Ruthie & Judah

This October was supposed to be a time of celebration for our family. C turned 29. We went on a family vacation to the mountains–one of our favorite places. And we planned to finally tell our friends that we were expecting a baby, our second child. But that last one never happened.

On October 24, an ultrasound technician showed us a screen with twins–but no heartbeats. And on October 26, I miscarried those precious babies.

Instead of celebration, these last few weeks have been full of tears. I cried while I miscarried. I cried when we buried them. I cried every time I realized all over again that two of my children are gone. There are no words that adequately describe what it’s like to have two little ones die before you’ve even had the chance to meet them, but there are more than enough tears.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve come to this space more than once and tried to find words for this. There were none. But I couldn’t let this experience go by without saying something–not because I feel obligated to share every last part of my life on the internet, but because I can’t stand the thought of people not knowing that my babies–my Judah Caleb and Ruthie Grace–were here. That they existed, and that they were so very loved.

But I still can’t find the words. The truth is, I don’t want to relive my miscarriage in any way. Not yet. Maybe never. I haven’t even written about it in my journal in any sort of detail. There’s too much pain there.

So what could I possibly say?

What comes to mind isn’t about them, exactly. It’s more about what I’ve experienced in the last few weeks because of them. Their loss created a chasm of emptiness, but that space made room for God to do good things.

Most prominent in my mind is a moment from the day we buried them–November 3. It was near the end of the funeral mass, celebrated by our parish priest and family friend. I sat in the front pew and watched this priest cry as he prayed over my children. Not a single, polite tear that was easily wiped away–tears of real grief. For a moment, my own sorrow was reflected back at me. And I was so incredibly grateful that someone else felt the loss of my babies, too. When I looked back on it later, I realized how clearly that moment conveyed the love of Jesus to me. Even though he knows the eternal reality better than I do, he used that moment to wrap me in his arms and hurt with me over my loss in this lifetime.

Since that day, there have been a hundred moments when I could feel Jesus near me, holding my heart. He’s been there through the love of my husband and through people who send texts at just the right time or gifts with just the right message. And sometimes I like to think that Ruthie and Judah are there in those moments. That maybe they saw my tears and ran to get Jesus so he could hold mommy.

My babies are not here, and that hurts more than I can say. But I love them. And I am so grateful that they existed and that they are mine. They’re showing me that even in this, God is good.

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