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Tuesday
Apr032007
Small Blessings
April 3, 2007
I haven't been feeling well. The last week has been incredibly hard, but I want to write about what heals me, because God is always so good, there are little gifts here and there. My Superstar Husband had a concert on Saturday and Renee was wonderful and watched the kids for me so I could go. And I sat on a leather couch in a well-lit cafe, with a cup of coffee in my hand and watched my best friend play the music that I love. When he was introducing the song that he wrote about me, he said he was married to the most beautiful girl in the room, and I felt awe fold in on me, tearstained, wrinkled soul that I am.Â
And the drives, lately. The drives. Sometimes we drive around a curve and suddenly there is a view before me that is so breathtaking that I want to hurl myself into the center of it and drop into it like a stone into a lake. Or squeeze it, squeeze it and squeeze it. It's like the line from the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, God's World, where she says, "That gaunt crag, to crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!" When I drove to Sacramento a couple of weeks ago I took Highway 20, through Lake County, and all along the lakes and the hillsides there were these purple flowering trees, so incredibly vivid in the brown and green hills. I rounded curve after curve calling applause! applause! to the purple flowering trees, because it is hard to clap when you are driving on curvy roads.
On Sunday we went out to the ranch of some new friends of ours, and again, I was stunned. We followed them home, and we left the highway to drive for about twenty more minutes along a small road that was only paved partway up. We climbed and climbed through the forest and then came out of the woods and we were surrounded by such a pastoral view of wildflowers and valleys and hills stretching off into the distance that we all gasped. There were happy cows grazing in fields, and funny-looking sheep among boulders and you could see for miles. We drove up farther and got acquainted with the house before going on a journey to find the waterfall. The kids and I climbed onto a hay bale in the back of the Kubota and I held them tight as one of our hosts drove us down steep inclines to get to the waterfall. When we got there, we sat on a warm, flat rock and YaYa had a revelation ("The water falls!") and then the kids rolled in the grass and found bugs and worms.Â
It was such a sweet break, such a warm and comforting day. Grass and wind revived me and I felt healed by the beauty my eyes were taking in. When we all piled into the Kubota and climbed back up to the house, our hosts fed us hot chocolate and popcorn in the sunny dining room and we ended up staying so late that Renee made dinner and we stayed for that too, and drove home tired and happy.Â
There have been days like these. And there have been days of loss, loss that I don't know how to contain. Do I hold it in my heart, or do I open my hands and let it fly away? I am in the midst of a miscarriage, a baby so young I didn't know I was carrying him. I found out that I was pregnant about two minutes before I found out that I was also possibly losing the baby, and my heart lifted and then fell, and it has been like that for days now. We are not sure what is going on with you, they say. We don't know how far along you are. We think you are miscarrying. It may be ectopic, they say. And that is life-threatening, they say. We need to watch you. We need to do another sonogram.Â
So they have me coming every other day (driving over an hour each way) for blood work to measure my hcg levels, to make sure they are going down okay, and meanwhile I am bleeding and I am opening my hands, letting him go. It's amazing how much sorrow I feel for a baby that I wasn't planning on having. It's amazing how much my heart expanded in the short time that I prepared myself to have another baby.  I would have said I couldn't handle one more thing right now, one more bit of sadness. But I guess I am, I guess I am handling it. And when I drive up to the hospital, the trees and the mountains and the grass hold me. And I see these things are from my Father, just like when people feed me and sun comes through the trees and the future doesn't seem as scary, for a moment.Â
Sometimes when I'm walking around the Land there will be a big noise, like a pack of wolves bursting through the brush, and it terrifies me, but then I turn and I see that it's only a flock of quail. Why do those quail need to be so scary? I think this is like the fear that overtakes me sometimes. The days ahead are only days, after all. The people are only friends. What I think are wolves are actually quail running from me, scattering from the bush with their hearts beating madly.  Neither they nor I need to be afraid.
And the drives, lately. The drives. Sometimes we drive around a curve and suddenly there is a view before me that is so breathtaking that I want to hurl myself into the center of it and drop into it like a stone into a lake. Or squeeze it, squeeze it and squeeze it. It's like the line from the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem, God's World, where she says, "That gaunt crag, to crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!" When I drove to Sacramento a couple of weeks ago I took Highway 20, through Lake County, and all along the lakes and the hillsides there were these purple flowering trees, so incredibly vivid in the brown and green hills. I rounded curve after curve calling applause! applause! to the purple flowering trees, because it is hard to clap when you are driving on curvy roads.
On Sunday we went out to the ranch of some new friends of ours, and again, I was stunned. We followed them home, and we left the highway to drive for about twenty more minutes along a small road that was only paved partway up. We climbed and climbed through the forest and then came out of the woods and we were surrounded by such a pastoral view of wildflowers and valleys and hills stretching off into the distance that we all gasped. There were happy cows grazing in fields, and funny-looking sheep among boulders and you could see for miles. We drove up farther and got acquainted with the house before going on a journey to find the waterfall. The kids and I climbed onto a hay bale in the back of the Kubota and I held them tight as one of our hosts drove us down steep inclines to get to the waterfall. When we got there, we sat on a warm, flat rock and YaYa had a revelation ("The water falls!") and then the kids rolled in the grass and found bugs and worms.Â
It was such a sweet break, such a warm and comforting day. Grass and wind revived me and I felt healed by the beauty my eyes were taking in. When we all piled into the Kubota and climbed back up to the house, our hosts fed us hot chocolate and popcorn in the sunny dining room and we ended up staying so late that Renee made dinner and we stayed for that too, and drove home tired and happy.Â
There have been days like these. And there have been days of loss, loss that I don't know how to contain. Do I hold it in my heart, or do I open my hands and let it fly away? I am in the midst of a miscarriage, a baby so young I didn't know I was carrying him. I found out that I was pregnant about two minutes before I found out that I was also possibly losing the baby, and my heart lifted and then fell, and it has been like that for days now. We are not sure what is going on with you, they say. We don't know how far along you are. We think you are miscarrying. It may be ectopic, they say. And that is life-threatening, they say. We need to watch you. We need to do another sonogram.Â
So they have me coming every other day (driving over an hour each way) for blood work to measure my hcg levels, to make sure they are going down okay, and meanwhile I am bleeding and I am opening my hands, letting him go. It's amazing how much sorrow I feel for a baby that I wasn't planning on having. It's amazing how much my heart expanded in the short time that I prepared myself to have another baby.  I would have said I couldn't handle one more thing right now, one more bit of sadness. But I guess I am, I guess I am handling it. And when I drive up to the hospital, the trees and the mountains and the grass hold me. And I see these things are from my Father, just like when people feed me and sun comes through the trees and the future doesn't seem as scary, for a moment.Â
Sometimes when I'm walking around the Land there will be a big noise, like a pack of wolves bursting through the brush, and it terrifies me, but then I turn and I see that it's only a flock of quail. Why do those quail need to be so scary? I think this is like the fear that overtakes me sometimes. The days ahead are only days, after all. The people are only friends. What I think are wolves are actually quail running from me, scattering from the bush with their hearts beating madly.  Neither they nor I need to be afraid.
Reader Comments (26)
I'm am so sorry about the miscarriage. You portray much hope and strength in your words, I can only hope to someday be able to go through trials as faithfully as you are. I'll be praying for you.
Oh, Rae, I'm so sorry to hear that you are losing a precious baby. I know the pain of it all too well. I will write you soon. And if you want to talk, I'm here. I'll be praying. Love, Rebeca
My prayers are with you.
Oh Rachel, I love you. We're praying for you.
I am so sorry to hear this and I to will be praying
I am so sorry to hear of your sadness. It hurt to read this post, so it must have really hurt to write it. I love the way you manage to count your blessings through your sorrow, and write so exquisitely beautifully while you do that. Your talent shines.
I am so sorry.
I feel so inadequate to try to write words to you, especially after experiencing the eloquence of yours – like I always do here on your blog. Hugs to you, sister; my heart & prayers are with you.
I am so sorry Rae. So sorry. I am sending warm thoughts and hugs and wishes for peace in your heart. I wish there was something more I could do.
i'm sitting at my desk about to begin my work and trying not to cry... my heart aches for you and i am awed by the incredible grace that seems to surround you... i know that letting go is one of the hardest things to do (at least, it is for me). my prayers are for you and your family and i know that somehow, there is always enough grace... to carry, to heal, to still see beauty...
((Rae))
That's heartbreaking Rae. I'm so sorry for your loss.
I am so sorry Rae.
Thank you for sharing, even through your pain. May your heart and body heal.
Reading along, and praying for more and more unexpected and overwhelming exhibits of His love and presence with you as you walk this lonely road.
i'm so sorry. how terrible.
I'm so, so sorry Rae.
Rae, I am so sorry for your news. Praying that you have the freedom and energy to grieve well and heal; that you would continue to feel God's comfort and know that your name -- and that of your little one -- is written on His hands. Peace to you and your family.
I can't stop crying for you dear one. I feel it through your writing like a punch in the stomach, the surprise, the grief, the loss, and the struggle to let go. I've been thinking of calling you for more than a week now, and like an idiot I haven't followed through.
I love you and I'm praying for you.
Your words lilt. Journey mama is the perfect name for you. What a journey.
I am so very sorry for your loss.
An unexpected pregnancy is hard and the grief of miscarriage even harder- I know a little of how you are hurting. There is no way to know how it will all turn out, just where this road will lead but you've no choice but to keep on walking. Not many would be doing so with such beauty and grace, urging others on to worship even as you've laid bare your pain.
My heart aches for you...wishing there was more I could do. Lifting you and your Precious Ones before the Father right now.
I'm saddened to hear that your journey has again taken a heavy and unpredicatable turn. I hope that your body heals as well as your heart. It would be hard enough to deal with the loss without having to fear for your safety as well.
When I read about your visit to the waterfall, I thought that is how I feel when I go out to the barn. Just being able to touch the horses and wonder at how I've been so blessed can soothe the deepest wounds.
Be sure you make plenty of time for those moments that feed your soul.
I deeply understanding your feeling for nature. I share the same. I am healed by the beauty and wonder of the natural world around me.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Words can not convey my feelings.
{{hugs}} rae. thinking of you.
i see your strength in your words, I;m prayerfully wishing you peace and strong healing on this endless journey,
I have experienced a close friend's miscarriage, it can be so confusing and is painful....
your faith in God, humanity, and your family is guiding you to overcome lifes many trials and unexpected turns as we see through your blog and lifes experiences,
love and hugs ~~~