The death of hope

OK, I know it's not as bad as that, but at 1:30 am, that's what it feels like!

Background first: I haven't mentioned this, but I've been going through a miscarriage now for over 4 weeks. FOUR WEEKS. My body just wasn't able to do what it was supposed to do, and since I'm planning on going to this conference on Thursday... and fearing some horrible complications while so far from home... I finally opted for a D&C today. (I've had many ultrasounds... there was no baby there).

Devastating, but I've been dealing with it OK.

Many thanks to Hillary, to Reese and her son B-Boy, to Perrin, and to the Wanna Be (who wanted to help out, but her kids are sick!) for jumping in and taking care of my kids so that my dh could drive me to the hospital this morning.

That's not the "death of hope" part.

One of the medicines I was given says specifically that I'm not to nurse while taking this.

As you may recall, I've still got a 19-month old who does.

I'm going out of town on Thursday (Lord willing and I don't get sick!).

Dh has decided that tonight is "show-down night," and he has specifically told me not to go in to Grace's room. If she cries, he's going in to comfort her and lay her back down.

Let me take that back. Grace doesn't cry... she just stands in her crib and cries out, "Mommy? Mommy?" over and over again. For over 40 minutes I'm listening to her, my heart just breaking, as I hear her cry out in hope that maybe THIS TIME Mommy will come in... and the sadness I hear in her voice as she's giving up hope.

Y'all, this is just killing me.

She's in there staring at a closed door, not getting the answer she so desperately wants, and wondering why I haven't come in.

Sound familiar?

I wonder how often God sits outside the door, His heart breaking, as he sees us wondering why He's not answering. After all, I get all these maternal feelings from Him to start with, so I wonder if He really -- on any emotional level -- feels like we do in situations like this. Does He grieve, knowing how confused and hopeless we are on our side of the closed door, because we don't see the whole picture as He does?

I'm reminded of a quote I read just recently from A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis. His brutal honesty amazes me as he cries out like David did in some of the psalms:

[on grieving the death of his wife Joy]
"Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms. 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 yourself 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 it mean? Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?"

God allows us to feel this way for a reason... just as I had to allow Grace to feel this way for a reason, too. It doesn't make it any easier on her, or me.

She gave up a few minutes ago and fell back asleep. I think I'm going to have a good cry, now. I know it was necessary, but my baby thinks I failed her...