Seven is completion and fullness. 

Seven is a resting place.

Seven is the number of times I’ve been pregnant. 

Four. 

Four is the number when they ask me how many live births. Even saying that number pokes a raw and tender place in my heart. Those four are the most precious part of my life. They are my every day. And second only to my husband, they are my greatest adventure and the most abundant blessing I have. 

But there were three more. 

Three.

Three is the number engraved in my heart that I never held in my hands. Three more babies growing inside of me, each for very brief periods of time. Three more to call mine. 

The grief of those three is hard to grasp. My heart holds them, but my hands never did. You can feel the grief, but like a handful of sand, it slips between your fingers. 

One.

One is the number of who can. I can’t hold the three, but the One can. There are three resting places in my heart. Three places I remember were carried in the sovereign, sufficient, loving arms of the One who made them, the One who made me, the One who made the four. And the greatest mystery and miracle of it all is that while His purposes are unknown, His goodness remains intact. His character remains the same. I can trust Him to hold all of us. Because NOTHING slips through His fingers. NOTHING. 

One.

Three.

Four. 

Seven. 

Seven is the number of babies I’ll hold in Heaven. 

Seven is the resting place for my hands and my heart. 

Seven is whole.

Seven is complete in the One.