I haven’t written about the girl or the baby all these months because I didn’t know what to say.

If you’re a new reader, you’ll have no idea what I’m talking about and I wouldn’t even know how to begin to summarize it for you.  I can’t even link to posts because they no longer exist after I deleted them in late-night moments of wanting to forget the experience ever happened, of feeling that I was wrong in describing how I felt that day she left.  All I know to tell you is that she was here, the baby was born and then she was gone.

Five months of my life summed up in three short words:

Here. Born. Gone.

– — –

I haven’t written about it because I didn’t want to hurt her.

And I still don’t want to, so this will be about me, not her.

It’s about my reactions.

Not her actions.

– — –

I think I’ve felt every emotion possible, each of them leaving a residue of guilt or regret.

I feel relieved when I sleep through the night without waking to a baby crying.

I feel embarrassed when people tell me I should have known better, should have expected it.

I feel angry when I go to pay the rent each month, frustrated with myself for being naive to think someone’s word could substitute for a signed lease.

I feel sad when I think about the day I threw away the unfinished scrapbook of letters I wrote to an unborn baby that wasn’t even mine.

But mostly I just feel failure every time I walk past the room that still holds an empty crib.

– — –

No matter how many people have told me that I’m not a failure, I know the truth: I failed her. At first it was just my assumption; later, confirmed.  It’s hard to argue with fact.

And it’s bothered me, the idea of failing her.  I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve laid staring at my bedroom ceiling, trying to recall every memory, every word spoken in an effort to figure out where I could have done better.  And I’m not afraid to tell you that I’ve found those places, seen flashbacks of moments when I could have given more.  I’ve tasted regret as I’ve cried myself to sleep, wishing I had of known how to love her better.

And yet it bothers me far more to wonder if I failed Him as well.

– — –

I heard a sermon not too long ago about the woman who poured her oil on Jesus’ head.  It was worth a year’s wages, all spilt for the One she loved.  It was an irrational, irrevocable act.

Irrational.

Irrevocable.

I can’t help but wonder if there was a moment when she realized what she had just done, when she realized that she had given something that could never be replaced, something spilt in front of her, an action she could never take back.

And I wonder if she thought, even for just a moment, “What have I done?”

– — –

I’m the one left cleaning up the mess, and I mean that quite literally.  She may have left months ago, but I’m the one still living with the empty crib, the physical reminders of this nightmare.  Judge me if you want but, at this point in the game, it still feels like a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

There’s a framed picture I pulled off the nursery wall that’s been riding in the backseat of my car for weeks now; I make it all the way to the parking lot of the crisis pregnancy center but I can’t seem to bring myself to actually get out of the car and carry it inside.  And I’d put it back in the nursery, back where it belong with the changing table and stroller and the tiny little lamp waiting in the corner.

But I don’t go in that room anymore.

– — –

There’s no pretty bow to tie on this, no scripture to tack on the end.  I just want you to see that, sometimes, we’re still in the process of healing.  Will there be a night when I look at the oil I spilt during those five months and not feel regret?  Yes, I think that night will come.

That night isn’t tonight.  But it’s coming.

Comments closed.