Death Before Birth

As I write this, my heart is breaking. There aren't words to describe what I'm feeling. My first grandchild will never draw breath on this earth. Before this little one was born, there is death.

The circumstances that surrounded this news were bad -- even if the child had survived.

I feel so impotent. So much of this life has been an exercise in trying to be heard. To count. To matter.

As a child and young adult, I had two reoccurring nightmares. In one, I was a little girl at the wheel of a vehicle hurtling out of control. My feet couldn't reach the pedals to hit the brake. All I could do was steer, desperately trying to save my life and the life of those in the car. I would awake before the crash.

The other dream was always about some looming disaster. I had knowledge of it and was certain of its accuracy. However, in the dream as I try to get people to leave the burning building, move to higher ground, escape the bad guys, etc. no one will believe me. If secrecy is needed, the ones I am trying to get to safety stand and laugh and ask me loudly what it is I wanted them to know.

The second variety of dreams lasted longer into my adulthood.

I no longer have those dreams because I know that it is up to the others whether or not they listen . . . And I'm not in charge of the driving. However, as I sit here now I wonder if I had been able to capture the heart of my own child . . . if I had been better able to convey the truth . . . if . . . if . . . if. . . .

Would the rebellion that led to this day and the death of this grandchild never have occurred? I'm not driving the car. I didn't set it in motion, but I have to wonder if I might have better conveyed the urgency and influenced things to a more secure road.

The generation before me delight in badmouthing and gossip. The generation after me loves rebellion. The ones they listen to are brighter, more colorful -- They are younger, wiser, more cunning and devious. They lace their lies with enough truth to make their poison sweet and the bliss of their embrace clouds the reality of death.

This walk is not an easy one. This grief is rending my soul. Yet, I cannot deny the One Who died for me. May God have mercy. May this life not end before repentance and reconciliation. May there be a time when my children know Him as their Lord and Savior and may the generations to come reap a better part than that which I have known.

Oh please, let it be so . . .