Even here.

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it break.”
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Aaron and I took the entire month of December off of social media. The original purpose was a challenge from our pastor during Advent: turn down the noise and recapture the wonder of the season. But knowing our hope for another baby, it felt like something entirely different for me — it felt like quiet preparation and silent reflection. It felt like taking a step back to steep in gratitude once more before diving into something entirely new.

One month doesn’t seem like that much time. And yet it’s enough time to watch your grandma slip into eternity. It’s enough time to celebrate the hope of Christmas that we all so desperately needed this year. It’s enough time to wave goodbye to one year and usher in a brand new one. And it’s just enough time to find out you’re pregnant… and then, one morning, find that you aren’t anymore.

I figured I was probably pregnant based on how I had felt in the previous couple of weeks but I tried not to think too much about it. I didn’t want to be overconfident and then be let down. I took a test on Christmas Eve that initially showed up negative. I told Aaron about it and said, “I think it’s wrong.” And sure enough, over the next couple of hours, a faint second line started to appear. Since it took so long to appear, we decided to take another test the next morning. Christmas day. What a gift it would be to find out about our baby on Christmas! How fun!

So I took another test and we wrapped it up and it was our last gift to open that morning. And we opened it to see the one word that instantly instills massive hope with a twinge of healthy fear. Pregnant.

When we found out I was pregnant with Nixon, I tried not to get my hopes up. Pregnancy after loss just brings about a different kind of anxiety. But this time – pregnancy after the birth of your son – well, it felt safe to be excited. It didn’t feel like needlessly getting our hopes up. It felt like answered prayer and immediate joy. I cried tears of excitement this time. We told Nixon all about how he would be a big brother. We excitedly shared our news that evening at my family’s Christmas gathering.

But I was pregnant only long enough to call my doctor to make those initial appointments. I was pregnant just long enough to dream about whether Nixon would have a brother or a sister. I was pregnant long enough to make a million plans in this mama heart of mine. And then in a moment, just days after we found out, I knew it was over again.

My doctor had me come in for labs just to be sure, but I already knew. I knew what my body was doing. It had done this before. We’ve done this before, which is why it seemed so impossible now. My body was supposed to know how to do this already — how to hold on to a baby it was busy creating without my knowledge. I was supposed to be (I thought) past this hurdle. I know a lot of women who have had one miscarriage. But two or more? Well, our club is smaller.

I wasn’t quite as far along this time. Many women might not even know they were pregnant. And part of me wishes I would have never known. But I do know. I know because that one word showed up on that stupid little stick. I know because the second line showed up. I know because my doctor called and told me that while my numbers were consistent with a miscarriage (meaning lower than they should have been), I still had the numbers — the numbers that tell you another life was growing in your body. The numbers that tell you a human being was being formed in your body and now suddenly it wasn’t anymore.  

So here I am, deep in this grief I never wanted to experience again. Here I am with the same questions – why and now what? Here I am telling you about it so that you might not feel alone if this is your story as well. I’m here too. Wondering. Sad. Fighting off lies and clinging to shreds of hope. I find myself just wishing to be pregnant again — that there was somehow, some way losing the baby could be untrue. That I would wake up and find that the loss wasn’t real. I know I won’t feel this way forever — I know it will get better. But right now, right here, I’m in the grimy thick of emotions and hormones.

When my grandma died, I had a hard time with it. I still am to be honest. I still think about it and cannot believe she died — I tell Aaron as much every other day. I can’t believe she’s not here on earth anymore —that she’s not just down the road at her apartment, sitting in her blue recliner. But when she died, I heard a song on the radio and sent it to my family group text. I don’t know if you tie music so closely to moments like I do, but there are songs that have defined different periods of my life. There are certain songs I could hear and be transported back to an exact moment in time. The one I heard on the radio is called, “Hallelujah Even Here” by Lydia Laird. It felt like an anthem we could sing in the midst of loss. It felt like something to hold on to in those days. And at the time I had no idea I was about to experience loss on top of loss. In a year that felt like so much was already taken — I had no idea I still had more to lose.

I have put that song on blast in my ears every day since our baby left me. I have to sing it at the top of my lungs so that maybe the truth of it will osmosis into my bones and I’ll feel better somehow —that the sentiment will wrap me up and hold me close when I really don’t feel like it is well with my soul like she sings. I have to remind my heart of the truth every day so that I don’t sink to despair.

One thing I don’t remember feeling last time was wanting proof that it happened. I want some kind of proof to hold on to that this wasn’t just a dream – that this baby was real, that two weeks ago, I really was pregnant. Last time we had a doctor’s appointment and we bought a onesie and we had a few weeks with our baby. This time it happened too fast. Last time I hung on to my doctor’s notes that said the reason for my appointment was “loss of pregnancy” just so I could hold on to something. This time I don’t have anything. There are no markers on a woman to show just how many children she’s carried in her body — and how many she now carries in her heart.

But I’ll know. I’ll know in my heart and my mind. I’ll know in my soul that I have had three babies in my body. And God knows. I don’t know what he is doing here in this part of my story, but he knows I am walking this road again. It feels unfair and ridiculous, to be honest. I feel embarrassed and angry. I feel sad. But I know that this part of my story will be used just as each part always is – to grow me, to mold my heart, to fill me with compassion and empathy. To help me become who he wants me to be. He wastes not a single moment of our lives here if we’re willing to join in what he’s accomplishing. So I’ve asked and prayed that he use this too, in my life and in the lives of whoever needs to hear that they are not alone in this acute kind of grief — in the astonishing and bewildering hurt of a shattered dream.

In September I wrote about resting even in the storms because we know who holds our hearts. How often I come to you here with lessons I think I’ve already learned and then God turns around and walks me right back through them again. In Bible Study Fellowship, the weekly group I am part of, we are studying Genesis and the story we talked about just this week was Genesis 20 where Abraham and Sarah are back at the same place they were a few chapters before. They’re learning the same lesson again. And here I am rereading that post I wrote because it seems I need to know again. That post is for me now. To know that even when it feels bumpy —even through the choppy water and roar of the engine – even here, God is the strength of my heart. He is holding me up and pulling me in close. Even when it doesn’t feel like it – because to be honest, it doesn’t really feel like it. I don’t have a warm, fuzzy, oh-wow-God-is-so-near kind of feeling. I don’t see him. But I trust him. And that is what will propel me forward to sing ever louder, “Hallelujah even here.” Even here when I am devastated. Even here when I don’t know what’s next. He is worthy. Even here.  

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A friend texted me the very week I miscarried (unbeknownst to her) to ask about resources I had from the first time I miscarried. She wondered if I had anything to share that might be helpful for those experiencing this kind of loss. So I’m sharing here in case they might be helpful to you as well.

The Other Side of Grief with Angie Smith — on the Made for This podcast

Trusting God with Our Children: An Interview on Faithful Motherhood with Nancy Guthrie — on the Risen Motherhood podcast

Infertility, Miscarriage and Motherhood with Courtney Reissig — on the Risen Motherhood podcast

Rich and Dawnchere Wilkerson — Our Infertility Story

It’s Not Supposed to Be This Way by Lysa Terkeurst

Also, I put together this playlist that I’ve been listening to the last couple of weeks. Maybe music helps heal your heart and hold fast to hope the way it does mine.