifully captivated by the truth that I worship the Giver of Life. I do not understand, I do not have answers, I do not know. But I am redeemed. Slowly but certainly, He turns my heart and fills me with joy unspeakable. He gives my soul wings to fly – to soar.
The scar remains – an unforeseen testament to the beauty of redemption. God taking the ugly, scarred remains of hope and birthing something unexplainable and impossible from the womb of pain.
There’s a trunk of dreams and plans and hopes that He knows about and hears. He doesn’t forget either.