today's thought

today, as i was driving to my drawing class, i had a thought: i don't even know what it's like to bring a baby home - the joys and the struggles are completely foreign to me. in a strange way, this is a little gift of grace. i had been thinking that losing a firstborn must be harder than losing a second or third or etc born... but you know, it must be really hard to come home from the hospital with nothing when you know what it is like to have a child to hold. i think then, that it's just a different sort of grief. if my inexperienced arms felt empty and aching, i wonder what experienced arms must feel like...

i read Solomon's story about the two harlots who were fighting over one living child with a different perspective today. i suddenly understood the desperation of the mother who stole the living child after finding her own child dead. and of her angry heart as she told Solomon to "go ahead and divide the child between us" - perhaps knowing that if the other woman's child were also dead, at least she would have someone to grieve with - someone in the same situation. boy... i couldn't imagine that case being taken to court today with lawsuits etc. there would have been DNA testing and everything.

i am doing very well now for the last 4 days. yesterday, we found out that one of our guinea pigs (for husbandlove's first grade classroom) is in fact a male, and not a female, as we'd been told. so now, instead of expecting a little boy in September, we are to expect guinea pig piglets in November! what surprises!!!  (i sincerely hope that doesn't sound inappropriate - i do try to find cheeriness where i can!) and what a fun science lesson for his little first grade class! we had the best time laughing after the shocking discovery last night.

today is sunny and quiet. 

to whoever has followed my blog thus far:

our dear little son, Emeth Lander Robins, has gone ahead to heaven and is precious in the arms of Jesus now. he passed at 29 weeks in-utero. we mourn his going - it's very hard to lose a first-born. it's very hard to lose a little one you've surrounded and held and nourished for 7 months. we've grieved well, though. we know this much. and how long has it been now since July 7th when i delivered his little body? ... let me check... 7 weeks. i was so proud to hold him and to be a mother. he was beautiful - 2 pounds 9 ounces - 15 inches long. had his daddy's hands and eyes, his grandpa's feet, his mommy's nose, mouth & chin, his grandma's nose... he was just perfect and tiny. we held him and loved him for a day, blessed and baptized him at a family memorial service, then let him go. i think that kissing his little chilly head and leaving him in the nurse's arms and walking out of the hospital with a little yellow box containing hand/foot prints, his hospital tags, and a little blue cap was the hardest thing i've ever done in my life.

yet we have grieved well. and the Lord has been so so good to us through this all.

here is something i never knew until July 7th: if you ever hear that someone has lost a little one, please take the time to ask questions... what did he/she look like? did you name him? was she just beautiful? tell me about the delivery. do you have pictures i could see? who was there with you? who was the nurse you left her with at the hospital? did you like that nurse? what was the kindest thing someone's done for you in this grief? show me, with your hands, how big your baby was. so when you held him, he was about this big? tell me about how you first found out. what were some of the things you'd done to get ready for her? did you have a crib waiting? was there something very special you'd gotten just for him? something you'd made? what did you pray over your baby while she was in the womb?

i start to wonder how many people i haven't done this for. i hope i remember from now on.

i read this poem today, and liked it:

.............

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider

the orderliness of the world. Notice

something you have never noticed before,

like the tamourine sound of the snow-cricket

whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,

shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.

Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,

like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world

and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.

Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.

And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.

This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

........by Mary Oliver.