This week, our little homestead welcomed the addition of two ducklings. We had been incubating several eggs but only two completed growth. During their hatching process I realized that both ducklings were struggling to escape their eggs. In our recent busyness, we made a careless oversight and did not keep the duck eggs at required humidity levels. I had to aid the little guys out of the eggs; they were weak and did not properly absorb their yolk sacs. One buddy died the first night, the second passed last night (three days later). We really hoped the second was going to make it, but he was never able to walk or digest food properly.

I have to admit that I broke the cardinal rule of baby chick production and I grew attached to the second lonely little guy (chicks often die in the first week). Since he couldn’t walk, I would hold his chest to help him build strength to stand. I turned off the AC and let him hang out in the kitchen with me as I did chores. I snuggled a towel around him for cozy naps. You can imagine that I was a little upset when I found out he passed in the night. In fact, I have been fighting off a sad funk for the past few weeks and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Over the past few weeks I have daily prayed for joy. (Dear Lord, help me be joyful, let me rejoice and be glad in this day.) But an interior lowness has persisted. This doesn’t make sense! I should be ramping up in excitement as finally the new baby room is coming together – getting painted, decorated, and baby clothes organized. Shouldn’t I be naturally happy in this process? Shouldn’t my heart be leaping as I imagine snuggling these size 1 diapers around the cute butt of my new baby boy? What is this sadness I am experiencing?

Mourning the loss of the little ducklings, exposed this lowness to be the continued grief which dwells in my heart from my miscarriages. The two babies that I lost between Eliza and this pregnancy continue to regularly impact me. I only carried them briefly (12 weeks each), but they are my children and, in certain quiet moments, I miss them. Their absence cannot be replaced or filled, it can only be righted when I am reunited with them in heaven. But I want to be joyful! I have a little life within me that is an answer to fervent prayer. Baring any rare circumstance, this baby will most likely join our household very soon! Most of the time I do feel gratefulness and happiness at the prospect of this child. But today, as I see the baby room ready, my heart is stirred back to that place of wonder at the losses. Why weren’t their little forms able to grow and take home in these walls? Why, with those pregnancies, were we handed cups of suffering instead of blessings of new life?

I take comfort in knowing that my children are in heaven with Jesus. I know that through this ongoing grief I experience blessings that I would not have otherwise. In truth, I have even found peace that the plan God has for me is for my good, and I likely will not know most of the “whys” (that doesn’t stop me from asking them!). Through this comfort, understanding, and peace, most of the time I am able to overcome the sadness and trust Him.

As I prepare for the birth of my son, there are times I am drawn back into grief and I worry about how I will handle his arrival. Will I be able to hold this child in my arms without feeling the weight of the other two that I lost before him? Can I graciously accept that this is the child God has given me, while the other two were never meant to be in my care? Will I have the strength to pray for joy in moments when my heart still grieves? Am I even supposed to do that?

When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled; and he said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus wept. John 11:33-35.

Jesus knew that He would be reviving Lazarus and they would all be with him again in a few minutes. He was not weeping for the death of Lazarus. Jesus was deeply moved by the pain of those who mourned. Their sadness troubled him to the point of tears. He did not say to them, be grateful for I am here and you should trust in me. He joined with them in their time of grief and choose to experience it with them fully by mourning alongside them.

My Lord knows the depths of my heart. He does not abandon me to grieve alone or in secret. In my sadness He joins me, and grieves with me. I need to trust that my sadness does not offend Him, that He does not expect joy in times of grief. Perhaps there will be moments that I am with my son and long for my other babies. In these moments my Lord, my comforter, will surely be with me just as He is with me today.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18.

May you too know that the Lord is with you in your moments, hours, or months of mourning. We are called to live joyfully because our hope is in Him and the eternal life we will share with Him. This does not mean we are called to repress the mourning that we experience while on Earth. It is in those moments that the Lord draws near. Take comfort in the truth that He weeps with you.

My Prayer

Dear Lord, I know that You are always with me and in still, quiet moments I feel You comfort me. I want to be joyful, constantly rejoicing for this little life within me, but I know that You do not require that of me. Help me to remember that when I am brokenhearted You draw near. Please help me to cling to You no matter what cup of suffering or blessing this life may offer. Amen.

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