The car brakes sharply in front of me, and I glance up from the side mirror as I try to merge over just in time to swerve and miss hitting it. 60 mph on the freeway, that would have left some damage. My heart races and my hands are clammy as I pass by shaking my head. Under my breath I mutter, “Thank you God for protecting me.”
And then resentment pops up. Why didn’t God just prevent the entire thing? Why even have the car brake, or be there at all? Was that necessary and why? So I’d say thank you? Or be reminded I’m not in control?
Yeah. I know that. Believe me.
As time passes from the loss of Preston and Julian and the poor hospital treatment that left me shaken to the core, I find my unquestioning faith in God having a plan become entangled with, “Why did it have to happen at all?”
Even small miracles take some time for me to recognize, and when I do I find myself instantly wondering why God would intervene for something like that and not saving my sons.
He could have stopped it.
He could have let them live.
He could have prevented my water from breaking. Let me hold on till 24 weeks. Healed the rupture. He could have. And He didn’t.
I struggle so hard with trying to fathom why not, even as I carry my third little boy inside me.
It’s frustrating to hear, “It was God’s will, this is all part of the plan, look at how life has changed the past year for you” when I can’t say, “YES. Thank goodness that they died so that I’m able to work from home like I wanted and make a difference in God’s kingdom with my story. Worth it!”
It’s never going to be worth the cost (here on earth anyway) of the loss of those two lives. Nothing short of being in heaven and seeing the ripples of their short lives unfold on earth as I watch with them will ever make it worth losing those two.
There may never be a “purpose” behind their deaths. The world is a broken place and horrible things happen every day. My story happened to have one of them. That’s all. I believe that God grieves even more than I do for the loss, for my heart, for our family.
I simply don’t know why some miracles happen. Some prayers are granted. Some of my desires are placed in my life. When the time I needed a miracle the most, the moment I laid in that bed and with tears pouring down begged God to save my sons, when I promised I would do anything if He would spare them – that miracle didn’t happen.
So now I am left to take that faith that I used to pull through those first few months of raw grief, and turn it into a trust. “Trust is faith with legs” as my dad tells me. I shy away from trusting too much, knowing how hurt and let down I’ve been in my times of great need. But reminding myself that He was there all along. That He still is. That if this life is all taken away tomorrow He’ll be there still.
It’s hard to build that trust after something like this. I want to so much, to not simply believe in God but believe God.
So I whisper to myself in those dark moments of fear the little song I sing with Bella each night before she goes to sleep:
“I don’t have to be afraid, in the night or in the day.
When I sleep my God’s awake.
He’s watching over me.
I know He loves me. I know He cares for me.
I know He’s there for me.
He’s watching over me.”