This Christmas I had every intention of sending out a baby announcement in our Christmas card.
But here I am after miscarrying at 11 weeks, while my husband is at the cemetery bundled beneath a thick layer of coats, digging our daughter's grave.
Yesterday we spent our day laughing in the comfort of my grandparents' home. Grandma made butterscotch dessert. Half with nuts, half without, because she wants everyone who is nourished in her goodness to leave fulfilled. It's been nearly 10 years since I've celebrated Christmas Eve with them. What comfort. What joy to see my own children in awe of the toys and trinkets my own little hands once held when I was their age in that same home. What peace in my heart.
After a beautifully packed Mass and too many cookies for our oldest two, we got everyone to bed. The baby was up until 2am. I had to tap out for my husband to take over by 1. We were exhausted.
Cue four little feet in our room at sunrise, bouncing with anticipation of Santa's arrival.
Cue the smiley, sleep deprived baby.
Cue the coffee. The giggles. The awe. The magic. The warmth. The peace.
This last month has been one of immense pain for my family. We've lost a baby. We've grieved that child, while also pushing forward with our other three miracles. I've really struggled with the balance of overwhelming affliction and overwhelming gratitude. I don't think that I ever knew the two could coexist so fully in the human person, and honestly, I've felt tremendous guilt within myself for feeling both things simultaneously.
But here I am today. My daughter's grave being dug by my own spouse's gentle hands, my in-laws loving on our oldest girl, the two littles napping. Everything altogether happening. Joy and pain coexisting. And I think back to Mary.
Dirty in a stable. Fresh newborn scent wafting to greet her.
Little fingers and toes. Gifts and visitors abound. She is cleansed. Her baby is safe. She swaddles his tiny body in a blanket, heads to the temple to offer him to God, to thank the Lord for this little miraculous blessing.
And then she's told a sword will pierce her heart.
She carried this knowledge within her. She laughed and danced and prayed and played with Jesus. She molded and shaped him. She smiled.
She trusted God in the midst of her pain.
Tomorrow we will lay our baby to rest, and our hearts will be pierced with a sword. But I know we'll come home to three giggly, sugared up kids who talk about their "Saint Anna" like there's nothing to be sad about. We'll receive prayers from friends and family and waves of peace from those prayers will come over us. We'll hold each other and cry. I'll fall asleep in Ben's arms and the resurrection will come, as it does, in some small way every single day.
If you, too, are living with grief and joy this holiday season, I want you to know that you are not alone, and you have nothing to feel guilty about. It's confusing. It's hard.
But I think it's God's way of helping us not stay stuck in the pain for too long. After Mary was told her heart would be pierced, she went on to have 30+ more years of great joy with Jesus. I'm sure she thought about her pain often, but she didn't let it consume her, and I think that's the real message in it all.
Suffering is not without purpose. A good God with good, pure plans is orchestrating the entire thing.
He is with us. He is for us.
Saint Anna, pray for us.
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