These are things I thought about as I laid on the table this morning. This morning, the day after our baby died. No more little heartbeat, no more swimming bean. No more little green shoot, no more garden womb.
It wasn't me, it was her. A fluke. Something was just wrong with the baby, according to our doctor. She never would have lived. This is really personal to write about, but I will absolutely not have a secret baby. A baby whose name I never say, a baby who we don't talk about. I saw her heartbeat, she made me queasy for hours on end, and last week I went through two whole jars of Klaussen pickles (the cold kind), so I just can't roll over and pretend like I didn't grow a baby for the last 14 weeks, like I didn't dream about her and think about her and pray every night that God would put a hedge of protection around her. We named her. Her name was Violet. And there is an empty ivory-colored velvet baby snow-suit hanging in William's closet that I bought just for her. For my little winter baby who is not really ever coming.
And even though I am so sad, and I just don't understand God's reasoning for giving me a baby that could only live a few short months, I know this much: God is good. And God is enough. Even when my baby's heart stops beating, He is still enough for me.