Category Archives: Miscarriage

After Quinn

Two times I have laid on that table, looked up that screen, and wept because my child was still. Two times the Doppler was silent. Two times the Lord shattered my heart.

I could not will the tears to stop falling the first time. I clung to Christ, His Word, His promises and His hope. I grieved heavily but trusted Him fully.

I could not will the tears to come the second time. I was crushed. Felt forsaken. Confused. Hurt. I was doubtful of all those things I knew about Him in my head. Numb. For four weeks that baby stayed with me. I carried death. I was physically tormented for days upon days as my body recognized death and rid itself of it.

It wasn’t until I returned into the world, after my baby was gone and the physical healing had begun, that I was hit with grief.

Trapped in the hallway, walking in front of the one who still carries her baby. She tells a man she’s tired. I want to scream. I want to lash out at her and at the One who took away. I want to fall flat and weep all those tears that I should have been shedding for weeks.

But I keep walking. Tears surface and I’m thankful to finally feel sadness. Someone hugs me and I struggle to stay composed.

Why on earth would I feel like I need to stay composed? My baby died. I saw him still, I felt pain delivering him, I’ve been isolated and lonely and disconnected. My own family’s barely reached out, the knocks on the door have been few, and I’m a mess. Why shouldn’t I wail right there?

But I don’t. I don’t.

I walk upstairs. Take my seat next to the teenagers. Smile as I’m expected to. But every time he says the word “death” in his message I can barely stand it. Because I know it intimately.

That night I lay in bed and silently soak the sheet with tears. He lays a hand on me to test my breathing and knows I’m still awake.

So he reads.

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.”

I can’t stand it. Because I know He has all power and He did this.

“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed;”


“Perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed;”

Why not? I feel despair and forsaken, though I know in my head I’m not. How am I not destroyed by this?

“Always carrying in the body the death of Jesus. . .”

I know what it is to carry death.

“So that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.”

So the death in me is to work life in you.

Cruel. It feels so cruel right now.

But I know it’s truth. I know it’s good. I know that one day I will get to that point where I can do more than write it. I will speak it again.




I’m thankful there is a story beyond my own. The hard in this life would be too hard unless He was bigger than my story.

I’m thankful He’s writing it. Because in spite of he parts I would write differently, I know He’s weaving something beautiful.

He took a womb and four times grew amazing precious people. Unexpectedly to us, he gave us a fifth precious person that we dreamed about, planned for, and loved wholeheartedly as she grew for four months.

Then the doppler was silent and the screen showed her still.

To be empty when you are supposed to be full, to feel death when there ought to be life is to know brokenness in a wretched, personal way. The curse has hit full-force and I reel with grief.

As I move forward, I want to keep the grief close. If the grief is near me, I haven’t moved past that child. She’s real. She exists. And even if she is never mentioned by another, she is still loved and thought of. Miscarriage is cruel like that. You lose a child but have no shared memories with others of that child. So there’s nothing to say– nothing to reminisce on– no way to easily mention that name. And so it seems the rest of the world has forgotten. I make sure I don’t.

Today is Wynne’s due date. But really it isn’t, is it? We thought she was due here, but that was never His intent. He created her, I grew her, and then she went Home before knowing this broken home we know. For her sake, I rejoice. For my sake. . . well, I’m still trying to get used to the idea that for the rest of my life, I’ll be desperately missing her.

I’m reminded of the uncertainty of life as we know it. With that, I’m reminded of the grace that accompanies every sunrise. I know the faithfulness that He folds me in from the moment my feet hit the floor. I know the power of Truth being broadcast into my ears, eyes, head, and heart in a steady flow all day long. I know His Presence because even in my darkest moments, He moves in with Truth and steers my heart toward Him. I know His comfort– as I sit behind a closed door weeping from a broken heart my mind never drifts to despair. He nudges me with hope.

I know this small piece of my story isn’t the end of His.

This knowledge is a grace. Though I wish today that I was kissing sweet baby cheeks, I am confident that He is good. And perhaps because this good is so painful, it urges me to constantly look up rather than at my own small story. And you can’t complain about something that pushes you to Him.