Friday Blog Roundup - No theme, just some beautiful words

Some people simply have a title for their blogs - a phrase that somehow just works to describe their piece of real estate here in blogland. Others add a subtitle that helps to further explain what it is they're dealing with and why they're compelled to write about it. I'm often blow away by the power of those few words, and found myself feeling that way when I read the An Invisible Minority subtitle.

We are a group of people that represent approximately two percent of the population*. We may look like everyone, we may act like everyone, but we have a constant thought in the back of our minds. We are thinking of our babies that didn't have a chance to live their lives.

It's so simple. So straightforward. So heartbreakingly honest and so very, very real. We do look just like everyone else, don't we? And yet there's more going on inside than the other 98% can even begin to fathom.

Melissa at Infertility, I wish I could quit you talks about her experience with church as a child this week, and finds herself thinking about prayer. So many of us wage epic battles with our respective Gods after we suffer the loss of a child. Melissa's trust in God and her ability to believe that he hears her through the clutter of her life no matter where she is, is beautiful.

I wonder about God a lot. About his plan and, specifically, about what happens to my prayers when they leave my lips. Melissa's entry made me remember a time when I didn't dwell so much on this - when I trusted more. When my faith was stronger.

"I've learned I don't need to have my thoughts organized and coherent. They don't need to be elaborate or profound. I don't need to set aside a certain time or place. God listens and hears a sincere, "Amen," wherever I am. I know someday he will grant me the desires of my heart - even if I voice them from a snore."

Her words brought me a moment of peace.

And then there's AJW5403 over at My Pain I Hide who has been tormented by feelings of loneliness lately. Her words tore at my heart. She doesn't understand why she can't find a place where she fits in - why she can't connect with someone.

But sometimes I just get so lonely. And I also have this huge fear of hurting somebody’s feeling and not knowing that I have hurt them. So that makes me a little paranoid to say too much to somebody.

Sorrow is lonely. It's many things (anger, despair, fear, pain) but it is certainly very, very lonely. I hope she finds a place where she is comfortable sharing her pain. And I hope when she does, she is welcomed with open arms by people who truly understand and will help make just a little of the loneliness go away.

And finally, there's Thalia who thought she was having a boy and found out it was a girl.

I had always known how much I wanted a daughter, so when I thought I was having a boy, I was aware of the loss involved in not having a daughter. After you'd all written me such beautiful and thoughtful comments, I started to understand better the wonderfulness that a son would mean. So now that I know that I am probably carrying our daughter, I have a sense of the loss that not carrying a son means. The answer is that only were we having boy/girl twins would we not be anticipating a tiny sense of regret. Not a major regret, not a big sadness, but a knowledge that in having something wonderful happen to us, we also have to let go of another tiny dream, a different life that might have been. I am delighted, but I am greedy.

It's so easy to love a baby - even a baby whose parts are still too tiny (or frustratingly hidden), making gender identification virtually impossible. Or incorrect. We love them - and we dream a thousand dreams for them. We love the idea of that mysterious little stranger so much, that we mourn the loss of their identity when there's a surprise midway down the line, like Thalia's little boy who turned into Thalia's little girl.

And then we turn around and start loving them all over again.

The idea that there exists love of this magnitude never fails to take my breath away.