Her name is not really “Laurel” but I’ll call her that. She’s a Catholic friend of my midwife who has been an invisible helper to me in various ways since my hospitalization last year. For one thing, it was she who brought Thanksgiving Dinner to my dad and girls while Krzys and I were languishing in the hospital, and they were quarantined together at our house, separated from the rest of the family during the holidy.

When I was laboring with this miscarriage, I misplaced my phone, and was left alone in my bedroom to deal with the powerful contractions that took me by surprise. My husband managed to toss me his phone before he had to run back out to deal with the two little kids and baby.

Great, I thought, with only one phone, I can’t even call my husband if I need him. What if something goes wrong? What if I pass out? What if I start hemmorhaging?

Fear was mounting and so was the intensity of the contractions. I wanted so much to talk to my midwife, but without my phone and contacts, it was impossible to reach anyone that could help me get through this. My husband had no numbers for midwives in his phone. Even neighbors that had offered to help in emergency were not listed there. Incredibly, as I searched between contractions, I found a number that was buried in my husband’s texts, in a brief message from the previous year when we were in the hospital. “Laurel, midwife’s friend” was the only clue that someone who could help me might be within reach.

Laboring on my hands and knees, I texted this number for help, hoping it was still valid. It was, and Laurel answered immediately. Within minutes, my midwife was on the phone with me, talking me through those critical moments. Suffice it to say, this mother I had never met before had helped me in some special ways indeed.

During this Lent, I finally got to meet her and thank her in person. Laurel has eight living children, yet she has experience incredible losses. Her twenty-month old baby was found dead in his crib, she suffered two miscarriages, one of them later and therefore very physical, and a stillbirth at thirty-six weeks—all this within the last three years or so. 

She came over today to console me about my recent miscarriages, but she ended up needing to talk more about her own experiences. And that’s okay. We took a walk in the woods—because this is the best and safest place for me anymore. She went ahead of me on the trail. She told me everything. Her story was hard to hear. Her misfortunes made me fear even more for myself and what new heartbreaks might also await me further down this weedy, thorny way.

She could not really be a guide for me, she didn’t have it in her. But she was someone else, a fellow human being, moving through the woods, taking turns leading and following as the trail narrowed. I am honored though, that she chose to walk with me for this little stretch. I feel heavier, carrying the knowledge she shared, but I also understand more today than I would have just a few months ago. The price of compassion is steep.

We crunched through the twigs and the mud, panting lightly as we rushed to say as much as we could, in words that express our feelings, the nuances of our innermost judgements, the way women do in private together. We stepped nonchalantly over a lethargic green striped snake laying in the path who’s tail appeared to be crushed. The trees graciously arched over us as we kept our eyes on the narrow, earthy path, knotted with roots. Her message to me as we hurried along was: “I am not in control.” 

She said she feels God’s presence has been with her constantly since this series of deaths began. Other than that, she can’t really make sense of it. I have to admit this disappoints me. I so want to be intellectually consoled. I want reasons. But she doesn’t have that to give. She has a gift of faith through her cross. That’s all. This is how she sees it herself. 

I know Laurel is okay. But I believe her pain is still raw, and she is weary. I believe she is also afraid of what else is coming around the bend in the trail. I am too.

The idea of walking with another through the pain, makes me think of the episode of the Via Dolorosa—the way of the Cross. Simon of Cyrene is impressed by a Centurion into walking with Our Lord, helping him carry the blessed Cross. His helping Jesus wasn’t exactly voluntary, nor did it take away the necessity of the Cross, but perhaps God was glorified the more through the sharing of the Cross, in what became a spiritual friendship, gained through suffering. There is a tradition that Simon went on to become a believer in Christ as the long awaited messiah, and his entire family was baptized and helped to spread the gospel through the world as a part of the nascent Church. The work of God flourished through the sharing of this burden of the Cross, and there was a strengthening and multiplication of grace that came even from an act of compassion that was not at first given freely.

This season has been a little way of the Cross for me. The Sorrowful Mother has been my guide and companion. Her companionship has not negated the necessity of these God-appointed crosses in my life, or the difficulty of miscarriage, but her intercession for me has increased my faith. I talk to Mary in the night when anxiety grips me. I dwell on her Seven Sorrows when my heart becomes bitter; too focused on my own suffering. This devotion has increased my nearness to her, and opened up my eyes to the presence of her son.

“Oh Mary, who was conceived without sin and who suffered for us, pray for us.”