I don't buy into the idea of ghosts being lost between worlds, angry, vengeful, mourning and skulking around dark corners and hallways, whooooooing away. Nor do I believe they are Casper-like, friendly little do-gooder spirits, looking for ways to lend a helping hand to the living. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't believe in ghosts at all. I believe in the Holy Ghost. I believe the Holy Ghost guides us, helps us, dwells in our hearts, gives us words to pray. But as far as "ghosts" go, I believe the dead no longer have use for our realm. They are in their places of eternity, possibly observing us, but more than likely having a great big ol' party up above, and getting ready to throw the confetti when we join them.
But what about those who never really had a chance to live, except in the dark peaceful quiet of their mothers' wombs? There is a little ghost who visits me sometimes. She wasn't done with our world, and we never had time to cuddle and chat. She formed miraculously within me for a few short months, she grew me into a mother, and then was taken away. Other than the ebb and flow of emotion she felt through my body, the warmth of my hands protectively cradling her, the lull of my voice and my heartbeat she felt through vibrations in water, she never knew of earth. It's been 8 years since she left and I've had my chance to grieve. I find peace in the fact that while I never had a chance to hold her, she's been rocked and embraced in the arms of Jesus himself. I've thought of how she's there with my grandparents and other loved ones, laughing at stories of my childhood calamities, learning all about the people she came from and basking in the presence of our Creator.
Every once in a while, though, I feel her here with me. I wonder if God gives a special privilege to these little ones- a kind of "visitation pass" to leave campus once in a while. You know, to have a little glimpse of what their earthly experience would have been like? Sometimes when I'm browsing the racks of a Gymboree store I'll glance up from the boy section and instantly spot a little polka dot sun dress or a soft Easter sweater across the store, and without thinking logically, realize that it would be perfect on Hannah. I can almost feel her tugging on my jacket to go over and touch the fabric. Or when my due date comes around each year, I feel a little bit of warmth, like a hug, that isn't due to the heat vents kicking on or a ray of sun through the window. It's accompanied by a sense of reassurance that it's still a day to celebrate. Every now and then I feel her in the living room, bouncing on the couch cushions and giggling at her brothers' antics. It's not that I can see her there, or even feel the sensations of the cushion moving. It's more of a day dream that catches me off guard. I'm not even aware that I'm seeing her until my conscious mind takes back control and she's instantly gone...until next time.
I didn't realize, when I was pregnant that first time, how common miscarriage is. I never imagined I'd have that experience to reflect on for the rest of my life. My doctors told me that 1 in 4 pregnancies ends this way and that it is "nature's way of taking care of abnormalities." They gave me the option of having the "fetal tissue" scraped out with a D&C or going home to wait for my body to take care of business. Some well meaning friends and family even told me it was "God's will." It seemed that everyone wanted to help by trying to make the loss less of a loss, to make it more sterilized, practical, non-human, or even a mistake to be corrected. The more they discussed how common it was, the more alone I felt in the experience. Instinctively, protectively, I took back the reigns 8 years ago. I left the hospital and its antiseptic smell. I cried buckets until my eyes were swollen shut, I sat on the couch in my robe for days with no shower, I drew the curtains shut and didn't eat. After weeks went by, when I felt my body cramp up and the cruelty of a labor for no baby, I held up my chin and got through it. The hardest part was not the cramping pain, but the emptiness that followed. It was both physical and emotional. I had a body that wanted desperately to hold on to a baby that couldn't grow. I had a heart that wanted to grieve a baby that needed to be mothered. Have you ever been to a funeral for an unborn baby? Unless it was your own, you haven't. They have an attendance of one. But as painful and lonely as it was, I said goodbye on my own terms.
I don't know what to make of it when I see the image of a "ghost" in a movie preview. The intent is for the viewer to feel pangs of terror. My brain instantly converts the image to one that is laughable- a white sheet controlled by a puppeteer behind a curtain. Kind of like the Wizard of Oz when he gets found out for who he really is and all the mystery fizzles away. Because I know a ghost who visits me, and she's not a vessel of terror and angst. She's a whisper, a flood of warmth, a soft brush against my cheek. She's come to see her mother, to hold my hand, to cuddle against me while I sleep, to join in on her brothers' fun and listen to her daddy sing. She's here to tell me that she misses me, but there's an amazing place where she'll be waiting to welcome me. It's her perfect, eternal home. She's there with so many other little ones, who come to visit their mothers once in a while. Mothers know all about ghosts.
*This post was entered in Scribbit's October Write-Away contest. If you'd like to enter, please visit Scribbit.
The first three are from ladydianehats.com Just in case you want to order for your next tea and crumpets/bunco social.
