My foot tapped impatiently on the floor. Mom said it would only be an hour or so, why aren't they home yet? I guessed there was no need to be concerned. My siblings sure weren't. They all sat on the couch with their eyes glued to the tv, except my older sister. She was off in her room reading while I was stuck babysitting. That was why I wanted my parents to hurry home. But how long could an ultrasound possibly take? Are they doing something to stop mom’s bleeding? I glanced out the window for the umpteenth time and silently prayed that the baby was okay. Just as I finished, the car pulled up. “They’re home!” my two youngest sisters shouted in unison. Of course, as soon as mom and dad walked in the door they were bombarded with questions.
“Where were you?”
“Why did it take so long?”
“Is it a girl or a boy?”
That’s when I noticed the look on mom’s face. Something was wrong. Dad told us all to wait on the couch as he and mom walked upstairs. When they came down, mom looked like she had been crying. We all sat perfectly still as she gave us the news. The baby was dead. My little brother or sister. Dead. Everything went blurry as hot tears filled my eyes and washed down my face. And then I was yelling, screaming to God “No! No! You can’t let this happen!” But it already had.
I ran to my room leaving the sobs of my family behind me. I threw myself on my bed and let the blankets muffle my choking cries. All I felt was pain. Deep, cutting pain. Like someone had shoved a knife right into my heart and they were just sitting there turning it over and over again. It felt like I was being suffocated by my grief. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t even breathe without screaming from the pain in my heart.
And then I was angry. Furious. Burning with rage and hatred toward God for letting this happen to me, and my family and my helpless brother or sister that lay cold and dead in my mother’s womb. I screamed at him in my heart. “Why? Why would you let this happen? What have we done to deserve this?” I layed there for a long time. The pain somewhat eased, either from numbness or just exhaustion, I don’t know.
And I began to think. I thought about the baby, my family, how our life would change. And just as the pain began to take over my emotions again, a small voice in my heart whispered “I have not forsaken you”. Thats it. Just those five words. And all of the sudden an overwhelming sense of peace flooded over me. I knew that I could make it through this. He was with me.
I thought about my baby sibling. I pictured him or her up in heaven, dancing and  laughing, sitting at Jesus’ feet, never having to know the pains of this world. And in that moment, something changed in my heart. Yes, the knife had stabbed me, but it had not been twisted, it had not ripped me apart. Instead, the pain that I now felt was God ever so slowly pulling it out so he could sew up the gash with His peace and love. And I knew that everything would be alright.
It has now been a little over a year since that day. Sometimes I still feel the pain, like when an old injury starts acting up. It is a dull ache instead of the sharp cutting it once was. But now, when I hurt, I know what to do. In those first moments of desperation, I blamed God. I pushed him away and even hated him. But now I know to run to him instead.
Because everyone goes through pain and loss and heartbreak. It is a part of this life. But when such things happen. We have a choice. Are we going to run to God? To find the shelter, the hope and strength that we need? Or are we going to run away from him? Are we going to hate and blame him and try to get through it alone? For me, the decision has already been made. And when I think about what happened, I am grateful to God. Not because of what happened, but because of how God used it to draw me closer to Him. So now the choice is yours. You can go down whatever road you want, but you must live with the consequences. Which road will you take?