What to say?

As I was driving to our counseling appointment today, I kept reliving the moment that I gave birth to Henry over and over in my head. I remember so clearly the pressure, the need to push, and telling Emily, Aaron's sister, that I felt something. She got the doctor (Emily is a Labor and Delivery nurse at the hospital where we delivered) and they told me to go ahead and push. I passed a large blood clot (sorry) and I remember that Emily, the other nurse, and the doctor all looked at each other. Then I told them that I felt more pressure, more need to push. They told me to go ahead, and with one push and a lot of sobbing, I gave birth to Henry.

It's the sobbing that I keep remembering. My mom was at my head, Aaron was holding my hand. And as I felt the need to push, all I could think about was the fact that my baby was dead, that this was the end of the journey for him. All I could do was sob. I didn't REALLY want to give birth, not to that end. But I didn't have a choice.

I'm reading CS Lewis' "A Grief Observed," and it's good. In the very first part, Lewis questions where God is when we face this grief of losing someone we love. Here are some exerpts that I wish I could have underlined. But we don't underline books in our house :) I don't know that I'll always feel this way, but sometimes, in my darkest moments, these are the sort of thoughts that go through my head. I'll leave you with these words from CS Lewis. But know, I haven't given over to my grief. I am merely trying to find the way to flow with it, without being swept away.


Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms [of grief]. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember youself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise you will be- or so it feels- welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once. And that seeming was as strong as this. What can this mean? Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?

I tried to put some of these thoughts to C. this afternoon. He reminded me that the same thing seems to have happened to Christ:'Why hast thou forsaken me?' I know. Does that make it easier to understand?

Not that I am ( I think) in much danger of ceasing to belive in God. The read danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The concusion I dread is not 'So there's no God after all,' but 'So this is what God's really like. Deceive yourself no longer.'