One of the things I did was edit and critique a piece of narrative nonfiction. I didn't know the subject matter before beginning to read it, or I probably wouldn't have chosen this particular piece to work on in a public place.
It was about the journey of infertility.
It's a topic I have spoken on and written about many times, and one I'm very comfortable about discussing. Most people know that my husband and I spent years on that particular road, losing a son at birth and having 26 miscarriages before finding out that we were pregnant with our "keeper" on our tenth wedding anniversary.
So even I was caught a little off guard by my emotional reaction to this essay. Until I remembered what day it is. My heart remembered, even if my mind was on doctors and "to do" lists and work.
It would have been our son's 10th birthday today.
It's hard to believe that it's now been a decade since I held my little black haired boy for the first and last time. Very hard to believe.
The author of the piece I was editing expressed beautifully the mix of pain and loss and hope and contentment and fear that this journey holds. She echoed how I felt as I walked through month after month, year after year, of negative tests and empty wombs, yet not crushed by grief. It can be done, though I don't know how if you don't know Jesus.
I miss you, Seth. And love you more than words can say.
Thanks for being my son.
(photo courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net and can be found here)