Yesterday was two weeks since I gave birth to our twin boys at 19 weeks and 4 days. After my water breaking. After nearly a week in the hospital holding onto any hope they might make it to 24 weeks. After dealing with the doctors who were upset we didn’t induce. After praying so hard all the time that God wouldn’t take them from me.
And he did.
I remember laying in that bed and sobbing while feeling them kick inside me, staring up at the ceiling with it’s horrid little lights for “birth” and while the tears rolled down my cheeks I begged God to spare my sons. To let me have them when they could survive. To give me a miracle and to show the doctors that He was bigger than their medicine.
But I had them anyway. They died anyway.
I don’t know why. I don’t yet know the purpose behind all of this, although I pray at some point I will so I can find more peace with it. I struggle every day with wondering why God didn’t choose to intervene and perform a miracle – wouldn’t that have been more powerful than what I went through? Wouldn’t more people have been reached if they had made it?
But that was not the path God chose for any of us. As hard as it is to comprehend, God said no because this was His plan.
It wasn’t because we, or you, didn’t have enough faith. Or we didn’t pray hard enough. I don’t believe that the only way you get what you want in life is to pray harder or never consider another outcome – because God knows best. And sometimes best is the answer, “No.”
I don’t want to hear about how it might have been “no” because they might have had physical/mental problems – because we would have loved and cared for them regardless. Those comments are hurtful that God took our boys because of that and we should be thankful. They were MINE and I’m not ever going to think that way. I don’t need them to be perfect to love them.
I decided early on in this pregnancy to celebrate the life (and then lives) I was given, no matter what the timeframe they were put in. And in that hospital, I had a choice to make. If it didn’t go my way, if it all was gone, and I had to do it publicly with all of you reading and waiting as the hospital thing went viral and my Facebook page blew up, what would I choose? To, as Job’s wife so eloquently put it, “Curse God and die”? or to trust that no matter how unfair, how painful, or how wrong it all seemed that in it, there was a plan and God chose it for us all?
Sam asked me the day before the boys were born, “Do you feel like it’s all going to be ok? We’re going to 100% beat the odds?” And I remember saying, “No, I don’t feel like that. I don’t have that absolute certainty right now that they’ll be fine – but I do know whatever happens, it was meant to be that way, and we’ll be ok. That there is a purpose bigger than we can imagine – no matter the outcome.”
And then I had to back my words up a day later with my actions.
I hate this. I didn’t want this to ever happen. But it did and I have a choice every day. I try to remember to chose to trust that God hurts over this just as badly as I do, that he loved my sons even more than I did, that when I can barely breathe through my tears He is there.
It’s not easy and at times I feel angry and resentful – but I know there is a plan. Bigger than me or my anger or my doubts or even my faith. I am not doing this perfect, I fall and stumble and get upset and cry and grieve – and all of that is normal. Human. It’s the long run I’m looking at.
I refuse to curse God and die because I didn’t get my way. I want to be able to look back at this in years to come and see the blessing that came out of it, not the bitterness I had to hold on to.