What a difference a year makes
November is often the time of year when we express surprise at the speed with which time passes. As festive preparations begin in earnest, comments of “I can’t believe it’s nearly Christmas again” and “Where’s the year gone?” become a staple part of day-to-day conversation.
Today, for a different reason, I’m reflecting on the past year and how quickly or slowly it seems to have gone, because it was 12 months ago today that my husband Gary and I learned, 10 and a half weeks into our first pregnancy, that our precious child had died.
Numerically, it was 365 days ago. And yet so much has happened since then that it feels like a lifetime.
As we watched his lifeless form on the scanner screen on November 17 last year, we thought our longed-for baby was gone from our lives. His earthly existence had reached its end and we were forced to face up to readjusting to a reality where we were, once again, two rather than three.
On that most difficult of days, we could not have begun to imagine how central to our lives our little one, who we had nicknamed Lentil, would remain 52 weeks later.
One of the questions I’ve heard many times in the last 12 months (and plenty of times before that) has been, “If God exists and is good, how can He let bad things happen?” It’s an understandable question when circumstances seen to defy logic, and it’s one that could be studied in depth for a very long time. But, as I don’t imagine anyone wants to be reading this for a very long time, I’ll give you the abridged version of why I think He does it, which is threefold.
Firstly, God allows bad things to happen because mankind wanted free will, God provided it and mankind is fallible and screws stuff up.
Secondly, sometimes we need to have something taken away from us before we realise everything that we have.
And, thirdly, God knows that, even in the direst of difficult circumstances, good can come from bad. I’ve yet to come across a circumstance in my life from which no glimmer of positivity has come. And our miscarriage has been no exception.
Through our loss, God shown His faithfulness and demonstrated that His love and grace transcend circumstances and situations. He has helped us to renew our focus on the things that truly and on our ultimate destination, not on the temporary inconveniences of our transitory earthly lives.
And He led me to share that experience, and the blessing of Lentil, by publishing a book about our experiences. As someone who’s never taken a wearing-heart-on-sleeve approach to life, I didn’t see that one coming until one day it was happening. I still can’t remember exactly how it panned out.
From that, came this website, which has given me the freedom to share more thoughts and experiences.
And, between them, the book and website have brought me into contact with people I would never have otherwise crossed paths with and who, because of reading my book or my blog, have given me the great honour of hearing about some of their own experiences, both happy and sad. And I’ve heard stories from other people who have been prompted to bless others because of our story.
All this in a year, and now I’m looking forward to what the next 12 months might have in store for us.
The Bible tells us that if you have faith the size of a mustard seed you can move mountains (Matthew 17:20). I’ve benefited from faith the size of a mustard seed and a precious child the size of a lentil, and I’m not done yet.
Sarah Moore is the author of For the Love of Lentil, A journey of longing, loss and abundant grace, which tells the story of her experience of pregnancy and miscarriage. Copies of the book are available here.