Last night I was putting Georgie to bed. I'd been feeling a big gross all day and was wondering if maybe the night would be the one when the baby would decided to arrive? (and no, it totally wasn't) But as I cuddled my little girl and put her to bed, I thought of my Aunty Jenny.
If you haven't already heard the story, my Aunty Jenny died years ago, from a complication in childbirth. When she was having her second baby, some of the amniotic fluid got into her bloodstream. And I just thought, did she do the same thing? Tuck her little girl in to bed with an 'I love you' and then go to hospital never to come home? It's times like this I hate my imagination, because it's all just too real.
And it just hurts.
It's not that I have any horrible premonitions about this baby's birth, I fully expect to have everything go fine. But it just makes me so incredibly sad. The idea of a little girl, the same age as Georgie, to just not have her Mummy anymore. To leave a little baby boy, newly hatched, motherless? A husband, to cope all alone? It's when I dwell on things like this that I don't understand God very well. And I don't like him. I understand why my Grandma had so much trouble dealing with it. Because it's just not right.
I don't have any answers. I know that God is holy and righteous. I just have to trust, and believe that some things are beyond our comprehension. And I know that God weeps for us just as much as we do.
Today I'm trying to take the time to make the most of my wonderful family.