I am a preschool teacher.
And so is G-d.
Four weeks after my wedding, I sat in the labor and delivery wing of a hospital waiting to receive a shot called methotrexate. A shot that removes the last remaining living cells of an ectopic pregnancy. A pregnancy that could have killed me. A baby that would have never lived.
My baby that never lived.
I did something wrong. This is a punishment. I didn’t want it enough. G-d is smacking me across the face. I am in the corner. He cut me off. My heart hurts. My body hurts.
When one of my two-year-olds misbehaves, I bend down, and talk quietly so they can hear me, but have to strain to listen. We make a plan to try again, be better next time. When a two-year-old does something wrong, you do not hit them. You do not cut them out of your life. You do not rain punishments down on them.
Neither does G-d.
Good teachers don’t become teachers because they want to punish their students. They do it because they love them.
G-d didn’t become G-d to punish me. He made me because He loves me.
I am not perfect.
G-d is perfect.
At my best, I am calm and patient and kind.
G-d is always at His best.
Sometimes, kids fall down. That’s okay. Sometimes, they fall on soft ground. Sometimes they fall on hard ground. That’s okay, too. Sometimes they end up with scrapes on their knees. We don’t catch them every time because they learn to stand up. They learn to be okay.
I fell down. I will be okay. G-d did not push me down. I will be okay.
When a two-year-old falls, they search for comfort in our arms. Sometimes they don’t even notice being in our arms before the feeling of “better” returns and they go back to playing.
Even when it feels like they’re not around me, I’m trying to notice G-d’s arms.
A due date that never came was marked by a friend sharing news of her pregnancy with me. At first, it felt like someone bumped a bruise. Or kicked a bruise. Or literally was jumping on top of my bruise. I thought back to the day I sat in the hospital waiting for the injection. I remember all the anger I felt, every time someone said the words, “You know, miscarriages are very common.” As though that made it better. As though because it happened to millions of women before me, it didn’t hurt R I G H T N O W. As though that sentence didn’t make me want to go to war with G-d on behalf of every woman who had to watch her body fail at what it’s built to do.
I fell down and G-d didn’t catch me. I haven’t forgiven him yet. He didn’t catch so many of us. But G-d doesn’t need my forgiveness. G-d is G-d. He can stand my anger. And He understands why I’m angry.
I am not mad my friend is pregnant. I am grateful that she didn’t fall down. I am happy she has no scrapes on her knees.
G-d is a preschool teacher, and He is holding my hand.
I wrote this piece because I feel in our community, there is such an extreme level of tznius and privacy, that women don’t know who to turn to talk about a miscarriage or even fertility issues and often our friends and family don’t know how to help. Reach out to your friend, reach out to an older woman in your community, call a therapist or a coach and cry a lot. This is not something we need to do by ourselves. We are stronger together. I hope this makes someone feel less alone.