For me, Easter is not lilies and springtime and joyous celebration of resurrection.
Seven years ago this season, I miscarried a tiny being that I already loved.
I was in church at Easter Sunday services when I began to bleed. By the time I was home, she was already almost completely gone from me.
For weeks afterward, I still felt pregnant — the bloating, nausea, hunger, and fatigue stuck to me like a reminder that could not be forgotten for even a moment.
When I conceived Nick a month and a half later, I was still grieving what I had lost.
I experienced the mixed joy and pain of the newness of life in my womb, and the death I had experienced so recently.
For me, Easter is about coming to terms with death. For me, Easter is about grief. I do not celebrate a risen lord on Sunday morning. I celebrate that I held death in my body and it did not kill me. I celebrate that I was blessed to be born female and fertile, and that I was able to have the experience of loss in all the ways that I have experienced loss.
Blessed be you who have miscarried and grieve it still. You contain both death and life, and all the terrible privilege that comes with it.
This post originally published at rhiannoncahours.com. It has been lightly edited.