I Don’t Know Why

I don’t know why. I don’t know why I never felt the pain.

I never experienced one pink line month after month for years on end. I never walked into an ultrasound eager to discover my baby’s gender and instead walked out in tears. 

The sight of a baby bump on a stranger in Target never made my eyes well up, and yet another Facebook pregnancy announcement never made me jealous or angry.

I never experienced the pain of a miscarriage. I never experienced the pain of injections. I never experienced the pain of an adoption placement falling through. 

The tension in a marriage as we grieve, the awkward encounters with people who have no idea the pain we’ve experienced, feeling like I let my husband down or that my body is broken. 

I never had to have hard conversations with a friend about why I just couldn’t come to her baby shower. I never sat in an empty nursery, clinging to a blanket that will never be used. I never saw my baby covered in tubes and wires. I never had a team of doctors break bad news. I never had to question if I did something wrong. Never once. Never even close.

I don’t know why. I did nothing special. I’m certainly nothing special. But can I tell you the truth? 

I don’t know your pain, but I hurt for you. I don’t know the weight of your grief, but you weigh on my heart. I don’t know the frustration, but I too ask God, “why not her?” I don’t know the depth of your despair, but I promise to not leave you alone in the pit. 

If you’ll have me, I’ll sit with you, cry with you, be still with you. Not out of pity, but because, no matter the number of little ones here, in Heaven, or in our highest hopes, our hearts have both been pressed by this hard, messy thing called motherhood.


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