“Storms make trees take deeper roots…”
I’ve heard this quote several times. In support and sympathy cards, in Instagram or Facebook posts, or just a random passing by of a friend offering encouragement through a difficult time. It has been almost six years since I buried my firstborn son, and this storm I am in seems to come and go continuously.
I do have days of peaceful, cloudless blue skies. Of happy birds chirping in the distance their song of content and satisfaction in the glorious rays of sunshine on their wings. I have days filled with the winds of change and doubt. And I most definitely have those days that are darkened by the clouds of sadness, tossed by the roaring winds of grief, and drenched in the rain overflowed by the tears of a Mama looking down at her empty arms, waiting for a baby…
Those days, are the hardest to wait in. Sitting inside under the shelter of the roof over my head, the comfort of a blanket that once wrapped his little body, the Owl shaped pillow that has been drenched in tears for so many years…
This waiting, watching the storm rage outside can seemingly be overwhelmingly impossible to get through. But, for some unknown reason, I get through it. I survive. I wake up to another day that might be scored by sounds of happy birds chirping, and sunshine on my shoulders.
I hear other baby loss mothers around me talk about their storms. Their pain. Their grief that sounds so similar to my own. And for those moments I know I am not alone. I know I am in this fight with another warrior woman who has waged this war no Mother should ever have to.
And then I see among those the mothers, the ones who are holding the most beautiful and most hopeful sight to behold. A rainbow on their hip. A colorful tapestry of hope after their storm all bundled up in shining eyes, dimpled cheeks, and chubby little hands clasped tightly around their Mama’s once empty arms…
And my heart could not be more thankful for them. More thrilled that of all mothers in the world, that baby is the most precious gift to them. And I can celebrate with that mother. I can be genuinely happy for her, and the promise that came true for her after her storm.
And my heart can also ache at the same time. Waiting in this rain. And I ask God how long I will be waiting for a baby before I too have that promise, bundled up in those chubby cheeks and dimpled hands…
Related: Is Waiting the Hardest Part?
And He reminds me just how many seeds He has planted in my heart these six years of grief. These years of a seemingly endless storm. He tells me that there has been so much truth and healing He has sown into the soil of my heart. He hasn’t forgotten about me. He isn’t leaving me out.
But that He is allowing me to grow roots deeper then I could ever imagine, and before He sends a rainbow, sometimes He needs to send a little extra rain… and if that rain and the wind grow the roots of truth deeper in my heart, I will wait. And not just wait for the storm to pass, but learn to dance in the rain too.
Photo credit: Author’s Own
Featured Image: Dieter Pelz on Unsplash
About the Author: Jamie is a single mother to a beautiful baby boy named Edwin, born sleeping at 20 weeks. She is passionate about breaking the stigma and silence on infant and child loss and lives every day to keep Edwin’s memory alive and walk alongside other mother’s who have joined this club. We do not heal by forgetting; we heal by remembering. Find her at rememberingedwin.wordpress.com