My prayer journal gathers dust in a box somewhere, somewhere beside my journal. I haven't touched them since our miscarriage in January.
Even though I am pregnant now, there are still some things that I can't manage to do anymore. Praying, or at least writing my prayers, has been one of them. Reading my Bible has been, too. I don't feel far from the Lord, or angry at Him, or anything like that really. But I just can't bring myself to sit down, be still, and think about things.
Because it still hurts, and I still remember. I always will. The panic and the sobs and the emptiness. The way it stung when people asked me when we were going to have another baby, when they lectured me and reprimanded me and my whole heart wanted to scream to them. Realizing I would never hold, or carry, or kiss this little one.
The presence of a new life does not void the pain of a loss. It does not heal it. It merely brings me forward in life. It keeps me going. I have loved all three of my children, and I will continue to do so for the rest of my life. One is two years old and has the brightest smile and biggest heart. One is small and in heaven. The third is twelve weeks old and dancing around in my belly.
I can't wait to meet you, little ones. I will meet one of you in heaven, and I will meet the other in October. Until then, I can try to trust in God's sovereignty and His plan. I can try to heal as best as I can. I can learn to live through loss and embrace this new joy. To love what the Lord has taken away and to love what the Lord has given. And maybe I will try to open my prayer journal.