A Prisoner by No Crime of My Own has been shared north of 11,000 times. This entry was one of them. Reposting the message.
My first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage around the second month.
Married to a really miserable husband, the experience was very intense. Just learning I was pregnant brought extreme excitement at the possibility of caring and nurturing for my own little baby.
It sparked a hope in me that I hadn’t felt before in life.
About two weeks later, I was struck with intense abdominal cramping and began to bleed. At the hospital I was told I was miscarrying. The instructions to me as I left were to save anything that passed. Several excruciating hours later, I sat down on the toilet and felt a small mass of tissue pass. Finagling the little package up the side of the toilet was a task.
I knew it was my baby.
As it reached the edge of the toilet, the expelled child slipped from my grasp and went down the drain. It vanished with my hope. Crying for hours, it was hard to find consolation.
Sharing the experience with my ex-husband was dismal. It was July 4, 1983. His response to my pain was to sit with his ex-girlfriend all day at the celebrations. The codependent dummy I was sat behind them and watched the fireworks.
The experience was troubling.
Last night God woke me. He told me my son was with Him. That’s all I heard.
As I pondered the idea that indeed my first child is with our Heavenly Father, I thanked Him. He’d saved this little guy from the tortures that his earthly father would have given him.
Watching sexual abuse survivors, I’ve seen men carry the damage differently. They struggle longer to overcome, they stay deeply addicted and their self-destruction takes them out faster.
For the first time, I wondered if my miscarriage was an act of justice. This child could not be damaged by evil or distraught with a life of misery and injustice.
Maybe I have something in my life that evil could not touch and human choice could not damage. I like that thought. I like that thought a lot.