Guest post by Victoria Denney
Coming home from the hospital after losing Joshua was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. A part of me never wanted to walk back through that front door. So much had changed since I had been home the week before. My husband had taken down the large chalk board in the hall that was announcing that we were having a boy. The angel figurine with the pregnant belly was gone from the shelf in our living room. There were no more ultrasound photos framed on the table. The baby books and magazines were packed away. The crib, the car seat, the piles of clothes and cloth diapers they were all put away. Hidden from me in an effort to not cause me any more pain. Joshua’s room stood empty as if we weren’t expecting to be bringing home our first child in the coming months.
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. We had plans…
In those early days I fought a lot with God. Truthfully, I still do, but not like I did in those first few days and weeks at home. There were days where I would literally yell out loud and cry out to God – asking why, begging for answers.
There was one particularly awful day where I spent the whole morning crying and questioning. I kept praying that God would just give me a sign that this pain would not last forever, that this life of grief would not always be so intense. I asked God to give me a sign of hope that my husband, Patrick, and I would not always have such empty arms. Eventually, exhausted, I surrendered – giving up the fight for the moment .
I was running late for a doctor’s appointment, so I dried my eyes and got up off the sofa in the living room and headed into our bedroom to get ready to leave the house. As I entered the hallway, I looked over at what should have been our son’s nursery. In a fit of anger I slammed the door tight – certain that I didn’t want to ever go in that room again. I made my way into our bedroom and went ahead and got ready for the day. A few minutes later I exited our room and looked down the hall. The door that I had closed so tightly just 15 minutes before was swung wide open.
I stood there and cried.
I was trying to close the door to the nursery. I was trying to shut out that part of our lives. But God had a different idea. That door being re-opened gave me that hope that I was praying for. I knew that someday that room would not be a source of pain, but of great joy.
I know it will not be an easy road, but Patrick and I have started to believe that someday soon we will be able to enter that room with full arms instead of a full, but broken heart.
There have been so many small signs that we have experienced over these last several months. Each one strengthens our faith a little bit more. We know we will never be the same again. We will always grieve for our first born. Our hearts will always be a little bit broken. Our arms never quite as full as they should be. I’m sad that we will never get to experience all of the amazing dreams and hopes we had for our boy, but I know that this is not where our story ends.
Patrick and I are just beginning this journey together and while the road has been full of a lot more bumps and twists than we could have ever expected when we said “I do,” we both know that at the end of the day we are stronger because we have had to fight a hard battle. No matter what life throws at us, we know we will be okay. Our son has brought us closer than ever and for that I will be thankful – even through the tears. This August marks 2 years of marriage and one year since we found out we were going to be parents. This is not how we expected to be spending our 2nd anniversary, but we are still here, we are still together, we are still deeply in love, and we are still standing.
My name is Victoria and I am head over heals in love with my husband, deeply grieving the loss of our son, and clinging to the Cross with all that I’ve got left. I can be found over at Rooted in Faith.