I lost my babies. It's something I have said dozens of times. Today driving across a lonely stretch of highway it struck me that this turn of phrase is too obscure and innacurate to describe what happened to me and my babies that died.
I was taking the children that are with me to an appointment that would never be kept with a man who believes that he too simply mislaid his progeny the way someone else might lose track of a set of keys or the change from a five dollar bill. Yet, no matter what he believes, his children aren't lost or stolen or discarded. They are placed in the arms of someone who has planned and dreamed of them, who loves them, who will treasure them. Neither are my babies lost. They are in the arms of Jesus who knew them and planned them and treasures them. He's keeping them for me.
I got to say goodbye to my babies. I got to tell them how much I loved them and wanted them and would miss them while we are apart. The Peas' birth father was given the same opportunity today. He didn't say goodbye. He believes that he and they are the victims of some catastrophe, some happenstance that will surely rectify itself. You can't acknowledge a mischance with the finality of goodbye. Goodbyes are for purposeful journeys. I'm glad I gave myself and my babies a goodbye. I'm glad I see the purpose of their journey through death into eternal life.