Our Song
TW: PREGNANCY LOSS
I share with the awareness that my default impulse is bitterness and self-pity. So writing this was solely a move of God; the Spirit nudging me into worship. There is nothing good in me. There is only our kind Father, on His throne, making all things new. I hope this brings comfort to someone else out there… even if it’s just one someone.
|| April 13, 2024 ||
Our baby died today.
I think I’m finally making that connection.
I hadn’t strung the words together in a row like that until now.
We just dealt with the blood.
Then we dealt with the ultrasound.
We ran labs and sat in rooms and waited for calls as doctors made conclusions.
We heard words like “not a viable pregnancy” and “this will help dissolve the cells.”
We did the next right thing over and over, and now it is done. It’s done, and she’s gone, and as I drive home from the hospital, I say the words out loud for the first time: our baby died today.
And the pain of that truth takes my breath away.
What happens to these little lives? These blueberry-sized human beings, lovingly woven together by the hands of our Almighty God? Even if I knew all the answers, the truth remains that she’s not in my body or in my arms or in our home. And the pain of it takes my breath away.
What’s strangely beautiful, though, is that I never felt alone today. I definitely had people around me and texting me and praying for me. I had friends and family arranging meals and childcare.
But deep in my spirit, I quietly felt the God of the Universe by my side. He didn’t make a big fuss or speak audibly. But He was there. In the middle of an objectively lonely loss, Immanuel—God With Us—held me fast and never let go.
The beauty of that truth… well, it takes my breath away.
As I drive home, the Spirit speaks this refrain over my soul again and again:
Our baby died today, and God is the Giver of life.
Our baby died today, and the Giver is good.
Our baby died today, and the grief of it is heavy and dark.
Our baby died today, and “the darkness is not dark to Him. The night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to Him” (Psalm 139:12).
Our baby died today, and I serve a God who wholly welcomes the tension of tears and trust, of hurt and hope, of standstill grief and shaky, faith-filled steps forward.
Our baby died today, and somehow, it is well.
Because, somehow, no matter what may lie ahead or what we’ve left behind, He will always reign above it all.
I rejoice today, in the middle of the story, because I know this isn’t the end. The day is coming when I’ll get to hug my girl. “When death is just a memory and tears are no more,” I’ll hold my fourth baby in my arms. I rejoice now knowing I’ll rejoice then too.
And to hold my heart accountable, I confess—I’m not sure I believe these words I’m writing. I hope I do, but it could very well be wishful thinking or just the right thing to say. But even if I don’t believe them a minute from now or a month from now or ten years from now, Immanuel will still be right here, by my side. He will hold me fast. He will grieve with me and laugh with me and guide me one step at a time into the scary, impossible future. He will never let me go.
And maybe that’s enough.
Lord, let that be enough.
———
As I drive home from the hospital, I’m listening to Gratitude by Brandon Lake and wondering if we should name the baby—if that makes sense for us in our situation. But as I listen to lyrics, I think, “Maybe we’ll just refer to her as ‘our song,’” because our song had to end, but He never will.
I’ll never forget the words to our song, little girl. Whenever I sing, I’ll sing with you in my heart, whether on this side of Heaven or the next.
