For Unto Us: A Grief Reobserved

When we lost our first baby almost five years ago, it was a watershed moment in my life. Instantly, we became part of the unwilling "club" of parents who have lost a child -- a membership I'd hoped I'd never have. While the grief of losing a child will never fully fade, the passage of time and the birth of two babies in the interval have softened the sting. Thoughts of our daughter are now wistful might-have-beens.

With a sixth pregnancy underway, I asked the Lord to help me hold this gift loosely -- trusting Him with the outcome. I hoped that we'd be blessed with a healthy baby, and was grateful for an easy pregnancy. And then, the day before my 16 week appointment, I began to suspect something was wrong. My appointment the next day confirmed my worst fears. Our baby was already gone.

All-too-familiar emotions washed over me. How could this be happening again? I'd convinced myself that our first loss was a "fluke" (humanly speaking), and while I knew mentally that loss can happen at any stage of pregnancy, I'd breathed a sigh of relief when I crossed that first trimester threshold. Even now the grief is too raw for me to wrap my mind around it. 

For unto us a child was born -- too soon, too small, too perfect for words. Blessedly, he was born at home before the scheduled D&E. While I still needed the procedure, it no longer held the same dread because he'd already come. In fact, I welcomed the idea of general anesthesia; at least for a little while I would be literally unconscious to the emotional pain of losing my son. But numbness wears off, and in its wake I struggled -- still struggle -- to deal with the hormone-accentuated grief. As Christmas carols echo in stores, on the radio, in my mind, I keep coming back to one:

Born that man no more may die.

Death has made itself an unwelcome guest in our home for a second time. But we do not grieve without hope -- a Savior has already come, taken on our flesh, died to atone for our sin, and risen from the dead. He has defeated death by His own death and resurrection, forever depriving it of its sting. And when He returns, death will be a thing of the past. While I don't believe the Bible directly addresses what happens to miscarried babies, I do know that I can trust that whatever God wills is right. He created our baby and trusted him to us for a few brief weeks; we can trust Him with our little one for eternity.

Life hasn't lost all of its sweetness, and I cling to the gifts I see around me with a fresh awareness of how precious they are. Too often I take my sweet family for granted, forgetting that they are blessings I don't deserve and can't retain in my own strength. I also think of the not-so-small mercies that mark the past few weeks. If I hadn't started spotting the day before that appointment, I'd have been completely blindsided by the news. My appointment was scheduled with my favorite midwife at my practice. The doctor on call at the hospital for my D&E was the only OB/GYN I've seen at my (rather large) practice, and she remembered my husband and me from the few appointments we had with her at the beginning of Scout's pregnancy. Everywhere I turn, I see God's care and goodness in the midst of the pain and confusion.

Miscarriage seems so futile. Why should a life end before it's even entered the world? And yet, I ask myself, when would it have been "okay?" I recently read of someone who lost a healthy baby at full term. There's a family in our community who just lost their one-year-old to cancer after a year-long battle. My own grandmother lost a son at seven years old (the day before his eighth birthday, which hits home for me this year as my oldest son just turned eight this month) and a middle-aged daughter many years later. Had my baby lived, it's not as if we would have been guaranteed he'd be have a long, healthy life. That knowledge doesn't dull the pain of his loss, but it helps me keep my perspective when my heart can't see straight. 

Step by step, God will lead us down this road again. He is comforting us and will continue to do so. And though it's hard to imagine, He will bring us to a place where we can look back on this time with less anguish. But standing here, only a few steps down that road, every fiber of my being just wants to rewind, to go back to a time when we were blissfully hopeful, blissfully ignorant of what lay ahead. 

Behold, I go forward, but He is not there,

and backward, but I do not perceive Him;

on the left hand when He is working, I do not behold Him;

He turns to the right hand, but I do not see Him.

But He knows the way that I take;

when He has tried me, I shall come out as gold.

Job 23:8-10, ESV

We would greatly appreciate your prayers as we grieve for our little one.