Hope Deferred


“I’m pregnant,” I whispered into my husband’s ear.

I had waited up late for him, lying in bed smiling to myself, daring to believe that I was really, finally pregnant after sixteen years of marriage.

“How do you know,” he asked. I could hear the joy in his whispered reply.

“That’s what the doctor said today. I’m about 4 weeks along.”

Giddy, he pulled me close and kissed me. Our bliss was short-lived. Less than a month later, I miscarried in a public restroom while my three sons (brothers of another mother) played outside. It’s hard for me to write about it, much less talk about it now. I’m not sure why but I can’t process those few weeks of my life, three years ago.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, But when the desire comes, it is a tree of life. ~Prov. 13:12 (NKJV)

The desire of my heart came years before the pregnancy, in the form of three adopted boys (two adopted as infants). I did not mourn the loss of my unborn child, at least not like many would-be moms do. I cried, but only a little. My tears were more for my husband’s loss than for my own.

I wonder if I am still holding a hope deferred, unshed tears that will overtake me when I least expect them, wrecking my life with some deep deep sorrow that I still hold within my broken heart.


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