Lisa Kaastra

When we announced our first pregnancy, my mother in law cried in joy. We’d brought a specially ordered cake.

When we announced our second pregnancy, my sister in law cried in shock and excitement. We’d caught the entire moment on video, while in Disney World.

When we shared our third pregnancy, we came home from the fourth visit to the ER, and I lay in bed, and cried alone. I was terrified.

Less than 4 months before, that second pregnancy had ended with a missed miscarriage, and throughout the following weeks of uncertainty and emergency ultrasounds, I came to realize that the only thing worse than experiencing a nightmare, was the fear of reliving it.  

So why am I telling you this?

The truth is, there is enough tear-filled and painful messages about motherhood out there. It causes a jolt to our system while we’re scrolling through our social media newsfeed, and it’s hardly the emotions we were looking for amongst parenting memes and friendship updates. Nobody should be surrounded by constant negativity and forced sympathy.

But I need to do this.

I never want anyone to experience what I’ve been going through, and yet I selfishly desire an understanding word and an empathetic touch from one who “gets it”. Because if I’m being honest, I’m still the junior high girl in the corner of the classroom, trying to cover up my frustrations and feelings of being misunderstood with distraction and sarcasm – and I’m failing miserably.

I admit that I want them to realize my view of Hell:

To know what it’s like to wake up every morning and wonder, “Did we make it?”

To see the bleeding day after day, sleep with a light on in the corner of the room, and be so afraid that you can’t even cry;

To experience jealousy and anger when you can’t even realize it, and feel cheated of joy in something meant to be beautiful;

To go to the ER 6 times and know they can’t do anything anyway, hearing the words “bruised placenta”, “threatened miscarriage”, and “take it easy”;

To repeat Bible verses and prayers so often it feels like a nonstop mantra that, if ever paused for a moment, the world as you hope will fall apart in seconds;

To constantly fight back the worry that you don’t have enough faith, and that if only – if only – you could believe with certainty, then you could save this baby;

To sense the ebb and flow of a heartbeat that is both a physical and emotional part of you… as though it is slipping away, slowly dying with every negative thought that slashes your heart.

To have your own desire for life wane and disappear with the lies that constantly whisper, “You can’t, you won’t, you aren’t enough”;

To be too scared to breathe.

This is, I believe, the very definition of brokenness. Of my brokenness.

But in all of that brokenness I want to look at the girl next to me – the mother, the wife, the daughter, the sister, the child, the hurt, the growing, the fearful… and I want to be there in any way that I, with all of my own faults and scars and baggage, possibly can. I want to hold her, share my life with her, and look in a new direction with her. I want to see the Truth with her, even when all we feel at that moment, is pain.

And my guess is, you probably do too. Together, we attempt to fill the gaps that humans create, but cannot fix. Your story and mine – ours – overlapping, or facing opposites. We all know that fear. We all seek to be understood… and then somehow, to understand.

This week I’ll be quietly mourning the unmet birthday of our second baby, while celebrating 20 weeks alive and well in the womb of our fighting third. But in all of this, I see one clear picture:

I’m sitting on the edge of cliff, overlooking Bethlehem. They’re all there – the shepherds, the angels, Mary, the Baby, and overhead, the brightest, most indescribable star. But down and in the background, stand 3 shadowed crosses. It’s a scene of celebration, hope, and the struggling growth of a people about to experience the unthinkable.

I’m scared, broken, bruised, and covered in blood. But then He comes, sits down beside me, and takes my hand in His. And even though I can’t see His eyes, I can hear the emotion while He says the two words my 13 year-old heart has been yearning to hear for over a decade…

“I understand”.

In this New Year, celebrate Life. Crave Peace. And chase after a relationship with the only One who truly understands it all, and helps us pass through every trial.

“Don’t enemy, crow over me. I’m down, but I’m not out. I’m sitting in the dark right now, but God is my light… It’s not forever. He’s on my side, and He’s going to get me out of this. He’ll turn on the lights, and show me His ways. I’ll see the whole picture, and how right He is.” – Micah 7:8-9 MSG