.face.

I do not think it is an original thought to say that pain has a face. Nonetheless. It is wonderfully grounding to know that pain can be claimed, that it is not imagined. It belongs and intertwines with the human spirit on the journey of life like a double helix. "In this world you WILL know pain and suffering" (Jesus Christ, the Risen Lord). I was reminded of this at my first ever candlelight vigil this past fall. It was a vigil for those suffering from and or in support of those grieving from infant/child loss. Those aren't even easy words to type. I so dislike the idea of being a pain-bearer, of causing anyone undue pain because of remembrance. Before I conceived my own children, I would have shrunk away from anyone in any painful situation relating to child loss because of my ignorance. It was a poem that caused my paradigm shift. I read a beautiful poem. It taught me that, although the mention of an angel baby's name does in fact cause pain, to not mention it at all, is even more grave.

I had heard about the candlelight vigil through facebook, of course. I'll just admit it; facebook is my main media source! :) Hopefully inserting that smiley face icon makes up for my lack of staying truly up to date on world news! An old collge prof once joked about how society had forced news stations to shrink their world news down to basically "80" seconds or so. Well, I'm on faceobok far longer than 80 seconds, so he can rest assured I'm getting educated!

I wasn't going to go to the vigil because, quite simply, I wondered if I really belonged. Even after experiencing my own two early miscarriages, and acknowleding what I thought was the LIFE of my two angel babies, I still battled. I still felt as though their loss was early on enough to not warrant REALLY celebrating, grieving, reflecting. I felt as though this kind of vigil was only allowable for parents and relatives of stillborn babies or children lost any time after they were delivered. And, to this day, I still do think that those individuals understand and experience something that connects them through that kind of sacred pain. But, God convinced me to go the vigil; He whispered. I had wanted to bring my camera but didn't want to intrude on any other photographers' that might have been hired or impede on the intimacy and privacy of the occassion.

So, I was standing outside cleaning a car when one of the co-founders of the Halos Hudson group drove up. She asked if I had gotten the message. Their photographer had backed out last minute, and they needed me. Question answered; I was meant to go to this vigil! I jumped for joy and buckled under nervousness all at the same time!

I thought and prayed about the evening nonstop. I had never shot a candlelight type setting. I had never done a group event. I could not stop praying because I felt this indescribable pressure to capture a moment that could not be relived, retold. It was like photographing a wedding, to some degree! Thankfully toying with the camera and equipment kept my hands occupied and my mind busy.

God knew we needed rain...a few days before. When we arrived at Propect Park in Hudson, Wisconsin, I saw that we were able to start a fire in the pavilion because the recent fire ban had been lifted some as a result of the good rain a few evenings prior. And, the weather was a tad warmer than it had been. Also, it was not raining that evening. What a gift of circumstances. People were already there and milling around. The atmosphere was nothing short of somber. I set up my camera gear and settled in to photograph the event.

As a budding photographer, I am drawn to people's faces. But, at an event such as this, it's magnified. I was flung back in time. My husband and I had experienced our second miscarriage. We were referred to a speciality infertility clinic. We were at our appointment and waiting in the waiting room for the doctor; one other couple was there. I kept sneaking glances, hating that we were there, slinking down so they couldn't really see we were there. This literal thought went through my mind, "So, that's a couple that can't have kids either. I feel sorry for them. I hate this." And, flash forward to the candlelight vigil. Even though I had no feelings of hate at all, because I had seemingly come to terms with my period of infertility and my two losses, I still felt this twinge of uneasiness about starring face to face with real, actual pain-bearers. Parents of child loss. And, to see the precious momentos and photos of those angel babies ever so perfectly and carefully arranged on the tables: heartwrenching.

God in His masterful grace was bringing my healing full circle. He was orchestrating something for me. I just didn't know it before the day began, before I was asked to photograph the event. His blessing of jointly unifying a painful past and a presnt day pursuit is nothing but miraculous. I started taking pictures. I was tactful to not appear forceful. Picture taking was thereapeutic on a small scale, in a way which surprised me. Thus, the journey began the moment the ceremomy started!

There was a small table set up with votive candles. Guests could write the names of their honored babies on the lables and affix them to the candles. I felt prompted to participate in the votice lighting aspect of the memorial service. In part, I wanted to "fit in," and yet, I also felt as though I ought to honor my two angel babies. As I used the pen to artfully write their names on the label, I realized I had never written their two names together like that and fully, publicly, acknowledged their existence.

The frustrating thing about early miscarriage,, quite simply, is that there often is no funeral. Sometimes, family and friends don't even know the baby existed, and in rare cases, a miscarriage could happen without the mother even realizing. Our immediate family and a few close friends knew about the circumstances of our two losses. However, as time went by, it seemed to me that early miscarriage wasn't something to be talked about, could not be grieved by the standard grieving process, could not be publicly acknowledged as milestones went by (due dates, baby's first month, expected first birthdays). I had no physical place to go and mourn my losses. I really felt as though I could no longer talk about them. There were hardly any momentos. I wasn't really allowed to take much time off of work. I was almost as confused as everyone else as to how to cope with the horrific experience of physically having a baby unwillingly released from the body. My first baby was lost the actual morning of our first wedding anniversary. I started bleeding the night before and was sickened by the prospect that I could possiby be experiencing a miscarriage during my first pregnancy. My husband, sister, and I sat in the tiny basement bathroom of my parents home and PRAYED for an hour at least that the baby wouldn't be lost. I woke the morning of our anniversary, jolted awake at around 5 am in a pool of blood on the bed, and knew the baby's soul was taken that exact moment without even knowing the sheets were soaked. We had made plans to celebrate our anniversary at a fairly local Bed & Breakfast. Our family convinced us to go. My sister in law urged us to take our Bibles. We went to the inn, but honestly, I sobbed so uncotrollably through the night I probably kept everyone else at the inn awake.

I knew our second loss was inevitable as the hormone levels in my body were rapidly declining. This time I was being checked by the doctors and nurses because of my loss two months prior. Clint and I even drove back in secret over a holiday to get a hormone injection and then returned to our parents' home town to rejoin the festivities. We both felt it was a hopeless situation but still felt as though we ought to try anything the doctor's were suggesting. A few days later, as I sat watching one of the middle school basketball games my husband was coaching, I knew it was impending. I cried as I told one of my dear friends about the news. She prayed; I drove home. As I took the short drive down Vine to our apartment, I buckled over in unbelievable agonizing pain and had to pull off to the side of the road. It was happening. I barely got home and up the steps. I called a neighbor and dear friend. The only words I could mutter/whisper to her were, "I'm having a miscarriage right now." She said she'd be right there and hung up the phone. Within minutes she was holding my hand. She dialed the hospital's number and even talked to the nurses for me. I cried so loudly; they could not understand me. And really, there was nothing they could do either. When Clint arrived home my friend left. After he thought everything was settled and I was resting, he headed to the school to organize everything for a sub for the next few days. However, right after he got to school I went to the bathroom and had to call him back. The baby had passed. So, he rushed through his paperwork and hurried home. We spent the next few hours in the bathroom, crying and praying, praying and crying. I suppose we had our own little funeral right there in the bathroom. I remember saying often that I was not okay with losing another baby. Clearly. It was against my will and wishes.

Although I hadn't lived with the babies in my womb for very long, I fully experienced the miscarriages and wept as they were lost. The messes were tidied up, and eventually I was healed on the outside. But, my soul, my soul was traumatized and broken.

Flashforward to the candlelighting vigil and ceremony. God brought me to this place ON purpose. I wrote the names of our babies on the lablel, although even at this stage (as we now have two healthy, wonderful children), I hesitated sharing the privacy of the first two given names. I was glad to have written them down, ultimately. We took pride in naming them, and it felt nice to just see it on paper.

There was a change in tradition at this year's ceremony. Each guest, if willing, would light their votive candle and speak for themselves the angel baby they were honoring. WOW. Hearing those names spoken into the crisp evening autum air was chilling and beautiful. Tears were flowing, unlike the rain that had held off that night, and emotions were flickering like the fire in the hearth. The atmosphere was charged, tense, sad, and beautiful. Something so heartbreaking truly could be beautiful at the same time, beauty for ashes, truly.

I could not believe my nerves as it neared my turn to speak. By then everyone knew I was the hired photographer. The mom next to me accidentally skipped my turn. I knew I could not turn back though. I knew I had to light the votive. I had to. Strangely, unexpectedly, as I set the camera down I could not choke out the words to say the names of my two angel babies! I realized there was a part of me that had not really healed from the past. I remember even telling the group that I had never done that before, spoken about the losses out loud, publicly. And, yes, did it ever make a difference.

As the ceremony ended I scanned the crowds and surveyed the faces once again of the pain bearers, the beloved family members left behind. I was awed by their courage to live on, and likewise, live on while preserving the memories of their angels.

I made sure to get the final images I had hoped for. Two indiviuals, in particular, approached me before I left. One was the pastor who gave the brief but beautiful message of hope to the group. Pastor Larry was the one who reminded us all that suffering does have a face, their faces, but that all the pain does have a remedy.....through the God-breathed scriptures. It ACTUALLY tells us in scripture that every tear is counted,bottled, binded, and wiped away. Unbeleievable. Pastor asked me how I felt after speaking of my babies for the first time. I told him about the circumstances that brought me to the event. He shook his head and smiled; we both knew. It was a divine appointment, of course.

Another beautiful mama spoke to me, as we talked about her business making gorgeous jewelry in memory of angel babies. I sat humbled as she said to me, starring me directly in the eyes, "Your children in  Heaven ARE proud of you today as you spoke of them." There. I was included. I belonged. My suffering was acknowledged and my babies lives were claimed into existence. And, pain had another face---my face.

Overall, it was an incredible evening and an extreme honor to photograph the event. Since venturing in the professional portrait photography world, I had so wanted to get involved with events. I had wanted to do something with photography that mattered.

A lingering thought took hold of me in the days that followed though. If pain had a face, surely, surely Healing had a face also.

And certainly, Healing by none other than our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. When we are healed, we are saved, be it spiritually or physically. We are saved from the sorrow that afflicts us. We are human enough to understand the association between cause and effect in our world. And anyone who has suffered child loss understands that life is not born out of some cosmic magic spell. Life is intricately planned and knit, and born within a body, as real as any life. The pain when infant life is lost is evidence to that end. The faces of the family members left behind proved, to me, that real life was lost. Call me pro-life. It was not a blob of cosmically and mystically unified cells or simply scientifcally multiplied gametes that I lost; it was life. So likewise, the enginneer or potter of those precious lives will bring the full restoration.