I love spring. We all know it as a time of rebirth, of renewal, of new beginnings. It is a time of fresh smells, sunny skies and cleansing rains. It is also a very special time for me for it was springtime when I lost my only daughter. She was born April 15th. She had died in me a month earlier.
Oh tears.
Despite the brief pangs of sadness, I always look forward to the joys of this season. Like complimentary colors, the fleeting moments of grief help accentuate the high points which inevitably charm my spirit during this time of year. Life is good, as a whole.
Spring is the time when the rhododendrons bloom in arrogant regal purple splendor flaunting their beauty while the lilacs are just beginning to stretch their leaves yawning awake from a long winter’s nap. The azaleas, too, show off their pink, yellow, and peachy gowns even before their own leaves reach out to hug the sunshine.
For the last few weeks I have been watching each bud as if it was my own. I pour a cup of morning mocha and walk out to the garden in my sheepskin slippers and woolen nightgown. I hold a bud caressing its waxy coat with my fingers. I feel its potential: the energy stored within from the autumn before. I watch daily as each bud swells with youthful pride. I anticipate her revealing, like a mother awaiting her debutante.
This morning, all had swirled their skirts and were dancing in the morning light. My eyes were busy recording every detail, every singing bee, every light beam, as they danced and laughed with their Creator greeting the day. My heart and soul was dancing with them.
As my gaze smiled at each one in turn, it landed in a place I never expected. For underneath a branch, hidden within the bosom of its mother plant was a small bud. It had not opened. She had not joined her sisters in this glorious dance of spring.
“Are you OK?”
There was no answer.
I held the little one between my thumb and forefinger. It felt dry, lifeless.
“What’s wrong with you, little one?”
And then the tears … for there I held my Amy. This bud had died. About a month from now she will fall to the ground, stillborn.
Did God cause her to die? No. I do not believe that. Could He have saved her? No question! He is sovereign over all of His Creation. He could have created a Universe in which no bud would fail to open. He could have created such that no bud would ever fall to the ground before blooming to its fullest. He could have created a world in which no unborn child would ever die.
But He didn’t do that.
And, naturally, the next question swelling in my heart is “Why not?”
In order to understand why He chose to act or not to act, I would have to know all that He knows. That is beyond my understanding. I am still learning to accept that.
If someone asked me why this bud failed to bloom I might surmise that something didn’t develop quite right. Maybe a fungus made it sick. Maybe the stem was too small to deliver enough sap. Maybe it froze during the winter. Maybe last autumn I tripped on a stick and stepped on a root which pinched a channel which narrowed a vein which reduced the flow of a nutrient which was necessary for the bud to make it through the winter. Maybe, maybe, maybe. They are only guesses. I will never know why.
Then the words came back to me: “Failure to thrive”.
For years those words meant nothing. They were nonsense words made up by doctors who had no understanding, no explanation for why a perfectly healthy daughter would die a month before her due date. Those three words have puzzled me, angered me, saddened me, haunted me. Those are the same three words which have bounced around in my brain like ping-pong balls with no place to land. I wanted a “why” which gave me peace, not more questions.
I grieved once again the loss of my daughter. I grieved the loss of this one little bud among all of her sisters. I prayed for understanding. I prayed for peace. And as I did that, I felt the hand of God on my shoulder assuring me that He grieves her loss even more deeply than I can possibly imagine.
And you know what? I can rest in that. In that understanding I can find peace. Just give me time.