He Sees the Upper and I the Underside

I am haunted by newborn cries. It is a sound that will always wrap my soul in melancholy, I think. It is a sound that everyone expects to hear at the birth of a fullterm baby, not the dreadful silence I heard. Will I ever hear a cry from a newborn who is mine?

I imagine that when someone loses a baby and goes on to have another living and healthy child, the moment they finally hold their child in their arms is beautiful beyond description or comparison. A joy so deep and rich that can only be felt when deep sorrow is also felt.

I lost my baby. My one and only child. And I am still waiting more than half a decade later for my arms to be filled with a wiggling wee babe and my ears to hear a newborn cry and my eyes to lock with my child's eyes full of life.

Do you know how hard that is? 

Oh Lord, why do You see fit for me to wait what feels like is a never-ending length of time? I know there are many people waiting for unfulfilled longings. Why do some people seem to have everything happen so perfectly and how they want or expect, while others lives don't fit the mold? 

I'm tired of waiting. Lord, have You forsaken me? Have You forgotten me? Others talk about the deep joy and I am wondering if and when it'll ever be my turn to experience that? I want this season to pass.

The only peace I have is knowing God is sovereign and good, even when my feelings get so overwhelming and life feels confusing and frustrating. I am reminded of a beautiful poem about trusting God even when we don't understand because it is all for a purpose and is all in His hands. Right now, I see blemish, but I know He's weaving beauty.

"Life is but a Weaving” (the Tapestry Poem)

by Corrie ten Boom

My life is but a weaving

Between my God and me.

I cannot choose the colors

He weaveth steadily.

Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow;

And I in foolish pride

Forget He sees the upper

And I the underside.

Not ’til the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly

Will God unroll the canvas

And reveal the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful

In the weaver’s skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern He has planned

He knows, He loves, He cares;

Nothing this truth can dim.

He gives the very best to those

Who leave the choice to Him.

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