The dress

One of the things I missed most about China when I moved back to the States was the interactions with all the various sellers of wares I would visit on a weekly basis. While I love the convenience of weekly shopping at one supermarket, I missed the personal interaction with my fruit sellers, with my egg lady, with my pen guy, with my vegetable seller…the people who patiently and graciously put up with my stumbling Chinese and gave me prices (at least to my knowledge) pretty darn close to the locals. And so I decided to get as close to that relationship as possible in the mass market grocery store of my American town. My husband and I picked one particular checker that we would always go to if she was there. We would strike up conversation and get to know her as best as possible. Jammie was our pick, and she celebrated the news of our first pregnancy and cooed over our newborn daughter. Jeff occasionally would pick up a plant for her as well when he bought flowers for me. We excitedly told her when we were expecting again, and she would talk to Eliana about being a big sister.

Since the news about Arabella I had only run into Jammie a couple times at the store. She’s moved on from checking most of the time, and instead is a “lane director.” In our few passing interactions the time had never seemed right to launch into Bella’s story. And so I smiled as she would comment to Eliana about her impending big sisterhood.

Today I ran into Jammie back in the baby & toddler clothing section. She asked if I was looking for something for the new little one. And so I launched into my not quite perfected, still somewhat bumbling explanation that there were some health concerns and we weren’t sure if we were going to get to bring her home. But that we were praying a lot and taking it day by day. But that no, we weren’t really buying anything for her. She passed on her sympathy – really the look of care and concern on her face was enough – and I returned to my hunt for summertime jammies for Ellie.

Jammies located, I turned the cart to head towards the shoes to look for dress sandals for my ever increasingly swollen feet. The final clearance rack for toddlers caught my eye though before I could escape and I quickly flitted through the 24 month section.

And that’s when I saw it. A beautifully simply black dress with white embroidery. I stared for a moment and then picked it up. And just held it in front of me.

A perfect funeral dress. For a funeral that I don’t know and so sincerely hope we won’t have. I stood there frozen. A cart full of yogurt and a pair of jammies. My toddler looking inquisitively at me, and my baby wiggling around inside me.

This tightrope between hope and humility. This dance between rejoicing and hoping and clinging to eternal healing, while so desperately crying for present healing. Do I buy a funeral dress? Just so that dark task is done? Hoping that it will turn into a $10 reminder of what could have been, never used for its intended purpose?

I put the dress in the cart and tried not to think about its many implications and significances as I shoved off towards the shoe department. It was to be the first purchase I made for either of the possible outcomes for Arabella.

I got home. Took it out of the bag. Cried. And sent a picture to one of my best friends.

This is hard. Some days this is really hard.

I’m now into my third trimester. The trimester when the nesting impulse burns deep and fierce. And yet I don’t know what to do with mine. A week before the initial diagnosis, I had started pinning nursery ideas. My pinterest feed is now constantly full of “suggested pins” of nursery decor and organization. But I cannot bear the thought of building a nest that won’t be occupied. And yet I also cannot bear the thought of preparing for a final goodbye that might not need to be said.

Some days this is really hard.

Hope is a scary, vulnerable place to be. Right now there are so many different ways the story can go. I don’t know where we’ll deliver. I don’t know if and when I’ll need to head over to Seattle to await her arrival. I don’t know if we will simply enjoy minutes…hours…days with her and then say goodbye. Or if she will be whisked away to surgery. Or if she’d survive surgery. If I’ll nurse a baby in the NICU. Or send her home to Jesus. Or both.

And so we wait. We wait for the next ultrasound. We wait to see what the Lord has been doing in the dark corners of my womb. And we cling to the fact that Jesus is good and He is on His throne and He alone determines the days of our daughter’s life. And we hope in future and present healing. We humbly ask. Constantly. For a ribcage to grow. For a heart to be healed. For soft newborn cheeks to kiss and a bassinet by our bed.

And we walk, not always gracefully, but ever pressing on, in the tension of hope and humility.