Courageously Expecting

Shortly before this pregnancy, I came across Jenny Albers' (at the time not-yet-released) book, Courageously Expecting. It was advertised as a 30-day, Scripture-based devotional for women navigating the mingled joy and terror of pregnancy after loss -- which sounded wonderful, though I wondered (rather cynically) if I'd ever have a reason to read it. Lo and behold, five days after the release date I was holding a faintly positive pregnancy test. It took me two more months to actually order the book, a testament in itself to the protective layer of caution I'd wrapped myself in. Even then, I felt far from confident that this pregnancy would last -- but that was part of the reason I felt I should read it in the first place.

As I started reading, I was so glad I'd summoned up the courage (no pun intended) to place that order. It took me far fewer than 30 days to finish, because I couldn't stop reading! It was such a blessing to find someone who could relate to what I felt, but who also pointed to Scripture as the source of truth about both my past and my future. No empty, "feel good" mantras or affirmations -- just trust in the One Who is writing my story, even if that story involves more loss. Jenny is gentle, but doesn't beat around the bush; once you've experienced pregnancy loss, there is no comfort to be found in saying "of course it won't happen again!" In her words:

"It's hard to imagine your body producing a living being when you know so intimately its ability to destroy one." (pg 71)

Hope. It's a precious commodity when the line between life and death seems so fine, and so out of your control.

"Most people would say I was 'expecting,' but it was more complicated than that. What was I expecting? Was I expecting life or death? Was I expecting to leave the hospital with or without my baby? Was I expecting a full-term birth or an early death? And even in the case of a full-term birth, I knew I wasn't guaranteed to deliver a living child." (pg xvi)

The uncertainty can be crippling. Waiting, day after day, for the signs that your worst nightmare is coming true...again. Unable to say the words "when the baby's born," qualifying every statement about the future with the word "if." As someone who has always delighted in pregnancy, I have found it deeply saddening to lose not only my precious babies, but also the innocent joy of expectation. But:

"While pregnancy after loss isn't exactly the way we'd hoped to experience pregnancy, isn't it enough to help us cling to God's promise of a better day? Isn't today, with your womb full, a better day than when it was so heartbreakingly empty? Hasn't faith, even the smallest amount, carried you to this point?

God has given you this child right now, and even if you can't predict what the future holds -- even if you're scared and unsure and hope seems impossible to grasp -- might the life that's inside you right now be enough to spur you toward embracing that elusive hope in a tangible way?" (pg 123-124)

I'll admit, I was skeptical when I ordered this book, unsure of what kind of theology I would find in its pages. So many, even in the Christian community, are quick to undermine God's sovereignty in an attempt to make bereaved mothers feel "better." They clearly haven't thought through the implications of a god (little "g" on purpose here) who desires to spare us from pain, but is incapable of preventing it! But Courageously Expecting proved to be filled with Scripture that underlined God's providential work in our lives. Instead of skirting the issue, Jenny acknowledges that even the babies we've lost are part of His plan -- and just because we don't understand why they couldn't stay doesn't mean that plan (or its Author) aren't good.

"Remember this: we have a God who knows us better than we know ourselves. He knows where we're going even when we don't, which is why we can be comforted even when our sense of control dissolves in our hands. There is comfort when we realize that our pregnancies are in hands far steadier than our own, and that our lives are being formed into something good even when we feel defeated." (pg 202)

I feel like this post probably reads like a book advertisement (extra points if you pronounced that ad-VER-tiss-ment in your head!), but I couldn't help but share a book that was such an encouragement to me. While it didn't magically strip away my fears -- which would be an unrealistic expectation -- it helped me to process the emotions I felt and give voice to worries I was scared to verbalize. 

Of course, all women process pregnancy after loss differently. I don't recall feeling much anxiety with Laddie, my first "rainbow" pregnancy. I know I was concerned in the early weeks, but once we'd had a positive ultrasound and passed the gestation of our previous loss, that mostly vanished. This time, it's different. Six losses in a row, including one at 16 weeks, will challenge even the most persistent optimism. But at the same time, so much grief has also taught me something about the value of joy even in uncertainty. By 20 weeks, I felt mostly at peace. By 30 weeks I found myself saying, "when the baby comes." Now, at 38 weeks and planning a homebirth, preparation has been essential! Granted, I've been blessed with a blissfully smooth pregnancy so far, I've reached the "viability" milestone (when a baby has a good chance of surviving preterm birth), and am well past the point that we've ever lost a baby. But I'm not oblivious to the possibility of loss, even though I'm now in what's considered by many to be the "safe zone." If only there were such a thing! I know I can't guarantee the outcome I desire, but I also know that the precious life inside of me deserves to be celebrated, no matter what.

As we've been blessed to add children to our family over the past decade, I've sometimes felt wistful for my first pregnancy; that may sound odd, but there is just something magical about that once-in-a-lifetime experience of becoming a parent for the first time. Granted, I didn't want to relive all of it! Even the passage of time hasn't totally erased the memories of bewilderment as we navigated those early weeks. Each successive pregnancy/birth/postpartum stage has grown easier, as those stages become more familiar to both my mind and my body. But somehow, my twelfth pregnancy feels like a first pregnancy (not counting the almost constant sight and sound of this baby's four energetic older siblings!). I've taken more bump photos than any of my other pregnancies, thrifted and sewn maternity and baby clothes, and taken such delight in preparing for this much-anticipated baby. For many loss mamas, those activities are just too painful or scary to contemplate, even in the third trimester; each mama's story is unique, and so is her response. For me, I've been waiting for years, and I don't want to miss out because I was too scared to enjoy this answer to many prayers (both mine and others'). 

I'd highly recommend Jenny's book for those who are pregnant after loss. I'm incredibly grateful to be here, counting down the days to our sweet baby's arrival -- this moment in time seemed so unattainable for so long. But no matter my circumstances, I'm always, always, carried in the arms of the One Who gives and takes away, and Who gave up His very own Son for me. That assurance is my true hope, and allows me to enjoy every blessing He grants along the way. 

The Accidentally Providential Cardigan

Last August, I bought some yarn to make a gift for what I thought might be my nephew (the baby's gender was a surprise, but I heard through the grapevine that a boy was suspected). I bought a gender neutral yarn, Berrocco Ultrawool Fine in colorway Driftwood, from a local yarn shop and cast on a wee cardigan. Well, turns out the nephew was a niece! But by that time, I was 99% done with the sweater and realized that the combination of yarn and pattern was definitely more masculine than gender neutral (I think a girl could wear it, but it didn't seem appropriate as a gift). The only steps left were sewing down the pockets, weaving in ends, and adding buttons. In other words, my least favorite steps in the construction process. So I stashed it away, and got to work on a more feminine project.

Fast forward a few months, and we finally had a rainbow baby on the way.

 

Fast forward a few more months, and we discovered that our rainbow baby is a boy.

And suddenly, I realized the sweater I'd made for my "nephew" was for my not-yet-existent son all along. This may seem like nothing more than a convenient coincidence, but knitting that sweater in the first place was not the easiest task to undertake, for reasons unrelated to pattern or yarn choice. Our own baby M was due just a week before our niece -- but instead of knitting for my longed-for rainbow baby, I was knitting for his or her cousin. It's not the first time, either; of my six nieces and nephews, four are just a few months, weeks, or even days younger/older than the babies we lost would have been. Five of our seven losses have happened while my sisters-in-law were pregnant; as any loss mama can tell you, rejoicing with others is often (perhaps inevitably?) mingled with wistful longing for what you've lost yourself. As grateful as I am for those dear children, they will always be reminders of my own little loves that didn't get to stay. It's been a challenging journey to cope with that realization, in addition to the already-heavy weight of grief. 

I'm grateful to be carrying a baby who will -- Lord willing -- be born almost exactly a year after baby M's due date. I was really knitting this wee sweater for Kit, the baby I could only dream of while I recovered from a surgery that I prayed would help us finally bring another baby earthside. That's why this simple sweater means so much to me now.

I'm realizing as I look at this photo that it buttons the "wrong way" for a boy --
but that's how the pattern is written, and surely a baby can get away with it?

Well, I didn't plan for this to be an "emotional" post, but here we are. Perhaps pregnancy hormones are getting the better of me! On to less sentimental details... 

I used Tin Can Knits' Playdate Cardigan pattern, which is generously sized from 0-3 mths through adult. 

I knit the 3-6 months size with smaller-than-called-for needles to suite my chosen yarn, and I'd say it's about a 3 months size. That should be perfect for Kit, who's due in early fall. I'd certainly knit this pattern again! it's been a long time since my older boys have had a mama-made sweater, and this would be a good candidate.

I tried wood and tortoiseshell buttons of various kinds, but they were all the wrong shade of brown or too plastic. So coconut shell buttons it was (a recent favorite of mine), sewn on "backwards." 

I still can't figure out if I managed to knit my pockets to different lengths, or if I blocked them poorly, but they're not quite the same depth! Somehow I doubt Kit will either notice or care, and it's not visible from the front unless you look very hard (which you now will, since I was foolish enough to point it out...). It was my first time doing pockets like this, and was rather fun.

I do much prefer raglan sleeves to pick-up ones -- I'd almost rather knit the sleeves separate and sew them in, to be honest. For some reason I usually have to do multiple pick-ups to get the counts right, and that becomes tiresome rather quickly. But I sorted it out and am happy with the result. Now they just need chubby little baby arms to fill them, but that project's still underway...

Inexpressible: On Rainbows, Babies, and God's Forever-Faithful Love

(If you're an Instagram follower, I'm afraid you'll find this a bit of a repeat from a few weeks ago! But I had more thoughts than I could fit in a caption, and I finished the book I was reading at the time. So here we are.)

This tiny necklace represents so much waiting, so much prayer, so many times of clinging to my heavenly Father in the midst of storms that threatened to sweep away my faltering faith. As I dreamed of a "rainbow baby" for over three years, I wistfully browsed rainbow necklaces and hoped I'd have a reason to buy one. I imagined the word "mama" engraved underneath, an exhale of relief and gratitude after our exhausting journey through the valley of the shadow of death. While Laddie is a rainbow baby, I didn't really discover the term until after his birth; it seemed odd to buy such a thing in retrospect. 

But every time I thought the sun was breaking through and our rainbow was finally coming, the storm clouds gathered darker and fiercer than before. The months dragged on, then years. Five would-have-been "rainbow" pregnancies, five more losses. With each loss, my faith was tested yet again, as if God were asking, "Do you still trust Me? Do you still believe I'm good?"

I waited until 12 weeks with my current pregnancy to order this necklace, and even then my sudden burst of "courage" was prompted by a sale! What if we were to lose the baby this necklace represented? How could I bring myself to wear it? While every passing week gives me more hope and we're quickly approaching the 24-week "viability" milestone, I don't yet know if this baby in my womb is my long-awaited rainbow. 

In the end, I didn't engrave the word "mama" -- but not out of a sense of caution. Rather, because there is something more important to me than being the mama of a rainbow baby (even as I long for that very thing).  You can bet there will be lots of rainbow accessories for this little one if our prayers are answered, but my feelings toward the term "rainbow baby" are a bit complex. A rainbow is the beautiful denouement to a storm, and in that sense a rainbow baby is the joy that comes after the intense storm of loss-induced grief. I've seen others who dislike the term, because they don't see their miscarried babies as a "storm," and I can certainly understand that -- but I see the loss of my precious babies (not the babies themselves) as the darkest storm of my life, and thus the term doesn't bother me on that score. 

But I've also seen the phrase "after every storm comes a rainbow" used to refer to babies born after loss, and that does rub me the wrong way. It's almost as if there's an expectation that if you miscarry, you will get a rainbow baby. Even worse, I've seen Isaiah 66:9 applied to rainbow babies, and often featured in pregnancy announcements: "'I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born,” says the Lord." (New Century Version) Not only is this a very questionable translation of this verse (even when compared to other "loose" translations of the Bible), but it's being taken wildly out of context. The verse has nothing to do with miscarriage and rainbow babies, but rather God's plan for Jerusalem/Zion. And its misuse again implies that if you have a miscarriage, God will give you a "rainbow baby." There are many, many couples who have not been blessed with a rainbow baby, either biological or adopted -- was God not faithful to keep His promise to them? 

Which begs the question, what does a rainbow really represent? God appointed the rainbow as a covenant -- never again would He destroy the earth with a worldwide flood in (much-deserved) judgment for sin. It was His oath of steadfast love and mercy to humans who deserved no such grace. It was not a promise that I'd have a baby after loss. God's faithfulness is not determined by His providing "rainbow babies" (though He often graciously does just that, as I am personally and gratefully aware). Is there always a rainbow after the storm? Yes, in the sense that God never wastes pain in the life of a believer, and that He will one day redeem all of our suffering in eternity. As Elisabeth Elliot said, "Suffering is never for nothing." But that 'rainbow' may not take the shape of a baby, and it would be foolish, even dangerous, to pin one's hopes on such a thought.

That is why I engraved my necklace with the word "hesed." It is the Hebrew word found 248 times in the Old Testament, and most often translated as "mercy," "steadfast love," "lovingkindness," and "covenant faithfulness." I recently finished Michael Card's wonderful book on hesed, Inexpressible -- perhaps the title gives you some idea of how complex and beautiful this word is. He mentions in the introduction that translators often use two words to try to capture the essence of hesed, because a single word is rarely enough to express its meaning.

I found this wristlet for my keys from Dear Heart back in November, 
just before the third anniversary of Baby J's homegoing --
"no season is ever wasted" was quite a timely reminder.
I added the rainbow a few months later, as we rejoiced over our twelfth pregnancy!

In his preface, Card explains hesed this way: "When the person from whom I have the right to expecting nothing gives me everything." 

What a thought! I deserve nothing from the God that I have rebelled against, and yet He offers me everything. He sent His own Son to die on a cross, so that I might have eternal life that I did nothing to deserve -- or more accurately, I did everything to not deserve!

"The Bible reveals the God of hesed, who has opened the door of his life to you and me. Though we are responsible for the death of his only Son and have, in effect, cursed him, he covered us with his body, his blood, and saved us long before we might have accepted him. We have no right to expect anything from him, the Holy One. Yet he has extended himself to us, has invited us to enter his world, has made our story a part of his story, has opened his life to the inevitable possibility of being hurt, disappointed, and wounded by you and me." (Chapter 1)

"The great surprise of the Hebrew Bible is not that God is awesome or holy. These characteristics we would expect from God. The great surprise is that he is kind, that he is a God of hesed. This is what fundamentally makes him unlike any other god, then or now." (Chapter 4)

I was excited to find how many beloved Bible verses contain the word hesed -- I had studied this word in the past, and knew some of the more common English translations (especially "steadfast love"), but because it is translated in different ways it can easily become, quite literally, lost in translation. Here are a few notable verses:

Micah 6:8
He has told you, O man, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love hesed,
and to walk humbly with your God?

Hosea 6:6
For I desire hesed and not sacrifice,
the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings.

(note the poetic form in Hosea 6:6, where the 2nd line rephrases the first -- which means that hesed is linked to the knowledge of God. He is hesed!)

Hosea 10:12
Sow for yourselves righteousness;
reap hesed;
break up your fallow ground,
for it is the time to seek the Lord,
that He may come and rain righteousness upon you.

Hesed is part of who God is, and His unaccountable expressions of love and mercy to us should prompt us to imitate Him. God's hesed toward us enables us to show hesed to one another. Loving the "unlovable" should be a distinguishing mark of God's people, because we realize that we were truly unlovable, yet loved by God.

I liked Card's summary from chapter 11: 

"In the Torah, we discovered the definitive experience of God's hesed: God telling us who he is. In the historical books we witnessed the heartbreak associated with the violation of the hope of hesed. In the Psalms we listened to the unique resonance of the hesed our hearts were created and tuned to sing to. In the Prophets we meet the One who is himself hesed (Jer 3:12). 

The Prophets provide a portrait of the One who relentlessly reaches out to his people, who sends prophets like Jeremiah who weep and warn and plead with the people for decades before finally allowing the consequences of their sin to come into effect."

While the New Testament was not written in Hebrew, hesed is far from absent. As Card notes in his conclusion, "In Jesus of Nazareth, the embodiment of hesed, God was perfectly just and perfectly merciful. Through Jesus he fulfilled the promise to not leave the guilty unpunished by placing that punishment on Jesus in an act of pure and perfect hesed. Jesus did justice by loving hesed. He gave himself so that we might be conquered by the kindness of God, a kindness that leads us to repentance, that draws us to the cross. That moment in time makes doubting the lovingkindness of God impossible... As Frederick Buechner says, instead of being too good to be true, it's 'too good not to be true.'"

If you couldn't already tell, I highly recommend Inexpressible*. I'd rank it with Gentle and Lowly as one of the books that has most influenced my understanding of who God is. It reminds me of Job's words in Job 42:5, "I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you." 

That is why I have the word hesed engraved on my necklace. While I hope and pray this baby will join us earthside this fall, our very own little "rainbow" after the darkest of storms, I will wear this necklace no matter what. I serve a faithful God Who always keeps His promises, Who has already done far more for me than I could ever ask or imagine, and Who never abandons me in the storms of life. 

Littlest, Kit

As a frugal person who prefers minimal interventions during pregnancy, I never would have imagined paying for an elective ultrasound. But with strict hospital visitor regulations, an utter lack of patience on my part, and the discovery that a blood gender test would actually cost more than the ultrasound -- well, for the first time in twelve pregnancies, we found ourselves at a private ultrasound studio so we could find out the gender of our rainbow baby as a family. Our only ultrasound thus far had been at eight weeks, during the "jelly bean" phase. In other words, not much to see other than the actual presence of a baby! But at 16 weeks, I knew there would be more shape and movement, and this would give our children the opportunity to see their little sibling in utero. Besides, it was hard to imagine waiting another twelve weeks to see the baby at our anatomy scan. Yes, yes, I know for most of human history ultrasounds haven't even been an option... It turned out to be a wonderful experience, and both the facility and the employees were lovely. Just a brief appointment, which suited my low-intervention preference, but we got to see our sweet baby moving around and -- most importantly -- found out the gender!

All of our children have been team girl, for the simple reason that Rosa is the only sibling that doesn't have a sister. But it should come as no surprise that our newest addition is another BOY! 

We celebrated with treats, and Little Man and Rosa helped me pick out a few things for the baby at a local consignment shop; they were so sweet as they oohed and aahed over all the little baby clothes. 

I'm always impatient to find out the gender of my babies, but with this pregnancy it's been elevated more than usual. Part of that may be that technology has advanced since Scout was born, and knowing that early blood tests are readily available makes it harder to wait. But I also think it's because I feel like I'd been waiting for a "gender reveal" not for the sixteen weeks of this pregnancy, but for one hundred seventy-four weeks -- that's how long it had been since we lost Baby J, just a few weeks before his anatomy scan. I know time is precious with each baby, that there's no guarantee of another week or another scan. And even though a stronger bond may ultimately make loss more heartbreaking, I'd rather take that risk than stay detached (though each pregnancy-after-loss mama is unique in their feelings about that). I'm so grateful for every day with this baby boy.

From left to right: hand + arm (upper left corner), profile, heartbeat

Of course, now my husband and I are faced with naming this baby! We have so many girl names that we both like, but both struggle to find mutually acceptable boy names. It's a dilemma I relish, though -- what a joy to have a little boy to name. Figuring out a blog non de plume was comparatively simple, to my surprise (it's often not). Foxes are one of my favorite animals, and fox babies are called "kits." Well, Kit also happens to be a nickname for Christopher, a name I've loved since childhood but my husband has vetoed. So here on the blog, this little one will be "Kit." 

Somehow the anatomy scan that seemed ages away is just around the corner, and I've started feeling the sweetest little movements over the past week. Little reminders that as much as this all seems like a dream, it is wonderfully, delightfully real. Praise God for His mercies!

PS -- Of course, there are knitting and sewing details to follow!

Faith, Hope, and Love

To create something for an unborn baby is an act of faith. I didn't fully realize that before miscarriage became an inescapable reality in my life. Every stitch is made in hope, and hope seems foolhardy when loss follows loss (after loss, after loss). 

In late August, I had a pre-op appointment for my exploratory surgery the following month. I'd been waiting for this surgery since the beginning of the year, and along with the changes I'd made to my diet and lifestyle, I hoped it might provide answers (and more importantly, solutions) for our recurrent miscarriages. It was my first time going to the big city alone, and I visited a lovely yarn shop after my appointment. My primary motive was to purchase yarn for a gift I was planning, but I also wanted to make a "faith purchase" -- a tangible expression of hope that I'd actually get and stay pregnant once again. 

I ended up purchasing a skein of Brooklyn Tweed Peerie Yarn in the warm, gender-neutral colorway "Klimt" -- not only is the merino wool sourced from the west (a bit of a souvenir of our time here), it's also heavenly soft and isn't scratchy in the slightest. Perfect for delicate baby skin. Oh, how the thought of soft baby skin makes my heart ache!

With several other projects underway, I didn't get to use my Peerie right away. In fact, I didn't start knitting until right after we got a positive pregnancy test a little over four months later. It was both harder and easier to start after that positive -- at least I didn't feel a fool for making something for a baby that might never exist, but I also feared that the little one who did exist might never get to wear the tiny garments I was knitting with such love. And that would be worse.

I wanted something with bobbles suited to a newborn's size (but most patterns had "too big" bobbles). I wanted a pixie style bonnet in fingering weight yarn (but most were for heavier yarns). I wanted booties like this marvelous gifted pair, which all of my children have worn (but when I tried modifying that pattern to a stockinette "bobble" style, it was a distinct failure). So I ended up creating my own patterns, something I've long wanted to do but have never had the courage or inspiration to try.

You can spot the ball of Peerie in the lower right corner...

I knitted away as I slowly recovered from an illness I feared might compromise this long-awaited pregnancy. Hoping, praying, waiting. Scout joined me one afternoon, falling fast asleep atop his minute sibling while I stitched tiny bobbles. As I tentatively knit together tiny garments, God was knitting together something far more precious inside of me.

Over the coming weeks, all the news was good. It seemed miraculous after so much loss. One by one, we passed the gestation dates of previous losses. We neared the time when we were ready to make an "official" announcement, which meant it was time for a new faith project.

Using cotton rope and Drops Paris cotton yarn, I set to work making a rainbow for what I hoped -- hope! -- will be my "rainbow baby" six times over. This was a relatively quick project (though wrapping all that yarn was a bit tedious), and such a joy to create. 

Ultimately, my hope lies in the redemptive work of Jesus Christ, not in the outcome of this pregnancy.  But as week follows week, I joyfully wonder if we might actually get to meet this precious baby. Not my will, but Yours, I tell Him often. My children are quick to remind me that nothing is impossible with God (though it's usually when I make a perfectly sensible statement like, "the baby can't possibly weigh 40 pounds at birth" -- it was Scout who suggested that palatable "possibility"). Getting this far feels like an achievement, but it's hardly the finish line. 

In the meantime, a tiny bonnet, pair of booties, and a fiber rainbow are the evidence of the faith, hope, and love that have surrounded this tiny new life ever since we saw that second line on a home pregnancy test. His mercies are new every morning, and great is His faithfulness.

 

Praise in the Middle

Hello, friends! I know I've been absent for a while -- even though I've never been a particularly faithful blogger, five months of silence is rare for me. But to be honest, I've been avoiding this space for a while. It's been another painful season of grief, and I've been struggling too much mentally and emotionally to be present here. But there has been joy and beauty and creativity in the midst of the pain (as there always is), and I want to share that, too. So I'll divide my thoughts on the past five months into two posts -- this one, sharing the grief, and another post (or two, or three) sharing the bits of loveliness I've clung to along the way. 

************************

Over the past few years, I've noticed that the Holy Spirit will periodically show me a word -- suddenly, I start to notice that word everywhere in the Bible, and it deepens my study and appreciation of the Bible as I trace the threads of His grace woven throughout Scripture. After about a year, another word will come to my attention. Just after we'd lost Baby L in February 2020, the Holy Spirit led me to a new word: Wait.

It was not the word I wanted. After four miscarriages in fourteen months, the last thing I wanted to hear was "wait!" Hadn't I endured loss after loss, and wasn't it high time for my trek through the valley of the shadow of death to come to an end? "Wait," of course, is not strictly about time -- as I'm still learning, waiting on the Lord is more about a posture of submission and trust than about ticking days off a calendar. But it was still hard to accept. The Spirit kept showing me that word, though, and I couldn't ignore it. I made a bookmark, leaving the back blank so I'd have plenty of room to record all of the verses I found. I didn't even consult a concordance; I wanted to discover them on my own, one by one. In the past year, I've finished a whole column of Scripture references on my bookmark, and started a second column. As I suspected, God has plenty to say about waiting.

In the months following our fifth miscarriage, I struggled with grief for the past and uncertainty for the future. So many questions, and so few answers -- testing proved a dead end, and I still couldn't find answers to hormonal issue that I'd been asking doctors about for year. I was convinced that if I could just get pregnant again, it would be different this time -- perhaps our last loss had been due to my contracting pneumonia at 9 weeks, and that wasn't likely to happen twice. 

My heart ached for my lost loves and longed for a rainbow baby to bring this stormy season to a close. No baby could replace the little ones I'd lost, but there is a joy unique to carrying and birthing a child that would at least soothe the pain of the past. I didn't want my last memories of pregnancy and birth to be clouded by grief and trauma. Months passed, and so did the painful milestones. Baby J's 1st heaven birthday. Baby T's 6th heaven birthday. Baby N's and Baby L's due dates. By November, my long-standing hormone issues had not improved, and we concluded it was time to stop trying until we had pursued more medical answers. That very day, I found out that I was pregnant for the tenth time. But the surprising discovery brought little joy, because nothing about this pregnancy was "right." Within a few days my faint test line had faded altogether, and Baby A was gone -- due exactly a year to the day after baby N. I knitted a sixth tiny stocking for our Christmas tree and hated every minute of it. The last one, I thought. I can't do this again.

By January, I got the news that surgery was available -- but I'd found out a few days before that I was pregnant yet again, even though we'd stopped trying. Usually a positive pregnancy test brings me so much joy, but I knew it was probably only a matter of time before I lost this baby, too. The circumstances were almost identical to our loss in November, which had been so bizarre that I never would have thought it could happen twice. Repeated blood draws showed my hormone levels were climbing much too slowly. At six weeks I saw our baby's heartbeat flickering on the ultrasound screen. By seven weeks, the ultrasound was silent. My little one's heart only beat 500,000 times, give or take. The average human life has 3,000,000,000 heartbeats. It was now mid-February, almost a year to the day since we'd lost Baby L. I felt like I was reliving the trauma I'd experienced a year before, losing two babies within 3 months of each other. Except now I had two more babies to grieve. My oldest son observed that more of our family is dead than alive; if my heart could have broken any more, it would have. I have another stocking to knit before Christmas. 

Seven babies lost. Six unexplained miscarriages in twenty-six months. I'm left here, wondering what happened. My pregnancy with Scout seemed to be my healthiest so far -- yet 17 months later, I lost Baby J at 14-15 weeks and haven't been able to maintain a pregnancy since. Each loss was unique enough that there was reason to hope the next pregnancy would succeed, especially in the absence of any negative diagnosis. It was hard to imagine how my health could have deteriorated so much in the 13 months between Scout's birth and my next pregnancy, especially when I felt healthy and energetic. 

I feel like I've lost the past two years of my life in an endless cycle of grief and loss; I look at my children and can't comprehend how they've grown so much. It's not that I don't have "enough" children -- all four of my living children are undeserved blessings! I've never put a number on how many children I "wanted," content to leave that detail to the Lord. We weren't trying when Baby J came along, and he seemed like such a gift. He would have been 22 months younger than Scout, my favorite age gap so far. I was delighted to welcome a fifth child to our family! Now I can't look at family pictures from the few months I was pregnant with him without pain, because it reminds me of how happy I was then. He would have turned two this May.

There are so many "would-have-been's;" even when the intensity of grief fades, every day of my earthly life will be spent without the babies I still love so dearly. When I started my search for the word "wait" last year, little did I realize that a year later I'd still be waiting, but with even greater grief.  I wasn't naïve enough to assume I could walk through life without any grief, or even without a miscarriage or two -- but I never thought I'd be here. 

Praise in the Middle

There's a theme I've noticed in Scripture, when God's people are in desperate circumstances. I call it "praise in the middle." We can read these familiar accounts from the comfort of an armchair, confident of the outcome because we've read the stories before. But what about the people living the stories? They had no guarantee of how their story would end, and yet they still offered up praise in faith. Think of Jonah, who prays from the belly of a fish -- sure, he's been rescued from drowning, but he is still INSIDE A FISH. Hardly the best of circumstances. Yet he prays:

"When my life was fainting away,
I remembered the Lord,
and my prayer came to You,
into Your holy temple.
Those who pay regard to vain idols
forsake their hope of steadfast love.
But I with the voice of thanksgiving
will sacrifice to You;
what I have vowed I will pay.
Salvation belongs to the Lord!”

Jonah 2:7-9

Only after this prayer is he returned safely to dry land.

Think of Daniel, about to die because the court magicians failed to divine the king's dream. Daniel asks God for help, and he receives a vision of the dream and its interpretation. Before he goes to Nebuchadnezzar, he praises God:

“Blessed be the name of God forever and ever,
to Whom belong wisdom and might.
He changes times and seasons;
He removes kings and sets up kings;
He gives wisdom to the wise
and knowledge to those who have understanding;
He reveals deep and hidden things;
He knows what is in the darkness,
and the light dwells with Him.
To you, O God of my fathers,
I give thanks and praise,
for You have given me wisdom and might,
and have now made known to me what we asked of You,
for You have made known to us the king's matter.”

Daniel 2:20-23

Technically, Daniel can't be "certain" the vision he received is accurate until the king confirms it -- but he doesn't wait for confirmation to humbly give the glory to God. 

Surrendering my story to the Lord has been an agonizing struggle over the past two years -- of course, it's not as if I had control over it in the first place. But I had an idea of how it should "go," and reality has not matched up with that idea. My first thought when we lost baby T seven years ago was "the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." But with every succeeding loss, it becomes harder to say those words. My broken heart has so many questions. Why not just infertility rather than recurrent pregnancy loss -- why give us babies just to take them away? Most women never have a miscarriage -- why have I had seven? Will we ever have another living child? Every day is a battle of faith. Sometimes I feel ready for that battle, but mostly I feel weary. Because I fought the same battle yesterday, and the day before that.

And yet --

God is faithful, His love is steadfast. He holds onto me when I have no strength to hold onto Him. He sympathizes with my weakness, He comforts me in my affliction. He does all things well. 

This is my praise in the middle. 

I've shared other thoughts and Scriptures when I've posted about our other losses, so I'll put them here:

• Baby T
• Baby J
• Baby F
• Baby N
• Baby L

I recently came across Praise You in This Storm by Casting Crowns, and it expressed so much of what I've been feeling that I thought I'd share it here:

I was sure by now
God, You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say, "Amen" and it's still rainin.'

Well, as the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I'll raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm

I remember when
I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry to You
And raised me up again
But my strength is almost gone
How can I carry on
If I can't find You?

I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth
I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth

And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
Every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm
And though my heart is torn 
I'll praise You in this storm 

Sorrows Like Sea Billows

Six years ago, I shared about my first miscarriage in the hopes that it might help some other woman walking the same valley of grief. Five years later we lost a son, and we lost two more babies in June and November of 2019. I shared about each loss because it would have seemed that not sharing would somehow mean that they were somehow less important. By sharing, I've connected with other grieving mamas, and it has given me the opportunity to pray, encourage, and be encouraged. But as motherhood and homeschooling and life have limited the time I spend here, I feel my blog has morphed into a place where I share a project now and then, punctuated (too frequently) with yet another announcement of yet another loss.

As you may have guessed, this is yet another announcement of yet another loss.

We were blessed with another pregnancy just a month after our loss in November. This baby's due date was Rainbow Baby Day, just a few days before my own birthday. I'd finally been prescribed progesterone, and we saw our little one alive and well at 9 weeks. But our 13 week ultrasound was the same nightmare that we've lived on repeat for over a year -- no heartbeat on the doppler, no heartbeat on the ultrasound.

Our experience of loss has made me treasure my living littles all the more. I feel a bit guilty sometimes, longing for more children while some women are dealing with infertility or pregnancy loss without knowing if they'll ever cradle a living child in their arms. But already having children doesn't make losing a baby easier. I can (and do) acknowledge how blessed we are, while still aching for the babies we've lost. Gratitude and grief can coexist.

A blessing in the midst of the heartache was that our son was born at home a few days after I stopped progesterone, avoiding the need for hard decisions about medical interventions. I've always wished for a home birth, and it struck me recently that I've had three -- but all to babies who had already died in my womb. I hoped for a large family, and I am the mother of nine at the age of 31 -- but five of my precious babies will never call me "Mama." Sometimes, getting what we want doesn't look the way we expected.

That shouldn't come as a surprise, because Romans 8:22-23 tells us that "We know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies." Living in a fallen world involves heartache, because sin and death have wreaked havoc on a planet that God created perfect and whole. The Bible teems with assurances of restoration (Acts 3:20, for example), promising a day when God will make all things new (Revelation 21).  Recurrent miscarriage has given me a deeper understanding of what it means to groan inwardly and wait eagerly. The strains of "This Will End" by The Oh Hellos echo through my mind sometimes (even though it's not a song about loss):

No, I am not afraid to die.

It's every breath that comes before.

Heartache I've heard is part of life.

And I have broken more and more.

Right now, I struggle to envision healing. Four of our children have died in the past 15 months, and I wonder how my heart can ever be made whole again. As loss follows loss, the grieving process starts afresh before I've even "finished" grieving our last baby. At some point this valley will end, this storm will be over -- but there's no knowing when, or what that "end" will look like. Even if modern medicine can find a solution to prevent further loss, on this side of eternity there will always be scars. I'm so grateful for the eternal weight of glory that I've been promised in Christ, because one day I'll be able to leave these scars behind forever.

If you've experienced pregnancy loss, you may have felt more/less grief than I've described -- every situation and person is different, and I am not suggesting that my experience is the norm, or the "right" way to feel following loss. Also, if you've had a miscarriage, please don't let stories of recurrent loss cause you anxiety; it is most certainly not the norm. Just putting that out there...

I've shared the song "Weep With Me" by Rend Collective before, but I thought I'd include the lyrics here -- it's a modern lament in the age-old tradition of David and the psalmists, a lament that aches deeply and hopes deeply, too. It captures the essence of grief, but I think it applies to so many situations. I hope it blesses you, no matter what burden you're bearing today:

Weep with me
Lord will You weep with me?
I don't need answers, all I need
Is to know that You care for me
Hear my plea
Are You even listening?
Lord I will wrestle with Your heart
But I won't let You go

You know I believe
Help my unbelief

Yet I will praise You
Yet I will sing of Your name
Here in the shadows
Here I will offer my praise
What's true in the light
Is still true in the dark
You're good and You're kind
And You care for this heart
Lord I believe
You weep with me

Part the seas
Lord make a way for me
Here in the midst of my lament
I have faith, yes I still believe
That You love me
Your plans are to prosper me
You're working everything for good
Even when I can't see

You know I believe
Help my unbelief

Yet I will praise You
Yet I will sing of Your name
Here in the shadows
Here I will offer my praise
What's true in the light
Is still true in the dark
You're good and You're kind
And You care for this heart
Lord I believe
You weep with me

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

We lost another baby last week.

One day, we were finding out that our rainbow baby was on the way and sending pictures to family of our littles holding a colorful spectrum of balloons. The very next day, it was clear that our baby was already gone. Our third loss in a year; our fourth in six years (1 2 3). We've never lost a baby so early, and it's left us with more questions than answers. There are still half-deflated balloons floating through my house, painful reminders of our brief moment of joyful expectation. Helium balloons are such a rarity in our household that I couldn't bear to take them away from my eager children, and it's not as though my grief would disappear if they did. We now have two "due dates" in 2020, and neither of them will bring the rainbow babies we'd prayed for and rejoiced over.

I want to understand God's plan through this season of loss. But God doesn't promise to explain His ways. He has promised that He has everything in hand, and that all things work for good for His people.

I want to believe that we'll have another healthy baby. But God hasn't promised me that every earthly desire will be granted, even if it's a "good" desire. He has promised that He has a specific plan for my life, and He will richly provide for every true need.

I want the hurt to stop. But God doesn't promise us a pain-free life on this earth -- on the contrary, He tells us to expect and even embrace suffering. In fact, my suffering isn't "all about me." He has promised that suffering is not wasted, that He will use my suffering to encourage others, and that one day all pain will cease. I won't grieve for eternity.


The pain of losing half of my children to miscarriage has driven me to Jesus in ways I never could have understood when life was "easy," and I know that He holds me close as I wrestle with grief and surrender. As Thomas Case wrote, "In the Word we do but hear of God—in affliction we see Him."

I think of the Old Testament saints, who "all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland...But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared for them a city." (Heb. 11:13-14, 16) These believers recognized that there was more to look forward to than comfort and happiness in this life. They may have stumbled along the way, but by God's grace they fixed their eyes on the goal and finished the race set before them (Heb. 12:1-2).

One day, grief will give way to glory. For now, it's a day by day (and even moment by moment) challenge to focus on that finish line, looking to a Savior who endured more than I can imagine to save me from the fate I deserved. By His grace we mourn, and by His grace we carry on.

At the End of the Rainbow

Those of you who follow me on Instagram may already be aware that our family suffered another loss a few weeks ago. Ten weeks into my seventh pregnancy -- our "rainbow" baby after losing a son at 16 weeks back in December -- I was diagnosed with blighted ovum. What followed was a bit frightening, as I started losing a lot of blood very rapidly (by God's grace I was already at the ER; if I'd been at home we probably would have needed an ambulance, or I might not even be writing this post). My hemoglobin dropped from 14 to 7 in a few hours, and my blood pressure plummeted. I have honestly never felt so ill before, and I was given two units of blood before an emergency D&C. There is exactly one medical facility in our rural area, so there is not much choice for health care here. But the care I received was superb, and each nurse and doctor was kind and helpful. I am so grateful for that!

In spite of the pain and the confusion, one thing has been very clear to me -- God has sustained us through this difficult season. He does not ask us to walk the valley of the shadow of death alone. He is the Giver of all good gifts (James 1:17), the Binder of wounds (Psalm 147:3), the Sufficient One (2 Corinthians 12:9). He has surrounded us with friends, both local and distant, who have mourned with us and comforted us.

I'll be honest, it has been very difficult for me to come to terms with how my plan differs from God's plan. I think I'd unconsciously categorized my first two miscarriages as "off-script," even though I fully acknowledged them to be part of God's sovereign plan. But this third loss has led me to peel back layers of assumptions and expectations that I had built up over the years. I am leaning into God, hard, and asking Him to reshape my desires to fit His will (instead of trying to wrestle His will into my ideas of "good," which is both futile and unhealthy). Sometimes I wish I could go back to when babies seemed easy, when I trusted my body to nurture the lives God placed there, and when there were no clouds of grief to dim the horizon of our future. A little bit of heaven on earth, you know? Yet as wonderful as that idyllic picture sounds to my scarred heart, I know that would not be best. Of course I want the easy way, the way that doesn't involve pain or loss or heartache. But God is often closest to us in our grief, and He uses trials to shape us more to His image. It's part of the "beauty in the curse" -- pain and death are the result of sin, and yet God can use them for good in our lives. He gently picks up our broken pieces, and fashions us anew.

God only breaks us to remake us.


I hope one day we'll be blessed with another baby, but that is not my deepest hope. My true hope is in Jesus Christ, the sinless One who suffered and died and rose again so that death would not have the last say. He is the only true hope -- and I pray that He is your hope, too!

"I remember the days of old; I meditate on all that You have done;
I ponder the work of Your hands.
I stretch out my hands to You; my soul thirsts for You like a parched land. Selah

Answer me quickly, O Lord! My spirit fails!
Hide not Your face from me, lest I be like those who go down to the pit.
Let me hear in the morning of Your steadfast love, for in You I trust.
Make me know the way I should go, for to You I lift up my soul."

Psalm 143:5-8

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.

Emptiness, Filled

I don't exactly know how to write this post. I sit here, wondering what to say. Wondering if I really want to say anything at all. But I have been blessed by other women who have shared, and the gratitude I feel for their willingness leads me to share, too. I hope that somehow, some way, what I write may help some other woman who finds herself empty.

Because, you see, a few weeks ago we lost our baby girl fourteen weeks into my third pregnancy. And now my womb is empty. Painfully, tragically, numbingly empty.

Please note -- while I feel I've been discreet, you may not want to read this if you find the topic of miscarriage particularly disturbing or painful.

I have loved being pregnant ever since we found out our first baby was on the way. I love the expectancy, I love the baby bump, and most of all I love knowing that God has created a tiny life within me that I have the privilege of bringing into the world. I know some women with difficult pregnancies are just eager to get past the gestation phase, but to me, pregnancy is a marvelous, wondrous season of life (though I'm certainly excited and even relieved when the time comes for the baby to be born). So when we discovered in October that our third baby was on the way, I was elated. I'd recently found myself craving a newborn, especially as my little Rosa was precipitously close to graduating from "baby" to "toddler."

The weeks passed uneventfully, with my typical nausea and a ten-week ultrasound that showed a strong heartbeat and a squirmy little person within. I started drafting a post for my blog about how my winter wardrobe plans had been (happily) upended. The week before Christmas, at 12 1/2 weeks, my nausea eased. I predicted that we'd have a boy, since I was sick with Little Man for about 13 weeks, while my sickness with Rosa lasted 20 weeks.

Then the day after Christmas, I started spotting lightly. I'd actually spotted with both of my previous pregnancies, so I tried not to worry. By Saturday night I was nervous enough to visit the ER. And there on the ultrasound was our baby -- no squirming, no heartbeat. We left with a diagnosis of an incomplete miscarriage and instructions to schedule an appointment with my OB on Monday. Just like that, we wer plunged headlong into a grief we'd never experienced before.

Providentially, we never had to make some of the difficult medical decisions that can accompany miscarriage. Our baby was born naturally in the small hours of Monday morning. So tiny. So perfect. Ten little fingers and ten little toes. A minute person, with a soul and an identity. Though it was hardly the home birth I'd contemplated in the past, I am endlessly grateful for the privacy we had to grieve over our precious baby. But even though the possibility of medical intervention was now behind us, there was a new reality to face.

Emptiness.

The days that followed were not devoid of happiness -- largely due to our children's antics -- but there were so many fresh reminders of our loss. Repacking the maternity clothes I'd only recently pulled out. Seeing the few ultrasound pictures we had of our wee one pinned up on the fridge. Hearing our son pray that "Mama's baby be safe and healthy." Releasing our baby to the funeral home. And then, the ultrasound to check for any problematic remainders that might need to be removed. There was nothing there. Nothing, where just a few short weeks ago there had been life and hope and potential.

Miscarriage has always been one of my greatest fears. Now that it has been realized, I know that in some ways it is far worse than I could have imagined, and in some ways it's not. I could never have anticipated the pain of losing a child, even one so tiny. But I could also never have anticipated the way God has enfolded me in His grace and love. At the moment we heard the worst news we'd ever received, the only words that ran through my mind were "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." (Job 1:21b ESV) Those words have continued to echo through my mind as I've wept and grieved and wept some more.

All of this emotional pain, this physical emptiness -- it's far more than I could bear in my own strength. But it is not too much for Christ, Who strengthens me. His love has steered me away from spiritual emptiness, which is a diagnosis far worse than the one we received. Neither false feelings of guilt nor bitterness toward God have plagued my soul. Even when the heartbreak overwhelms me, I know that He does all things well, and somehow this is part of His perfect plan. I do not understand, but I trust.

I fully expected to be engulfed by grief. What I did not expect was that gratitude would be just as overpowering. God has filled me, in the midst of emptiness. In spite of the pain, I cannot stop counting the blessings that come pouring down like rain.  Blessings like my amazing husband, who has ministered to me lovingly and untiringly. Or my two rambunctious little ones -- my womb may be empty, but my arms are full. Blessings like not needing medical intervention, having a doctor who shares our faith, feeling the love of our dear extended family, and even being blessed with our sweet baby girl in the first place. And oh, how grateful I am that while our baby probably passed away between 12 and 13 weeks, we were left in blissful ignorance through Christmas and our son's belated birthday party. Blessing after blessing comes to my mind, and while I know God's grace would have sustained us just as lovingly if He had not granted us these things, I am grateful for what He has given.

Perhaps one of the keenest agonies of miscarriage is knowing what we're missing. We'll never get to cuddle her, or know what color her hair and eyes would have been. We'll never hear her first word or see her first steps. We'll never see her walk down the aisle on her wedding day. At least we had the blessing of finding out her gender, giving her a name, and seeing her tiny, perfect form.

The recovery process seemed to begin swiftly, which almost made me upset with my body for "forgetting" so quickly. The little baby bump that I'd been so excited to detect gradually disappeared. I had my pre-pregnancy body "back," but I didn't want it back. I wanted the bloom of expectant motherhood, complete with stretched skin and aching hips, far more than I wanted a flat stomach. And yet, I know that even this is a blessing, because a complicated or painful recovery wouldn't bring my baby back, and could even delay the arrival of future children.

I can't help hoping that another baby will be on the way as soon as my body has healed. Not because I want to forget, or because I harbor vain hopes that a new baby will somehow replace the one we've lost. But losing a child does not mean that I don't long to bring more life into the world. While a new baby will not heal the hurt and grief, he or she would fill the physical emptiness of my womb. Fortunately, there is no reason to think that miscarriage will be a recurring problem, or that we'll have difficulty conceiving again. But all of that is in God's hands. While I hope my body will nurture life again, I don't know His perfect plans and purposes. I hope and pray that I will submit cheerfully to whatever He has in store. For now, my heart feels raw every time I see a pregnant woman or a tiny baby. As happy as I am for those families, something akin to jealousy with a strong dose of regret washes over me at every reminder of what I thought would be. I try to remind myself that my Heavenly Father also lost a Child -- a Child He loved with a love far more perfect than my human heart could ever conjure.

"If God is for us, who can be against us? He Who did not spare His own Son, but gave Him up for usall, how will He not also with Him graciously give us all things?" -- Romans 8:31b-32

My husband and I spread our baby's ashes at a quiet beach on our fourth wedding anniversary. How I wish I had had more time with my little girl! Sometimes the tears start to flow just because I miss her so dearly. She brought such joy to our lives, even in the short time she visited this earth. The kind of joy that both sweetens and intensifies the pain we feel at her loss. It is my fervent hope and prayer that her fleeting life will glorify God in some way -- and I know it will, because He works all things for His glory and our good. Even when it doesn't feel "good" at all.

I crave your prayers as we start down this path that so many other families have walked before us. It's a path I'd hoped we'd never have to walk, but I know it's the path God has for us, and He'll be beside us every step of the way.

"My frame was not hidden from You,

When I was made in secret,

And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;

Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;

And in Your book were all written

The days that were ordained for me,

When as yet there was not one of them."

~ Psalm 139:15-16 ~