Grace

In a recent conversation with someone who has also lost a baby, the woman described this kind of grief as "breathtaking," and for a moment, it sounded strange to me — after all, mountaintop views and sunsets are breathtaking, and this feels nothing like a mountaintop view. But then again, it most certainly does take your breath away. It knocks the wind out of you, drags you across the pavement and then kicks you in the shins. It feels as if it robs you of everything, even when its wake is cluttered with a whole lot. It feels like it is more than you could ever imagine feeling and being and doing. And it takes your breath away again and again and again.

Breathtaking in the most heartbreaking of ways.

But there's more. In its wake — the wake of nothing left and yet so, so much — there have been different, new vistas that stop time in an entirely different manner. Somehow, in the face of it all — the loss, the shock, the confusion and even the anger, when your heart feels as if it will never recover and the loneliness of it all feels like it will swallow you whole, there is light.

I stupidly wore the dress I had worn the day before finding out we'd lost the twins. The dress I wore on my last happy, carefree day — the last day I felt like myself. And though it felt different when I put it on this morning, simply because its hem hung a little lower and its folds more loosely from the high waist, it looked cute with the boots I wanted to wear and, in my rush to get myself and the kids out the door , it seemed like a good choice. But as I walked from my office to the car after a day spent trying to be normal, the wind swirled, and I realized for the first time all day just how loose and empty that dumb dress felt — how empty I felt. You're not pregnant and you're not getting your babies knocked the wind out of me as I remembered how happy I'd felt just five weeks ago in my cute dress with my twin baby belly and big dreams.

But as I cried on the drive home, the sunset's light turned the entire sky bright pink. And I immediately thought of my little pink princess at home and drove a little faster, hoping to scoop her up just in time to catch the last of the show I knew she'd think was just for her. And her happy little squeal and "Mommy's home!" when I walked through the door took my breath away.

She came running from the living room as if she had been racing to greet me too. From empty and side-swiped to heart swells and gratitude.

When you're sad, worn out or even beat down, there is comfort. When you're not even sure you want it because there's something assuring about a sadness that affirms the existence of your happiness just before the inevitable fall, there is hope. There is comfort from a Heavenly Father whose love and concern is strong enough to reach you even when you're not sure you want to be reached.

This is grace.

The LDS Bible Dictionary defines grace as "divine means of help or strength." It is God's love in action, doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves. And even as I survey grief's wake with gloomy eyes, grace abounds.

A sunset cuts through tears, reminding you of everything you've still got. And that's just the beginning.

An old friend emails just to say she cares. A newer one stays up well past midnight as we tackle questions that neither of us fully understands. Almost-strangers take time to check in and offer help. And a childhood friend sends a card full of compassion and love that reminds you of the bigger picture — an entire life that has led up to the past five weeks. My Heavenly Father has surrounded our family with love. This is grace. And I am grateful.