Miscarriage

The doctor found the placenta; everything except the baby. "No sign of fetal development."

The ultrasound was just a dark circle of where the baby should have been.

It's a little lonely being just me again.

I don't know where my baby is. Never baptized, but brought to church. I don't know when or how he slipped away.

The sac on the ultrasound measured nine weeks, two days: the day my father died. It's a little comforting to think Papa will look out for my nameless child.

It was hard to drive to Savannah the day after finding out. Going to the ordination, mingled with the 100th anniversary. His Eminence kept emphasizing giving the richness of the past to the promise of the future. I felt that I'd dropped the baton. Whenever I stumbled, there would be a priest or a presbytera, a hand outstretched to whisper: "I've been there, too." It doesn't make it hurt any less, but it makes it possible.

"Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand." — Ephesians 6:13