For Little Ones Lost

I have never lost a child.  I have had two positive pregnancy tests and one signed adoption petition and every night I hold three sweet little ones in my arms and cover three little faces with kisses.  (I am an overly kissy-kiss-snuggle-squeeze-hug-me-tight kind of momma.)

I don't know the pain that mothers feel to have lost a child not yet born.  I can't say that I understand the sorrow of an empty crib, a quiet house, or unused toys.  Motherhood has been easy on my heart.

"Grown up doctors" (what I call doctors who take care of adults) deal with death on an almost daily basis.  They help their patients walk the final steps of life with as much dignity and as little suffering as possible.  Often there is tragedy and heartache, but sometimes, death comes as a mercy for an elderly patient who has slowly drifted away.  Grown up doctors spend a lot of time talking to their patients about end of life plans, living wills, and their DNR status.  Pediatricians, on the other hand, rarely deal with death.  We usher babies through their firsts....first breaths, first fever, first tooth, first words, and first steps.  We send five year olds off to kindergarten and tell mothers, "It will be ok. They will survive the first day of school and so will you."  We, like their parents, don't contemplate an end of life plan for most of our patients.  Losing a patient is always, always, a tragedy and rarely a mercy.  When we do deal with a child's death, it inevitably makes the world feel a little off balance.  We walk a little slower, talk a little less.  We want to call it a day and go home and cry.  We want to just stop, for a little while, and be angry at the injustice of it all.  We send our pediatrician friends messages that say, "Hold your little ones close tonight."  and we know that they will know what that means.  A little one is gone too soon and the only thing to do is go home, hold your babies tight, and cry more tears for the momma who has no baby to hold.

I went to seminary the first time because I wasn't sure if I even wanted to be a doctor.  I went back, ten years later, because I wasn't sure if I could stay a doctor and keep my faith.  How do we put the inexplicable suffering of little ones inside the paradigm of trust in a loving God?  That was the Big Question I wanted answered and why I voluntarily obtained a masters degree- for no other reason than to satisfy my own curiosity.  It wasn't until after they handed me my hard earned diploma, that I realized that perhaps there is no answer to my Big Question.  Anyone who thinks they know is fooling themselves. The one thing I did learn in seminary is this: God doesn't promise any answers to our questions, only that His own suffering presence will be with us in our pain.  My last project before I finished seminary was to write my own credo, my own statement of faith.  I decided that any statement of faith I wrote would have to include my Big Question.  Why leave out doubt when proclaiming one's belief?  I thought that I was writing a credo for me, something to help me sort through what I had seen and experienced so far as a physician.  Looking back, I think it was more than that.  I was writing a credo for me, for mothers and fathers whose faith has been paralyzed by grief, and for all the little ones lost.

A Creed for Little Ones Lost

I believe that you, little one, were made, designed, and hoped for

by the same God, the only God, who spoke the universe, the earth, and all things imagined into existence.

I believe that Jesus, beloved Son of God, was present at the dawn of Creation.  

That Jesus, the Eternal Creator God,

 sang the beautiful song that echoed throughout time and became your song. 

I believe that Jesus was loved and cherished by his own mother,

from his first breath until his last,

just like your mother cherished you.

And just like you, little one, Jesus knew suffering. 

He knew what it meant to fight for one last breath. 

He knew what it felt like to have every part of your body broken

and wounded beyond repair. 

He knew the loneliness of death;

Death that comes mercifully with the setting sun. 

But here is the beauty of Jesus’ story, and your story, too-

Jesus walked with you into death,

And then he forged a blazing path back to new life.

Jesus is alive, the Eternal One, 

waiting for the day when you, when I, when all of us 

will walk the Resurrection journey.

I believe that somehow, the Spirit of Life and Love, the Holy Spirit,

 was with you during every moment of your short life.  

This Flame of Love knew your heart and your sorrows 

and carried every tear to heaven 

as if each teardrop was a new, beautiful note of your timeless song.

Child, in the New Creation you will be even more perfect

 than you were in this one. 

You will talk and smile.

You will feel the sun’s warmth on your face and soft grass on your feet. 

Finally, I believe that Christ’s song is your song 

and your song is my song and we are not alone. 

We are part of the mysterious holy body called the church. 

The church is not just me (the living), but also you (the dead.)

The church is waiting for Jesus to return. 

We are hoping and believing that one day we will all sing together

 the song of the New Creation.

(This past week was Infant Loss Awareness Day and I have many friends who have shared their own grief as they mourn children who are with them no more.  I am sharing this creed for them, and for all of us who have come home and held our babies tight. )