I see pictures of spring popping up all over social media. In my neck of the woods, it’s gray skies, rain drops, yellow grass, and an alteration between cold and less cold.

It seems fitting for today. Today is my second day of recovery from emergency surgery.

I miscarried Sunday evening. The first gush of blood brought with it continuous waves of bleeding and severe pain. My husband sped most of the way to the ER.

Today, my body is painfully sore and my heart is devastated.

I miss the morning sickness and exhaustion. I find myself touching my stomach unconsciously. A tinge of grief hits when I remember that’s an empty gesture.

I feel the isolation of the times more deeply as friends can only offer comfort virtually. My own momma, who lives less than 10 minutes from me, can’t even come into my home and hold me as I cry.

We were keenly aware of the pandemic as I had to be screened outside the lobby of the ER. I stood hunched over in pain as they asked me about travel outside the country and took my temperature. Thankfully, someone brought me a wheelchair as they screened my husband. I am so glad we were serious about stay-at-home measures; since neither of us showed any symptoms or had been exposed to someone who had symptoms, my husband could stay with me.

At one point, the hospital staff were discussing sending my husband out to the car to wait for me after surgery because of the current no visitor policy, but I was the only one in recovery, so they let him stay. I don’t think I could have gone through everything I did without him by my side.

When I first started lightly spotting on Saturday afternoon, I hoped for the best but prepared for the worst. My husband commented, as he tried to reassure me that it could be due to a hundred different things, that I seem to pre-process situations before they happen.

It’s true. That’s how I’m wired. It’s a useful tool when I’m leading a group through complicated situations as I can troubleshoot quickly and navigate effectively.

In situations like this, however, where you have to take it moment by moment, it’s very hard to turn it off.

But I’m learning to embrace my design. Which means that in the moments of pre-processing, of anticipating all that could happen and the consequential results, I don’t fight it. Instead, I lay it all out, not in front of me, but at the feet of my Savior.

In the moments that demand a wait instead of an action, I have to embrace faith not fear.

Another part of my design is that I feel all the things all at once. This past weekend feels like one large lump of something and writing about the experience helps me to unravel it all into something I can contemplate. Something I can consider.

I asked a loving friend about her own miscarriage experience. She shared the beautiful ways she and her family said goodbye. She is more than a decade down the road and was able to say, “it shapes me now but doesn’t define me.” One day I know I’ll be there, but right now I’m embracing the part of my design that needs to just sit and let it define my existence today.

I am a mother who had to say goodbye to a child she never even got a chance to say hello to.

I am a woman whose body has been through something traumatic and it is rebelling against her by not moving without searing pain.

My day today is defined by my miscarriage and emergency surgery. I’m going to be okay. But I’m not okay right now.

And I’m embracing the fact that my Creator designed me to feel and write and contemplate all the things in the all the ways I do, and He hasn’t left me to do it all on my own.

He comforts when the answers are insufficient.

He holds me when no one else can come near.

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