Waiting for Joy
In a waiting time. In a holding pattern. A perfectly round, empty sac within my womb. A quiet miscarriage, with little of the external drama, but plenty of internal angst, which I have found I can only sooth by talking some, writing a great deal more, and maybe eating more than anything else. Because of the upheaval of this experience, I have broken and recovered over and over all sorts of Lenten promises and disciplines, and continue to pick myself up, with the words of many of my confessors in my mind: keep on. Continue as you would, in spite of failure. Giving up is not an option. Be compassionate to yourself as you would others--one gives way to the other. I am still waiting--for the end of this trial, for what lessons it holds, for what lies ahead. I have hope for what lies ahead, but am ever-wary of my limitations, of the noonday demons which weigh me, drown me in self-pity. I’m shaking them off. I’m looking for the silver lining, as they say. For the joy that I do have in...