pat loughery

[Update: for those of you coming to this post late, I wrote this entry after we found that we had lost the pregnancies that my wife was carrying. To understand the context more, just check out the Family category].

We’re having a little family dinner tonight, with spaghetti and ice cream and talk. Holy talk.

This is what I wrote to say:

Dear Babies,

In the last two months, it seems like we’ve gotten to know you much more intimately and personally than we could have ever imagined. You grew from the hope that we had in our first visits to the doctor through trusting him to do the best that he could, to praying for you and preparing your mommy, to seeing the eggs growing in mommy’s tummy, to seeing our positive pregnancy tests results, to seeing the first ultrasound and watching in wonder as Dr. Kustin found two, then maybe even three of you growing, changing.

Kaileigh and I were watching the TV screen when the doctor first saw three little embryos. And we were watching again when Amy the ultrasound tech saw one heartbeat, strong and clear – then two, again strong and clear – flickering, flashing, regular and true. And then… against all hope, we saw the third heartbeat, clear as day. We knew that the third of you was small and in danger, so we prayed even harder, called our family to join in the chorus. We were amazed at God’s blessing: that three of the four of you made it to this point, incredible, powerful, wonderful, joyful.

We knew when the next doctor exam happened that one of you had not made it, that you were now ahead of us, resting in the arms of Jesus, laughing and singing and enjoying your life. In the life that we all hope for.

And, at the next appointment, when we found that the two others of you had not made it, we knew that you also had gone ahead of us, now fully formed and fully living, far greater and purer and more glorious than we ever will be in this life.

We don’t know why you went ahead. We never will, not in this age. We know that those who try to tell us are straining for truth, trying to help but missing the point. Only God knows. We hurt with the loss of hope – our expectations of holding you close, changing your diapers, seeing you crawl and walk and talk and ride with daddy on his motorcycle and marry. We know that we will never experience those joys with you, not here or now.

But we also trust and hope and expect that you are with your Father, the One who does know. We commit you into his care – to father you and to mother you; to give you all the attention and care and joy that you want, that we cannot do for ourselves. Not here, not now.

We stand firm in trust that God’s word about us is his same word about you:

Psalm 139
13 You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body
and knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!
Your workmanship is marvelous—and how well I know it.
15 You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion,
as I was woven together in the dark of the womb.
16 You saw me before I was born.
Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Every moment was laid out
before a single day had passed.

We trust that, one day soon, we will be like you and with you, entering into the presence of our Father in the heavens. Save a seat on the couch for us, and know that the tears we shed when we get to see you are tears of joy. Of life.

2 Corinthians 1:3 through 2 Corinthians 1:4 (NIV)
3Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.