The Wood Between the Worlds

I hope you don't think badly of me for writing about things that are hard.  I know that probably most of you know me and some of you do not.  I think of myself as a strong person.  And I used to be more confident.  I hope you aren't disappointed in me that I don't seem to be getting stronger from my experience of loosing Elsa.  Sure at first it was pretty easy.  I had such assurances that all was well.  I had so many friends and family surrounding me with love.  I felt my Savior as my constant companion.  But lately, well...lately it's been hard.  Again.  And again. 

Every time someone is going to have a baby {but especially a girl} I get so nervous.  Especially if their situation is like mine was, as in they have two boys and are very exciting to finally be adding a girl to the mix.  I worry and hope that everything will turn out the way they had planned.  But then when they have that baby safe and sound and they are in baby bliss, I start to slip.  This internal struggle begins.  The struggle of being SO happy for that family, while at the same time being SO sad that our situation turned out differently.  The worst is when I read stories about babies that *almost* didn't make it, but then they miraculously pulled through.  Don't get me wrong...I am OVER the MOON elated that others aren't having to experience the ache and the pain that I have.  But I wish that things had happened differently for us.  Could I have been given any kind of sign that she was going to die so that I could rush into the hospital to have her delivered immediately?  No.  Is was not meant to be that way.  She was not meant to be here.

I used to be so ok with that.  I thought for sure that I would be blessed with another little daughter that I got to keep...right away.  And that I would then be this noble, selfless mother who would carry on after giving Elsa a gift.  I was sure that God would not put me though loosing my daughter if he wasn't going to make it a lot better right away?  {I'm not going to write another paragraph about how much that feeling does not effect my love and joy for my baby boy Oliver, even though I could.  Hopefully my adoration for him is shining through in other posts}.

But here is my question for you all...this is what I seem to be struggling with the VERY most:
How can I be happy for others without feeling so sad for myself
{or angry, or jealous, or...insert related synonym here}?  My dear husband thinks that this just might be my big challenge from this experience.

I know that many of you have also lost a baby.  The rest of you have gone through other struggles, whether seen or unseen.  Have you ever lost something that you WANTED so VERY MUCH?  Something that you had prepared for and planned for, for months or years?  Something that can't or won't be replaced for a VERY long time?  How do you deal?  Am I just being a baby?

Here are a coupla things that I do know:
 1) I have it good.  I know other people have it worse than me.  I am regularly humbled by the amount of good I have in my life, and the lack of others in the world.  I'm not comparing with them though and I can't dismiss my pain even though others may have more pain.
2) God is good.  And I know he has a plan for me and for my family and for my Elsa.  And it will make us all the MOST happy in the end.  I just don't always know what it is and it is hard to trust.  I once thought I knew what a great deal of faith felt like...but now I'm just quivering and shivering like a little child.  

So other than those two things, what do YOU do to deal? 


...and for Elsa...

For Mary Lydia: From a Parent Left Behind
By Susan Chock Hartman


Child,
you were not born for sorrow.
I cannot even mourn for you: a few hours
beneath the stars, a name, a covenant,
a safe and shining flight across the sky.


I mourn, instead, for myself,
for my mortal fears, my pain,
for my world-weariness,
for my dark nights. But you, my child,
did not come for such grief.


Someday I shall teach you of this green earth:
of small warm animals,
of cornfields and clay,
of birds that can’t fly,
and of the fear of falling.


And though your new home is
grander, your new life
more splendid, your new world
much lighter, much warmer
than this,
I believe all will be
more beautiful
when I hold you again.