Adrift

I share this letter, originally written in my journal, in hopes that it will bring some measure of comfort to others who feel alone or adrift on a sea of loss.

God,

As You well know, You created in my womb a baby who is now back in your arms. It's been hard . . . some days much harder than others.

As I told Mom earlier, I've had days when I felt shipwrecked and adrift in a small, dreary boat, bleary-eyed and parched, alone on an open sea.

Boat Adrift, oil painting by Charles Napier Hemy (public domain)

I feel confused and slightly disoriented, because it all happened so fast that I'm not quite sure what happened, exactly.

I just know that a baby--one I already loved and wanted to hold--slipped away before I even met her (or him). So elusive. So mysterious. Almost seems like a bad dream from which I'll eventually wake. 

But it's true. And there's nothing I can do about it.

How are we supposed to handle something that happens to us, that we had no say in, that we wouldn't have chosen?

I don't want to be angry at You, God, for making this decision. After all, I believe You see the bigger picture and know what You're doing. Our baby is safe with You and will not have to struggle through  this messy, heartbreaking world.

But our baby will also never know her terrific, playful daddy who was so excited to have a child. She will never know the wonderful grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who were eager to meet her. Our oldest will never grow up, fall in love, marry and start a family. We'll never know the precious grandchildren this child might have given us.

I know our baby is "in a better place." And the joys of Your presence, God, are said to be greater than every pleasure on earth. But I can't help but wish we'd had a chance to know this little one first.

Would I have chosen to lose our child to heaven at a different time? Surely that would have been no less heart-breaking . . . It probably would have been more so. But why couldn't our oldest live a "normal" life to a "ripe old age"?

I guess I can be happy for our baby to be with You . . . and try to trust that You know best. No doubt there are reasons of which we're not aware, for why You took "our" baby Home so soon. Of course, this child was yours to begin with, so what claim have I?

Oh, but I feel like I do. And like I've been cheated.

What do we do with our loss, our pain? When I compare it to what others have gone through, it seems almost small. Almost. But not really. The fact that another suffers in a way that seems more difficult to me, doesn't mean I haven't suffered, even if I tell myself I shouldn't feel this way.

I want to be brave and strong, joyful and thankful and hopeful. And I have been, many days. But what do I do with a day that sucks, for no particular reason that I can explain? Other than this looming loss that still affects me in ways I'd rather ignore.

What do I do with my sudden bursts of anger over little things that wouldn't normally get to me? What do I do with my shame over how I've treated my husband at times? Over how I blew my car horn long and loud at the people who ambled across a divided highway in front of me this morning?

I know that beneath my seething anger are deeper emotions . . . 

. . . hurt, fear, loneliness.

And confusion.

You gave your Son's life for me, God, and I'm supposed to believe that You love me. I do believe that, in my head. But this doesn't feel like love. It feels like betrayal. Like You decided to hurt me with no good reason that I'm aware of . . . though there probably is one.

I don't understand, God. I'm hurt. I'm angry. 

I feel adrift. And alone.

Please, help me.




After I wrote that letter, I sat still in the coffee shop, listening for God's whispers to my heart. This was His response:


"When you pass through the waters, 
I will be with you;
And through the rivers, 
they will not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, 
you will not be scorched,
Nor will the flame burn you.
For I am the LORD your God, 
The Holy One of Israel, your Savior. " 
~Isaiah 43:2-3

"You are not alone in the boat. I am with you, and my arms are open for you. Come close, and let Me comfort you. It is not for you to know all the answers in this life. The main thing for you to know right now is that I am with you, that I will never leave you and that my heart and ears and arms are always open to you. Come closer.

"And let Me open your eyes again to all the other little lifeboats around you, carrying others who also feel shipwrecked, who've comforted you and whom you can comfort with the comfort I give you. See my light in each boat? Little lights float around you on this dark sea. You are not alone."

Thank you, Abba.