Jesus wept and grieved when Lazarus died, knowing that he would raise up Lazarus both on earth and in eternity. He cares for our sufferings, no matter how momentary they are. He cares about my babies. The babies who should be in my arms. The babies I hope to see someday when Jesus has finished making all things new. 

Langston Hughes is my favorite poet.

It’s a fact that reeks with cliché, yet it rings true nonetheless. I remember when I first found his complete works in my family’s library. I pulled the book from the shelf, buried myself in a nook in the corner of the room, and read to my heart’s content, soaking up hope, grit, and jazz. His poetry comes to my mind in fits and snatches during various moments of my life.

Yet oddly, I turn to him most in grief. His poem “Harlem” has been my companion during one of my biggest struggles to see myself as woman enough.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

For me, the dream is a house full of children, one that has been deferred by miscarriage. But my dream does not explode. It sags, like a heavy load.

It sags like a heavy load of shame.

Baby Dreams

I have always wanted a house full of children.

Even during my years in private school, the oldest of two, and very disconnected from the homeschool world of “Hi, I’m Jerusha and these are my seventeen siblings,” my brother and I would converse about how I wanted eight children, and he wanted nine.

My dream only intensified when I turned fourteen and my parents began to adopt. Seven siblings later, I was twenty-four, living at home, and loving my place in the circus that is a house full of children. I looked forward to getting married and having my own children in adorable step-ladder formation. Every two years, a brand new baby.

“Four babies from me,” I’d say, “and then we’ll adopt four more.”

I married a man who wanted ten children, so it all worked out perfectly. The number might change, we reasoned, but the principle remained the same: we wanted a big family.

Three months after our wedding, I had my first miscarriage.

A year after the birth of our son, I had my second.

And through the miscarriages, the healthy birth, and my fear of miscarrying again, I’ve learned something about myself. Along with my full-hearted baby dreams, I had an unhealthy dose of my identity wrapped up in my ability to carry children.

Baby Dreams Deferred

In addition to the incredible sadness over losing my two children, I also felt an overwhelming sense of shame.

“I should be able to do this,” I told my husband, tears streaming down my face. “You want so many children and I should be able to give them to you.”

“You want a house full of children too,” he reminded me. “You are not failing me. You are not failing either of us.”

But it feels that way.

Read More