In our late twenties, my wife Teana endured three traumatizing miscarriages. I use the word ‘traumatizing’ for many reasons, the first of which is that it seemed contrary to our understanding of God, his promises and the normal expectations of any couple awaiting the birth of a child. She miscarried, not once, not twice but three times. We were not ungrateful for our living daughters. If anything, we were exceedingly thankful. But between our second daughter and our only son, Teana endured the same heartbreak as Hannah did, in the Old Testament, as she poured her heart out to God for a baby boy. She lived and then lost each child in ‘deep distress, praying and weeping bitterly’ (2 Samuel 1:1-11). On one occasion, I remember pushing her in a wheelchair from the doctor’s office to the labor and delivery ward of the hospital; a destination that only increased our awareness of her loss. And on the way, she did her best to cover the unstoppable, gradually encroaching onslaught of red on her dress; uncontestable evidence of another heartbreaking loss.
We did our best, on each occasion, to speak to each other as transparently as words might allow. But
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