It happened again. I woke up from another flood dream. This time there was a flood culvert, cement flood walls and there was a line of people against the banks of this culvert holding plastic against the sides. Further down they were not ready, a little boy had lost a ball and was running after it, down the inside of the culvert. The water was rushing down, enveloping the dry areas, filling the whole area. His dad was trying to get him. At the last possible moment, the dad reached the boy and snatched him up, as the wave caught them both and they disappeared.
I used to have fire dreams where I couldn’t save all of the family, now the floods. I woke up grieving. You see, last month, I had my fifth loss. Four of my miscarriages occurred just prior to 12 weeks. A time physiologically where the placenta must take over the production of progesterone. Many losses occur then. One, however, was a still-borne little boy. Our Enoch, was born at 21 weeks gestation. We named him Enoch because of the verse, “He was not, for God took him.” We recognize that God is ultimately in control of which of our children come into our arms. That is cerebral. But what I feel is very emotional. My only time to mourn is in the middle of the night. It is now 2:30 am. I should be sleeping, but tears are coming. I feel each loss deeply. Not at all less than the one before. That fact surprises me.
Ray today mentioned about me carrying another baby. Sure that would be my wish, but the loss.
I was talking to God about that tonight. I told Him I wanted to be a little tougher, a little scarred. He said the most awesome thing. “But if you are scarred, I cannot graft a life-giving branch into your wound. I want you to stay tender so you can receive what I want to put there. I want to use you.”
So here I am crying. Missing my dream of my child. Feeling the hollow feeling that comes with loss. Letting God comfort me. If I don’t let myself grieve I will become hard, scarred, and calloused. But, I miss my baby so.