Friday, July 24, 2009
immediate intercession, please
hey, gang. not sure if anyone gets back here at all anymore, but i am sending out the word that your prayers are needed. my sister-in-law has miscarried several times and is pregnant again. she recently found out that although the baby still has a heart beat, her uterus is filling with blood and it doesn't look good. nothing short of a miracle will save her, so ask for one. thanks.
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11 comments:
You got it, Jon. That is one of the hardest things to endure. I will pray all day.
thank you, erin.
Oh Jon, I have lost eight myself so you know I will be praying so hard for her. Please please please let us know.
i'm praying, Jon.
thank you for your prayers, but she lost the baby last night.
I am so sorry, no woman should have to endure that heartache. I will keep praying for her and for your entire family as you mourn the loss.
If she needs someone to talk to, I am always available, via email or phone. I counseled women dealing with infertility and miscarriage for many years. Sometimes it is hard to find someone to talk to who understands.
Oh Jon, I am so sorry to hear this. She must be heartbroken. I just stopped and prayed for her (and for you, I know it hurts to see a loved one hurt).
I'm sorry she lost the baby, Jonno :( How is she holding up?
don't really know. since this is like number 7 or 8 at this point, and they don't have any children, my sis-in-law is pretty broken up. all i heard from my brother 2nd hand was, "please don't call." so i completely respect that feeling and can guess that depression and a host of other horrible things are rampant right now. all i can do is pray.
No, that it completely understandable, especially if there are no other children (it made a big difference with my being able to cope with the loss). People tend to say stupid and insensitive things like, "Well, at least it wasn't a real baby," or "At least you weren't attached," or "What, you are this upset about a miscarriage?" or "It is probably better off this way, the baby was probably deformed." I have been the recipient of those and much worse, and I only had to endure three before we adopted the boys so I cannot imagine her grief.
When you do see her or talk to her, just say how sorry you are, acknowledge the loss (because it truly is profound, although you obviously do grasp that, I can tell because of your own grief), and don't be afraid to cry with her. Somehow I think you are one of the few people I would trust not to be an insensitive jerk about it, just trying to make it all go away. And that is no small compliment from me, believe me.
There is a book I have given to mothers (and she is a mom, make no mistake) who have gone throught this -- it is called Holding on to Hope, by Nancy Guthrie, about a mother's journey through grief. It is a true story about a woman who lost first one infant to a rare and progressive metabolic disorder, and then unbelieveably lost another. It is a devotional on the book of Job, and has helped many women I know in dealing with child and pregnancy loss.
Sometimes the only way we women can survive is by binding together in grief. My prayers, as always are with your family.
From the chapter on TEARS
How to comfort a grieving friend
Our culture wants to put the Band-Aid of heaven on the hurt of losing someone we love to death. Sometimes it seems like they think because we know the one we love is in heaven, we shouldn't be sad. But they don't understand how far away heaven feels, and how long the future seems as we see before us the years we have to spend on this earth before we see the one we love again.
The day after we buried Hope, my husband said to me, "You know, I think we expected our faith would make this hurt less, but it doesn't. Our faith gave us an incredible amount of strength and encouragement while we had her, and we are comforted by the knowledge that Hope is in heaven. Our faith keeps us from being swallowed by despair. But I don't think it makes our loss hurt any less."
It is only natural that people around me often ask searchingly, "how are you?" And for much of the first year after her death, my answer was "I'm deeply and profoundly sad." I've been blessed with many people who have been willing to share my sorrow. They've been willing to just be sad with me. But some people seem to want to rush me through my sadness. They want to fix me. But I lost someone I loved dearly, and I'm sad.
Ours is not a culture that is comfortable with sadness. It's awkward. It is unsettling. It ebbs and flows and takes it own shape. It beckons to be shared. It comes out in tears, and we don't quite know what to do with those.
So many people are afraid to bring it up. They don't want to upset me. But my tears are the only way I have to release the deep sorrow I feel. I tell people: "Don't worry about crying in front of me or be afraid that you will make me cry! Your tears tell me you care, and my tears tell you that you've touched me in a place that is meaningful to me—and I will never forget your willingness to share my grief."
In fact, it is those who shed their tears with me that show me we are not alone. It often feels like we are carrying this enormous load of sorrow, and when others shed their tears with me, it is like they are taking a bucket full of sadness and carrying it for me. It is, perhaps, the most meaningful thing anyone can do for me.
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