April 25, 2014 by CassieCravings
In our home, there is a room where the door stays closed. It isn’t locked. There is always access, but we walk by. The doorknob never turns. The sadness is never revealed.
When our house was first ours, that room represented hope. There were many giggles, prayers and dreams shared in that room. Today all that dances in the room is the swirling, undisturbed dust.
Quietly, sadly I turned the knob. The door groaned in protest. It had been such a long time since it was disturbed. The room was still as empty as ever except for one beam of sunlight peering through the window. I stood in its warmth, perhaps to protect myself from the glaring cold of the emptiness.
I ran my hand on the floor where the crib was supposed to stand. I closed my eyes and dared myself to imagine what could have been. Tears dripped from my chin as I imagined a rocking chair worn with late nights of soothing a child. I pressed my toes into the dust on the floor taking in every inch of the room and of what could have been…what should have been.
When we first looked so expectantly at this house, I called this room “nursery.” Now I don’t have the strength to give it a name. It is simply a closed door. It is the understanding in the injustice that 6 of my children carried never made it to my arms. It is the diagnosis of never being able to carry again.
Stiffly I brought myself to my knees. My arms wrapped around myself, attempting to give comfort in my own hug.
Without word, a tiny hand rested on my shoulder. It was sticky, dirty and dimpled. An equally sticky face brushed my cheek for a kiss. “Is you pwraying, my mama? I will pwray too.”
I took his hand in mine, “Yes. I am praying. I am thanking God for you. Doctors say I cannot carry a child, but I carried you. You, my son, are a miracle.”
There is undeniable, unspeakable grief in the loss of my babies. Yet in the same breath there is awe at His mercy in allowing me a child. My tears of mourning are mixed with tears of thankfulness.
In that empty room, my child knelt beside me. He was not soft-spoken or somber as he did not know the hurt of the emptiness. He called out, “T’ank you, God, for letting my mama be mine. You is a good God to make us fam’wy.”
As we hugged each other, we both firmly said, “Amen.”
We rose and walked out of that room. Quietly, I closed the door behind me.