I stirred pasta and sauce at the stove, listening to music as I mentally scanned through photos I’d seen on my computer the previous night. I remembered seeing some poems I wrote after my miscarriage, captured in time among pictures of my older children playing and celebrating birthdays.
Except for the poems, no one would know from browsing my pictures what was going on behind the scenes that month. The faces of my children bloomed with life, and there was no picture of my broken heart.
As I stirred and remembered, I realized that it was this same week in October that my baby had been due. I’d forgotten.
And before I had time to feel horrified that I’d forget the timing of such a poignant grief, one that left me weeping this time two years ago…
Before I had time to recognize God’s grace and healing over these past two years…
Another thought came loud and strong:
God never forgets any of it. Our grief. Our joy. He remembers all of it. And our losses, even the loss of an unborn child, are better kept by him than anyone else.
“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” Psalm 56:8 ESV