Grief Archives - Trisha Mugo

Photo by Harriet Moar-Smith via Creative Commons

“Even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you” (Psalm 139:12 NIV).

I’m always at my worst when facing grieving people. I usually dash in the other direction after I fail to find something meaningful to say.

So, instead of talking I pray. Since my last post about losing our baby, I find myself sorting through stories of grieving families. My story of daring God to show me 1,000 ways He turned around the tragedy touched some people.

And what I heard back touched me.

I spent the first part of Thanksgiving morning weeping for a guy named Thomas that I will probably never meet. After losing a 5-month old baby two years ago, he still feels the sting.

Today my heart is heavy for Kristi whose baby was born sleeping at 39 weeks.

If you follow my blog you know I, too, am walking through a bit of darkness now. That’s why remembering my college humanities course—and what I learned about dark spaces on a canvas brings me so much comfort.

In this class I became obsessed with Chiaroscuro art.

I studied painters like Caravaggio and George de La Tour and went through a Noir film stage. But it was the paintings I loved best.

I relished the contrast between light and darkness. I loved the way shadows gave way to light. The highlighted scenes seemed to jump right off the dim backdrop.

Painting by de la Tour via Creative Commons

At length I studied these works and always focused my eyes on the light.

In this season where God is painting dark hues on the canvas of my life, I’m trying to remember the purpose of darkness. Our dark moments serve as a backdrop for the glory of God.

How else would we know God’s magnificence if we had nothing to compare it to? Earlier this week, I penned these words in my journal.

In our darkness, we have an opportunity to see the light, to gaze at it. We have an opportunity to keep step with the Prince of Light when we, ourselves, cannot see. Darkness, too, is a gift in that sense.

How beautiful of God to use light to describe Himself. He created light in the beginning. With only a word he commanded light to be.

He created the world in darkness. When it was formless and void and darkness hung over the deep waters, it was there where God hovered over the surface, right there within the darkness (Gen 1: 1-2).

In the midst of His creating in us, sometimes darkness remains. Sometimes God’s spirit in us must dwell in seeming darkness, but God always comes and says, “Let there be light.”

May God be your light today in the middle of your darkness.

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.” ― Og Mandino

It was the day before Thanksgiving, three years ago when I sat on a padded bench in the exam room and prayed the doctor would send me to labor and delivery.

I remember the doctor’s compassionate eyes. She wore fake lashes but her kindness was real. In the end she admitted me more for sympathy than my shaky medical grounds.

Only days prior, my husband and I had sat in the same office, giddy over a routine ultrasound. We grew suspicious when the ultrasound tech left abruptly. I should have seen the grief written across the tech’s face.

We were dumbstruck when the doctor delivered the news. I carried in me a lifeless baby.

Something had gone wrong with umbilical cord, she said. My baby hadn’t received the nutrients to support its growing frame.

Just as my son had stopped living and lay still in my womb, the shock knocked my world off its axis and I, too, laid still in disbelief.

The doctor scheduled an induction, but because of Thanksgiving, it wouldn’t happen for two weeks.

Fourteen days of limbo proved too long to wait. My pregnancy had ended, but it wasn’t quite over. My protruding belly served as a constant reminder of grief.

The tiny baby seemed heavier every day, like someone had piled rocks in my womb.

Perhaps the baby’s stillness was the worst part. I hated that he didn’t move. I waited for him to move. I prayed he would move, but the flutters I once felt had disappeared.

His birth certificate says stillborn, but I prefer the older euphemism, born sleeping.

Luke was born sleeping on a foggy Thanksgiving Day in 2011. And I was thankful.

Thankful I didn’t have to endure contractions for two weeks.

Thankful I could begin to mourn him. Thankful I could begin to heal.

Today, I’m so glad I held Luke in my arms. I didn’t want to a first; it was too painful. But I knew I might regret it if I didn’t at least tell him hello and goodbye.

His skin was grayish pink. At only 24 weeks, the blanket swallowed him.

His footprints and photos are buried in a box in my closet. I don’t know if I will ever open it, but I’m thankful it’s there.

The week my son was born I prayed God would show me one hundred ways He would work this tragedy for my good.

Later I upped the ante and prayed for one thousand ways. One hundred felt too easy a request for an infinite God, and the list I made in my head sped closer to the 100 mark every hour.

Today I wish I would have written the list down on paper. Ways God worked to redeem my ache and emptiness flooded me.

I counted and counted until I lost track.

When Sammy was born 10 months later, I knew the list would reach 1,000 even if I didn’t count every smile, coo and kiss. God answered my prayer.

Luke’s dying gave way to Sammy’s living, and I will forever be grateful.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28 ESV).

When Darkness Dims Your View of God

How To Give Thanks After Losing a Baby