One year ago today, our family experienced its greatest day of loss. We were expecting our first son to go along with three wonderful girls. It had been a trying pregnancy -- we spent a night in the ER with a torn placenta, thinking we had lost him. Wendy was on bed rest to try and get the placenta to heal, which made things difficult around the house. On the evening of August 19th, after a wedding rehearsal I was performing for two dear friends, we came home to get the girls ready for bed. Faith (our then-8-year-old) came hollering for me through the house, telling me that Wendy needed me.
We didn't know it at the time (well, we probably DID know it, but didn't WANT to know it) but Wendy's water had broken. At 17 weeks. We called a sitter over, loaded up in the car, and headed to triage. A friend flagged us down on the way and jumped in the car with us. When we got to the hospital (they put us right into a birthing room -- should have been our second clue), there was no heartbeat. For whatever reason, Wendy's body had gone into labor. At 17 weeks. She delivered Warner Josiah a few hours later. He was 5 ounces, perfectly formed, and fit in the palm of my hand. I remember being completely worthless to Wendy during the delivery. I just couldn't look. I sat in a chair in the delivery room and just stared straight ahead.
Once he was born, we began to have to do all kinds of things we never thought we'd do. They asked us if we wanted to hold him. They asked us what kind of casket we wanted for him. They asked us if we wanted to have him buried with other stillbirths or of we wanted him in a place of his own. We had to go and sit at a funeral home and talk about arrangements. We had to buy a plot of land in a cemetery. We had to decide which grave marker we wanted for him. We had to make arrangements for a memorial. We had to ask one of our dear friends to perform the memorial -- something only a true friend or a complete stranger would ever do for someone.
We weren't sure we were going to try again for another child. We had three wonderful girls and the stillbirth had been a difficult turn of events. For a while after Warner's birth, I could hear Wendy lying in bed sobbing as she held her now-empty womb.
I don't know that we ever had a formal discussion about it, but we eventually decided to try again. If you've met our four-year-old, Tinsley, you know that the LAST thing she needs is to be a part-time only child. The girl needed a sibling. So we were excited when we found out we were pregnant again. Excited, but cautious. When we found out we were having another boy, we were delighted. Delighted, but apprehensive. When we got past the 17-week mark where we had lost Warner, we were relieved. Relieved, but anxious.
I don't know that Wendy and I really believed it was going to turn out well until last Saturday. At 4:53pm, we welcomed Blanton Caleb Drake into our family. A healthy 7 pound, 7 ounce baby boy. At 21 inches long, he might be able to be something other than a point guard on the basketball team. Up until the time he came out, I don't think Wendy and I were sure that this would work. But he is healthy, has a great appetite, and is doing amazingly well. We are blessed.
But today was the one-year anniversary of Warner's death. We have this little community of people that we call "church" that meets in our home every once in a while. Since we don't really have a set "church schedule" (which is GLORIOUS, by the way), we decided that the Drakes were going to have church out at Warner's grave. And we invited our community to join us. And they did. Thirteen of us stood and sat around a grave, reading Scriptures about confusion and loss, about redemption and restoration. We sang songs about a God who knows what it is like to experience the loss of a Child. We cried tears of hurt and tears of confusion. We took communion together as a family. We took pictures of our little family of seven. We took pictures of our church family gathered to celebrate redemption.
Redemption's a strange thing. When something is redeemed, it doesn't mean that the pain of the first experience is taken away. It doesn't mean that all (or any?) of the questions are answered. It doesn't give us back Warner. But redemption is a beautiful thing. It's a healing thing. It's a powerful thing.
And it's going on all around us, if only we're willing to see it. Even (especially?) on the anniversary of our darkest day.
