Driving home, I spoke to him through tears. Sobs choking the words. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I...your son. I am...our baby boy shouldn't be the first person you lose."
We sat on the sofa all afternoon. Neither of us moving. For hours, we sat alone. Together. His arms around me, my arms around my huge stomach, our son dead. When people started arriving, I remember whispering to him, "I don't want his death to turn anyone away from God. I'm not angry. I'm not angry. I don't want anyone to be angry."
I wasn't lying. There was no anger in my heart. No anger in my words. Devastation slumped my shoulders, sorrow gripped my heart, pain poured down my face; I was in shock.
The anger would come later.
Our pastor came that night to comfort us. To sit with us and cry and pray. I told him I didn't want Owen's death to turn our family and friends away from God. I was clinging to Him. Where else could we go? My strong father beat his head against the door frame in misery and pain. I felt so hopeless, so helpless. My belly, the little boy inside of me already gone in spirit, still protruding prominently in the midst of us...and all I could do was cry out to the Lord.
The next day, we packed to go to the hospital. To see our son, face to face. To cement the reality already tightening in my chest.
I cried in our bedroom and my mom held me while our tears flowed freely. I was afraid of labor. Afraid of going to the hospital, of leaving the hospital without my son. I didn't want the after. I didn't want to think about coming home to our empty apartment. To our empty life, a life without our son.
There was nothing else to be done, but the inevitable. He needed to come. We needed to see him face to face.
We needed to hold his tiny body and say goodbye.