“Emptiness itself can birth the fullness of grace, because in the emptiness we have the opportunity to turn to God, the only begetter of grace and there find all the fullness of joy.”
The path to healing comes in many forms. God did not wield a cookie cutter when He created each of us, so it’s not surprising if my journey differs from yours. But despite the difference in miles, our individual roads forged with broken hearts can lead us heavenward.
In the months following my miscarriage, I could relate to David when he wrote in the 31st Psalm:
“I am like a broken vessel.”
Why wouldn’t my body work? The life supposed to be growing inside of me had evaporated, leaving me profoundly hollow. I felt as useless as cracked pottery.
And that is where He met me.
He was present while I sat in my parked van, rain and tears simultaneously pouring, when I laid curled up on the closet floor shouting accusations towards heaven. As I succumbed to the depths of my anguish, even still His love found me.
God longs for our invitation into the recesses of our souls. He doesn’t cower back from the ugly and broken places, but will meet us in the mess. God’s desire for intimate friendship with us is illustrated in Psalm 27:8:
My heart has heard you say, “Come and talk with me.” And my heart responds, “Lord, I am coming.” (NLT)
When we embrace vulnerability with the Lord and honestly confront Him with our pain and anger, God tills our hearts, preparing them to receive His healing.
And His healing did come.
In February 2015, I was invited to a Celebration of Life service at a local Anglican church. Each year, this congregation poignantly recognizes the departed lives of children miscarried, stillborn, or aborted through rich liturgy and a candle-lighting ceremony.
As the service approached, I was encouraged to pray about my baby’s gender and name. Assured that she was a girl, I began to ask God what she should be called. Opening my Bible, I saw Psalm 27:1 leap from the page:
“The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”
The Lord is my light.
This captured the true essence of her being. Securely placed in the Savior’s arms, my child’s life can never be snatched from the Divine hand, but is made radiant in His eternal light. Searching for a name with this meaning, I found the Hebrew name Eliora, which means “the Lord is my light.”
Feet falling silently down the center aisle of the church, I publicly acknowledged my child’s death, receiving the closure I needed to say goodbye.
Tiny candles flickering in the dimly lit sanctuary, the lives of countless children aglow in Divine Light.
Two years and two babies later, the Lord brought my healing journey to fruition. In the throes of postpartum hormonal upheaval, I rocked my brand-new baby girl, weeping in part from joy, and also from what was lost.
Tears streaming, arms cradling my slumbering newborn, I cried out to the Father: “Tell Eliora I still remember! Tell her I will always love her!” Again, He responded to my plea.
Flooding my mind with a vision, the Holy Spirit depicted Jesus, arms outstretched, bidding my little girl to come running into His enduring embrace. “Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matt. 19:14
Comforted by Christ’s immeasurable love for Eliora, heart finally at peace, I rocked my sleeping baby, smiling heavenward.
“Blessed are those who dwell in your house; they shall praise you for eternity!” Psa. 84:4