I held him for the first time last week. I cried. They were tears of joy and sorrow. I am so joyful that he made it into this world. I am so thankful that they got their baby. But I would be lying if I said it's not hard. That I don't understand why I can't be holding my baby right now. He (yeah, I just think it was a boy) would be 10 weeks old right now.
On Sunday, our friends had their son baptized. I'm one of those people that always tears up during a baptism. I think it's beautiful. Standing in community and declaring your child is His, it's just beautiful. Watching them on Sunday, standing up there with their three boys I cried again. And again they were tears of joy and sorrow.
"Others who have lost children have shared the inability to separate the sorrow from
the joy in life. I find that they are inextricably woven, never to be pulled fully from
each other in this life. I am reminded of this delicate dance as I think upon the Savior
whose blood mingled with our freedom. I am an injured dancer, and yet one who
wants her life to bring glory to the one who allowed sorrow and joy to dance at all."
Whether I got to meet my child in this life or I meet him in heaven, I still grieve for him. He was a part of me for a reason. He was not a mistake. He was knit together in my womb, even for a short time, for a purpose. For that I am thankful. I hope that the 10 short weeks I carried him, he felt loved. He was, and still is, a gift.
Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. (2 Corinthians 6:10)