Holding Grief and Joy in Tandem
This summer my neighbours and I watched resilient weeds push up through the sun-burnt grass on our lawns. Though the grass resembled fallen autumn leaves, the weeds stood tall with bright green stems and perky yellow and white petals. While our feet crunched over the grass on the way to the shore, tall shoots of Queen Anne’s Lace tickled our calves. I couldn’t help but wonder at these thriving weeds and wildflowers amidst all the withering grass and flowerbeds. Yet it seemed to be an adequate picture of the strange reality I’ve been feeling as a believer residing in a fallen world.
Late last year and early 2020, my husband and I mourned two miscarriages. By this time I could’ve held both of those dear babies. As we mourned we grappled with the whys—why two miscarriages, and why at that moment when things already felt so difficult for us?
By spring we became pregnant for the fourth time, and we held our breath as each day passed in the first trimester. Finally we received an assuring sign: morning sickness. But this morning sickness was unlike any I had experienced before; I woke up every morning dry heaving and could hardly stomach the sight of food. Eventually my husband had to take time off work while I took up residence in our bed for six weeks. Again, we grappled with the whys—why when we can finally celebrate life, is it being crushed with the misery of such crippling morning sickness? Many times as I curled up on the bathroom floor I wept, “God, I can’t do this. Please, please don’t take this baby away, but please give me some kind of relief or hope to cling to.”
Twice I was admitted to the hospital for dehydration. During one of those trips, I was pushed in a wheelchair down to the ultrasound department. As I laid on the bed while the technician rolled the probe over my belly, I whispered, “I know the rules, but I’ve had two miscarriages. Can you at least tell me if there’s a heartbeat?” I bit my cheek to hold the tears back.
The technician kept her eyes on the screen, which was turned away from sight. “I’m sorry, I can’t. The doctor will be able to tell you soon.”
Afterward I was wheeled back to my room where my husband quickly helped me into the hospital bed. “Is the baby okay? Did they tell you anything?”
“No,” I replied, letting a tear slide down my cheek.
We waited an hour before a doctor finally slipped in. I imagined us looking at her like beggars in the desert, our eyes glued to her for some kind of hopeful water to drink. A smile crept on her lips. “I have good news and… interesting news,” she said. My arms were almost inclined to reach out to grab the hope she was hiding behind her clipboard. “You’re pregnant… with twins.”
My husband and I collapsed into each other’s arms and simply cried. This was our hope amidst the crippling morning sickness, the answer to my why: Though we had lost two, God was graciously giving us two.
Yet while being the wonderful gifts they are, I know these two baby boys wrestling in my womb will never replace the two we lost. I still shed tears when I think of them, and I still wear my necklace with two seeds encased in the pendant as a reminder of their short lives.
When something joyous happens, I think many of us believe that all grief and heartache should instantly be eradicated. But that’s not the way grief works. A widow remarried will never forget her first husband. A child’s step-mother will never replace her biological mother who passed away. And it’s the same for parents of miscarriage. No amount of children will replace the ones we lost. I’m reminded of Job, and wonder if he felt this tension of holding both grief and joy when God restored his fortune and gave him ten more children. Discussing Job’s restoration, Sarah and Jeff Walton write,
Though we tend to focus on all that God restored to Job and his wife (which reminds us of his great compassion), we need to remember that some of what they lost was not restored in their lifetime (reminding us that this isn’t our home). Though I’m sure they rejoiced and loved their subsequent ten children, Job and his wife couldn’t replace (or restore) the children they had lost. Instead, they enjoyed what God had restored in their earthly life, while presumably still longing for the day when they would be reunited with their children in complete restoration.¹
While living on this earth marred by sin’s curse, we will always be in this awkward place of celebration and mourning. Some losses that caused us grief may be restored and replaced, while others may not or cannot be. And so in those times we will walk our road holding hands with joy and grief, sometimes talking to one more than the other.
I feel this strangeness as my twin boys squirm and kick in my womb. And I’m reminded of those wildflowers—something beautiful thriving among the withering of the parched grass. I marvelled at the delicate loveliness of Queen Anne’s Lace while my toes were scratched by burnt grass. In that moment, I sought to enjoy the goodness present within the lack. And so my husband and I rejoice and celebrate these healthy babies flourishing in my womb without forgetting the ones who passed away before them. And as we do, we look forward to the expected rain of redemption to come—when the grass and wildflowers will both grow and be nourished, where death will be no more, where our hands will let go of grief and will continue down the path with arms linked only with joy.
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Sarah and Jeff Walton, Together Through the Storms (Good Book Company, 2020), p. 273.
