The Beginning.

We were sitting in our room praying, crying, screaming, asking God "why?', grieving. It was the evening of February 7, 2012. The evening prior to the end of our dreams, the end of the hope of having our little family, our children. Thankfully many don't know this feeling, the feeling of grieving the death of unborn children, of failed dreams and of destroyed joy. But for those who do, know exactly the deepest of pains and the darkest of sadness that can over flood your being. 

Obe and I had bought the house of our dreams, the home for our children. We had a bedroom for the girls and one for the boys. We had the walk up attic that would be the play room. We had the home of our dreams to realize, finally after five years, the dream of our family. We had planned everything just right. We had put our calling to start a church first. We had prepared and planned. We were so excited! We had names, names we had prayed over and over and had picked biblical names with special meanings. We prayed over my womb, many times. We prayed for our unborn children and fasted for their birth to come soon. We were so excited. 

And yet here we sat crying and praying and reading scripture and crying some more. See the day had come, after a year and a half of trying to get pregnant, the day of my hysterectomy. A surgery that would forever take away the gift of life in our marriage. The gift of children. Obe would never see his daughter or son be born! He would never be able to hold his child in wonder and awe. We would never be able to name them with those special biblical names that we had prayed over. I would never give birth to Obe's children, my dear and loving husband. We were devastated, defeated and we weeped. 

Due to many medical problems, a hysterectomy was needed and I hated myself. I felt as if I had failed Obe. Even though his loving words and embrace let me know he loved me, I still couldn't accept that he would never have children. And on that June on Father's Day, I broke down. I couldn't do it! I couldn't see him celebrate all the fathers at our church, when he would never be the father of his biological children. I sought the help of a counselor, a spiritual mentor and a physical therapist. I was depressed, my health was worsening and I felt the furthest away from God. I needed all sorts of help. I was angry, resentful and so sad. 

During that time, I was in the middle of planning on going on a mission trip to  Haiti, the third one that year. I had been going to Haiti for a year and a half now and in August it would be my fourth time there. The first one that year was in January, I came home had my surgery and went back eight weeks after my surgery in April. I remember I didn't hold any babies in those two trips. I couldn't! It was heartbreaking, all I wanted was a baby of my own and all they needed was a mommy of their own. So I hung out with teenagers and the older kids. It was safer. 

But in August it was different, after I broke down in my bathroom floor that June day and had surrendered it all to God, sought help and was on the road to rediscovering my calling, I had been liberated of my resentment, my anger and I could feel a sense of hope. I held a child! A little baby boy named Luke.  But Luke was being adopted so he was safe. He didn't need a mommy. 

BUT then I saw him, a sad boy that walked aimlessly with his hand to his head sucking on his lip. He looked lost with a deep sadness. He looked like I felt. Lost, without direction, not knowing what was next in our lives. Every dream was gone. Every bit of joy dissipated. One day as he sat there pant less with a blank stare on his face and his hand to his head, I felt the urge to extend my arms to him and as I fought it I did... I extended my arms to a beautiful boy with the most expressive eyes and the saddest soul in the court and even though I was hoping he would ignore me... he reached up into my arms. I held him and cried. Cried for him, cried for that son or daughter I never was able to hold. 

 And that was the beginning.