On October 15th, at sunset worldwide, in each timezone people light candles to remember the unborn children they’ve lost.
Miscarriage is a quiet pain. There is no louder silence than a flat-lined fetal heart no longer beating the rhythm of life. Without the dignity of a memorial service, a miscarried baby is mourned privately by the family while others nearby do their best to understand and care.
With three miscarriages and four additional positive pregnancy tests that did not result in medically confirmed pregnancies (read: potential miscarriages), I’ve walked dark paths through barren lands. My heart has prayed silent prayers of desperation that my womb would not again serve as a tomb.
The beautiful irony was not lost on me this year, when my sick daughter began crying inconsolably from the pain of her infected ear at sundown October 15th.
To live means pain.
As I paced with her in the setting darkness of our home, she nestled into the familiar comfort of my arms and fell asleep.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.