My Lonely City

… but … still working out the details …

(Yes, Annette; I would like to talk this weekend.)

Matthew 5:4
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Revelation 21:3
I heard a loud voice shout from the throne:
God’s home is now with his people. He will live with them, and they will be his own. Yes, God will make his home among his people. He will wipe all tears from their eyes, and there will be no more death, suffering, crying, or pain. These things of the past are gone forever.

Then the one sitting on the throne said:
I am making everything new. Write down what I have said. My words are true and can be trusted.

Can anyone really comfort me? If I have to say, “Yeah, I’m … okay,” one more time. I mean, what am I supposed to say? I feel like hell, but thanks for asking. I just lost my baby, how do you think I am? The baby I was just getting used to the thought of having. The baby I thanked God for. The baby I wanted. I don’t know how to comfort Jared with his pain – or even acknowledge the pain of my or Jared’s parents, which I’m sure they’re feeling as well – because I don’t know where to start with mine. I don’t know what to do. In some ways I don’t want to feel better yet.

I’m scheduled for a D&C (d-something-with-lots-of-syllables, c-something-with-lots-of-syllables, where they open your cervix and – literally – scrape out the inside of your uterus, like a menstrual period á la Jack the Ripper). Tomorrow. At eleven. I asked yesterday, when the nurse called to tell me about the test results, if it would hurt. Her response was “It’s a surgery.” I guess that’s a yes.

I think a lot of the people around me have an idea that when people “hurt too much” it’s bad for their faith. So they try to make those who mourn … feel better. Be encouraging, like. Rather than just “mourn[ing] with those who mourn” without trying to fix anything (Romans 12:15). I would like to be mourned with, not encouraged, right now. (But how do you mourn?)