I recently finished reading a book called Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt, a memoir of his childhood in Ireland. In the beginning half of the book, three of his siblings die, one at only seven weeks old, and the other two, twins, when they are just a couple years older. When the baby dies, his mother is so grief-stricken she can barely even get out of her bed.
I have never had a child die, or even had a miscarriage, and for this I am very thankful. I don't think there could be anything worse than losing a little child like that. When I think of it, I am sure that it would feel like part of my heart being ripped out and a great big gaping hole left in my chest.
The subject strikes a very personal chord for me, because before I was born, my mother had twin girls. They were born at six months, and with the technology of today they might have made it. But they didn't. One lived for two days, the other for fourteen. I can't imagine the pain my mom must have gone through, losing not just one, but two babies.
Sometime after they died, she went to a prayer meeting and a woman told her that the Lord was going to give her the desires of her heart. At the time she didn't know what that meant, but later, when she had me, knew knew that I was it. God gave me to her to heal her heart after she lost her other little girls.
I think about it sometimes and I wonder. I wonder why children die...but I also wonder why I lived. I don't mean it in a depressed way. I just mean that I wonder why God chose me to live. Why did He take the twins, but not me? It makes me realize that there must be a reason. He wanted me here. I may not always be certain why, I don't exactly know my purpose at times, but He is certain.