Rolling in the waves

When I was preparing to leave the hospital, a grief counselor there told me that the grief is like standing at the beach right at the edge of the surf. She was so right. You never know if the waves are going to be small and just hit your ankles or if they are going to go over your head and completely engulf you and knock you over. After a few weeks of ankle-sized waves, a huge crusher totally blindsided me.

For those of you who don't know, I grew up on the east coast of Florida. I am very familiar with the beach and the waves. I grew up playing in the surf and it has always been a place of comfort for me. All of a sudden, waves and waves of grief are crashing into my beach of comfort.

I should have been 32 weeks today. I was supposed to be decorating Peter's nursery, getting him really cute clothes, feeling him kick me, and having my back hurt from my big belly. Instead, I'm 2 months into a lifetime of grief and my belly is getting smaller as the extra fluid flows out of my body. It wasn't supposed to be this way; it doesn't make any sense.

My mom asked me what my heart looked like now and I told her that it is missing the half that Peter took with him to Heaven. The other half, which belongs equally to God, my husband and my family, is bleeding profusely. My heart is empty, as is my womb.

It's not as if I have given up hope. I am incredibly hope-filled because my son is in Heaven praying for us and if I do things right I will get to be there to see him again and spend eternity holding him. As much as my head understands that, my heart is so drowned in pain that it cannot find that joy right now. I know eventually it will. God has given me the grace to be able to endure patiently in my sorrow. I will always hold Peter in my heart.