Monday, October 19, 2015


When October 1st creeps onto my calendar, my heart sinks to the ground with a thud. It sits there with a million other hearts of those who have lost their babies as we take a month to remember their lives. It is also the month I should be celebrating her birthday, planning her party, and packing away her summer outfits to make room for leggings and sweaters. I pause more often at the olive tree where she is buried, blink back constant tears, and wonder what she would look like as a three year old. October is an ugly month for me.

“But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope…”

October sits alone in the wilderness of unredeemable and forsaken. Its colors have been black and white and its edges are sharp, the contrast of colors almost offensive. Its utter substance has been lack. Lack of provision. Lack of life. The only way to respond to it has been to curl to the ground and taste death’s dirt.

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases…”

I thought the month would become softer. I found myself hoping that the next calendar would be more gracious to me; that its days would brighten and warm under the sun of years gone by. Hope that the progress of time would “heal all wounds” but I clung to it as it became more precious to me. When you lose a child and years go by, grief remains as the sole, tangible remnant of their real, heart-beating life.

“They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness…”

He caught me this year. He caught me this month. He caught me yesterday to be exact. He stopped me in the habit of running toward the edge of wilderness to stare again at my Unredeemable. He wrapped his arm around my waist and overcame the momentum of grief and loss and death. He knew long before me that my grief cannot comfort me. My grief will disappoint my identity. Always. Every time. Every year.

“‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul...”

With the wide stretch of his goodness and sufficiency, he redeemed my October. He took the hardest and darkest part of my life and history and heart and made it new. Like a beautiful, bright, shining burst of new creation. Not just a polished antique in attempt to hide flaws or defects but made it gloriously right because he makes all things new. (Rev. 21:5) He gently showed me how my hope was placed in new things, answered prayers, or circumstances providing joy or peace. 

He has not forsaken me; my grief has forsaken me.
He is able; my grief is not able.
He has cared for me throughout every second; my grief does not care for me.

“‘Therefore I will hope in him.’”
(Lam. 3:21-24)

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