I knew I would write this.
From the moment my doctor told me, I knew I would write this.
But I didn’t think I would write it now. I thought I would share this painful heartache not necessarily once I was out of it, but at least once I found some meaning in it. Some reason to it. Some consolation within it. Some word of encouragement to speak from it.
But it is on this day-one that followed a night of crying and began with a sense of loss and emptiness in my heart that I don’t know I will ever be able to eloquently articulate- that I find myself writing out the words I fervently prayed would never come to be.
To our sweetest surprise, Dan and I found out in early September we were pregnant. Though it took six pregnancy tests for me to believe it (actually!), once the reality set in, so too did a desire I had never felt before. Yes, we always said we wanted to have children. But never had I experienced an urgency to start that process quickly. I will speak more to this at a later time, but for now I will leave it at this: Holding that double lined pregnancy test changed me. The baby was only the size of a chia seed when we found out we were pregnant, and they were already changing me. Pregnancy called me to a path that required more of me than I had to give. I felt the sweetest desperation to cling to God.
Prayer marked my days like never before.
So did fear.
I don’t feel ready to share specific details yet, but as of now I will share that in late October my doctor informed us of concerns regarding our sweet little baby, whose heartbeat we had watched flicker less than 24 hours before.
I now know I had never truly known what shock -out of body, soul-stirring, hope crushing shock-was until that moment. The kind of shock that you still reel from in the coming days, weeks, months.
We lost our baby 3 days later in the most traumatizing handful of hours I have ever walked through, during which all I could think about were those first few moments of joy after Dan and I saw that second pink line. I wrestled with feeling foolish for being joyful. I resented those moments of rejoicing that, at this point, feel taunting and painful and ugly and unfair. How could those sweet moments amount to this?
Where are you God?
Since my car accident 3 years ago I have fought to offer sincerity in my journey through suffering because I believe God can handle our pain and disappointment. And that is what has permeated my heart since I left my doctor’s office two weeks ago: pain and disappointment.
And I am giving it to Him. Pouring it out like water before Him like Hannah did in 1 Samuel when she wept bitterly before God because of her empty womb.
This week I have often had to bring to remembrance other dark moments I have walked through in my life to speak into the one I am unfortunately walking through now. Moments like seeing my dad paralyzed on the hospital bed. Moments like waking to my mom’s crying several months later and then hearing her tell us he had died. Moments like lying on the road after the accident. Moments like hearing my surgeon tell me for the first time that I had broken my back and wouldn’t be home for months.
And now, moments like losing the little life that made us parents. The life that we loved, anticipated, and prayed for.
I will recall the painful moments of my past because in every single one of them Jesus showed up. His provision of grace was sufficient in them. His wisdom was given through them. My heart and life and character were refined because of them. (Which I do not believe is an adequate explanation for why suffering happens, though that is a topic for another day).
For now I will say this. God is still kind when all my eyes see is pain. He is speaking clarity to us in an otherwise dark situation. We are seeing Him more clearly, even now.
He is still a healer. He is still sovereign. He is still good. He is still for me. He is still God.
A great comfort this week (besides the incredible amount of love and service people have blessed us with)? I will share with you the verse that God led me to in those heavy and dark hours that I was miscarrying:
“He will swallow up death forever, and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces.” Isaiah 25:8
My hope rests in this.
Because even in the fulfillment of my greatest fears, death is still beaten because of the Cross.
Please pray for us, that we would recognize Jesus in this grief, that we would trust Him more, that He would have His way.
Thank you so much.