And I am grateful: For Soulmates

So often I write about the things that I wish I could change, the things that I wish were different. And there are many. But that’s not the whole story, not even most pages. I'll be honest, there is a lot I have wanted to change. Were I given the opportunity to change them, now -- after seeing grace and forgiveness these past few months, would I?? Probably not. Were I able to go back in time and get pregnant when I had wanted, oh sooooo long ago, would I? Definitely no.

Do you realize you are witness to a miracle? Right on this screen. A miracle. Because if you had asked me three years ago, last year, even a few months ago I would have said, screamed YES!! And granted that feeling might change for a moment as I find myself staring at yet another negative pregnancy test. But I know there is change. Gratitude. Simple joys. And a layer of fog lifted.

Had I got pregnant when I first wanted to and had that pregnancy resulted in bouncing baby joy, I would not have met so many amazing people. I would not have been blessed with some incredible friendships, made strong and secure through mutual pangs of sorrow and disappointment, celebrated triumphs of joy. I would not have seen the places I have seen. And I would not be writing the words I write now, in this moment. I would not have my voice.

I got a package in the mail today. I actually had to pick it up from the post office (the joys of apartment living). I gracefully walked to my car, slow measured steps, and opened the door. I got in and tore into that package like a bear starved through a winter of hibernation. Yes, I did love the books that were sent, gifts that I truly love. Yes, I did appreciate this token of love and hopefulness, gifts for future foster children. But it was the card that I sought. And it was hidden, that sneaky woman, which made me all the more ferocious and frantic! The card. A small piece of paper other might toss aside. A small piece of paper which I treasure deeply. And I don't think that she knows, but I have kept each one. Years of cards and letters, small messages of mostly little everyday happenings. I don't think she knows, but she's saved me more than once.

When I first told her of our situation, our situation was still in the "We're trying but nothing seems to be happening" phase. She was pregnant after a miscarriage. And I think God slipped some velcro onto our souls, so we could hold each other together. We cried together and laughed together. And rolled our eyes together when people made comments like, "We get pregnant without even thinking about it." She is a soulmate. A soulmate in the most simple sense. Somehow, on this fallen, broken world, cruising through the universe and whipping around the sun, we found each other. Spinning through life, our souls reached out, grasped hands, for dear life, and never let go.

After she had her baby, a beautiful boy, she asked me to watch him when she and her husband had class. I was scared to death, but I said yes. And that boy filled some little holes in my heart with his chubby cheeks and blue eyes. Just to hold a baby. To hold a baby. Some would think it odd how deeply I crave, ache for this. I fight the urge to ask strangers for a sniff of their babies' heads. This little boy and I, oh, we danced and giggled and played, as much as a newborn can. And we cried. Then we danced some more.

We moved apart and kept in touch. We send each other cards and letters. I celebrated her little boy's first birthday all day. How precious and miraculous he truly is. And when she miscarried again, I called. And sitting on the curb of my parents' home, my childhood home, we cried. I played on this corner as a little girl and never once thought this depth of sorrow would ever touch my life. How is life so unfair? Why is it that there never seems to be cap on the amount of sorrow one person should experience in a lifetime? She never got the chance to tell me she was pregnant and now this little life was gone. And I cried, sobbing globs of tears. I shook my fist at the sky for her and vowed to make God answer my questions when I made it up there. And I don't think she knows, but I treasure those little lives gone too soon. I look forward to meeting them, to holding them. To saying, "I knew your mom and, oh, how she loved you."

A few months later, I called her. "I can't do it. I cannot do this anymore!" I just had my first OB/GYN appointment, with assurances that something would be worked out. Except nothing would be worked out. The worst appointment of my life. Single worst day of my life. Little to no hope of ever getting pregnant. And if I did get pregnant, a high risk that I might miscarry. We cried together again. I was done. I wanted to call it quits. But she held me up with her velcroed soul, enough strength from her for me to rest a while. I drove home, resolving to never give up. One day…some day…

And here we are, seven years later. The first girl I met my sophomore year. The girl who scared the (bleep) out of me because she was so real and honest about herself. The girl who had black hair and green eyeshadow and I loved it. Now, married women trying to make sense of something that ought not exist. Had I had babies when I wanted, how I wanted? I dare say we would not be friends, or at least not strongly as we are. I would have missed one of the most amazing, rewarding, endearing, meaningful relationships of my life. I would have never known that such friends walked among us.

And these words are a pathetic attempt at explaining what she has done for me, how God has worked through her. And how the littlest thing, the smallest word or simplest card, has gotten me through the darkest nights and loneliest days. And how amazing it is to have someone who appreciates even the small, very tiny minuscule, victories as deeply and completely as I.

Yes, I wish that she never lost her babies. I wish that with all my heart. Yes, I wish that she never had to go through that horrible thing. Yes, I wish I never had to think about getting pregnant. I wish I didn't have to try so hard. But that is our life, a part of us. And I am grateful. I am grateful that in the midst of such sorrow and grief we have found each other. And stuck to each other. Held together by some invisible, unbreakable force through crashing waves and miles between. I can't speak for her, but for myself, I can't imagine how much more difficult this journey would have been without her. I cannot imagine how lost I might have been, how lonely and scared. 

I am grateful for her. I am grateful for this struggle. And how strange a place this is, this barren land where peace and love can be found. Unexpected beauty found among the dust.

And I am grateful.