In the neighborhood where I grew up, there is this big mountain behind my house full of trails quite popular in our community for hiking, biking, enjoying the great outdoors. To call me a nature person would be a BIG mistake. I think I can count on one hand the amount of times I have actually entered these trails in my 28 years of existence, and the entrance is literally steps from my childhood home. Those few times all ended the same: me in tears after seeing a snake. I swear they can smell fear. Anyway, I still enjoy looking at nature...just from a safe distance. Far away. Usually looking through a glass or a window. With air Conditioning.
I have always thought the mountains beautiful and they served as a quaint backdrop of my drive home from high school, dates, and laundry trips from college. But today they served a different purpose. They were a message of hope from a God I have been quite angry at lately.
I had my second miscarriage less than a week ago. I hate that I even have to write the word “second” there. I hate that it’s happened twice. It’s a blessing and a curse I suppose. A blessing in that I knew what it was when things started happening. It took away the guessing game of what was going on in my body, but a curse because the wound of our first loss had just started healing and was now ripped open again. Pain wrapped in even more pain.
My big question to God was “Why again? You taught me so much the last time. I thought I understood the purpose for the last time. I relied on you for hope. I believed you would show off in providing us our rainbow baby eventually. We talked about this. I told you don’t make us pregnant unless I get to bring this baby to term. Please, God, I begged you not to let me experience this pain of loss again.”
Yet, He did. The stick said pregnant. There was joy, excitement, hope, confidence. And then just like before one week later, we lost our baby. Again. Heartbreak. Devastation. Anger. Confusion.
Each day the pain dulls in small ways, but blindsides me in others.
Today I was driving to my parent’s house, my childhood home, with my 18 month old daughter in the backseat. I was singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star watching in the rear view mirror her hands magically make twinkles above her head, and as I watched I mourned the loss of my two babies that might have been. June, November.
Then I looked and I saw the mountains of my childhood looming ahead, green and lush like I have never seen them before, and a still small voice from God whispered:
“Behold, I make all things new”
These mountains for the majority of my life have been, like the great state of California, under a severe drought. They were brown, rocky, dead, with tumbleweeds. I remember the fires from the fall that wreaked havoc in our community bringing loss and pain. Then out of nowhere came the rain, storms full of thunder and lightning, torrential downpours like the tears that can’t stop coming. These mountains have been through so much, and here I see them today.
These mountains look like they belong in Ireland or a Lord of the Rings movie. I have never seen them look like this before. All over California, many more mountains are experiencing a superbloom where poppies and wildflowers are taking over hillsides that have been through hell and back.
Then God whispered again,
“How much more do I love you than these mountains”
Feeling overwhelmed by the visual and audible message of my Maker, I reached the end of the road, and read the red triangular sign
Ok, Jesus. I submit to you my way, my timing of how things should be. I surrender all of my emotions, my plans to you. You are the one who is with me through fire and storms, through loss and tears. You can make me new. From the ashes you will create something far more beautiful than I ever dreamt possible.