A Journey Through Miscarriage
When people think of miscarriage, they often imagine the way TV or movies show it — sudden, dramatic, loud. That wasn’t my story. Mine was slow and drawn out, each day a battle of emotions, each moment an ache deep in my soul.
The hardest part was not knowing what was happening inside my body. Was the baby okay? Was I losing another child? My mind raced constantly, and my spirit grew weary. I tried to cling to God’s promise that “He will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:6), but my heart often cried out: “Why me, Lord? Why again?”
The Hope of a Rainbow
On August 10th, we found out I was pregnant. Our rainbow baby. I felt hope rise in my heart, a promise after the storm of losing Lainey Jayne. I told myself every day that nothing would go wrong. I planned registries, researched breast pumps, and looked into healthy pregnancy diets. I was determined to do everything right.
The Fear of the Unknown
But on August 24th, the spotting began. My heart sank. I’d never experienced that before, and my mind immediately feared the worst. At the ultrasound, the screen showed an empty sac. The doctor reassured me that maybe I was earlier than I thought, and I held tightly to those words. Still, fear lingered.
For the next several weeks, I lived in 48-hour cycles, waiting for lab results. Each time I prayed my HCG numbers would double. Each time I whispered the words of Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” But the numbers rose slowly, never as they should. Some days my hope flickered, and some days I felt crushed by despair.
The Rollercoaster of Hope and Grief
Then, one day, hope came rushing back. An ultrasound showed growth, and the sac now held a fetal pole. My numbers finally doubled. For a brief moment, joy flooded my heart. I thought maybe, just maybe, God was answering my prayers. But the very same day, MyChart pinged with new results — my numbers had dropped drastically. My joy turned to grief in an instant. I cried until I had no tears left.
That Sunday, broken and exhausted, I went to church. As we began to sing “I Trust in God,” tears poured from my eyes. That song had carried me through Lainey’s funeral, and now it met me in another valley. I wept, not gentle tears but sobs that shook my body. For the first time in my life, I walked to the altar. Vulnerability scared me, but grief pushed me forward.
On my knees, I prayed, “Lord, if it is Your will, let this child live. But if it is time to let go, give me Your peace.” As I stood, two friends wrapped their arms around me. I wanted to run, to hide, but instead I collapsed into their embrace, sobbing. In that moment, God whispered to my heart, “You are not alone.”
Walking Through the Valley
By Monday, the ultrasound confirmed what my spirit already knew. Where there once was life, now there was none. My womb was empty. My arms ached with the same emptiness.
Sitting in the waiting room surrounded by glowing couples who held ultrasound pictures and discussed due dates stung deeply. But strangely, I also felt joy for them. I remembered what that hope feels like, and I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone.
My nurse Rachel, a gift from God Himself, hugged me. She reminded me that God is near. Even there, in the sterile hospital setting, He gave me the courage to share Lainey’s story and my testimony. I told the staff how God has carried me, how He continues to give me strength I do not have on my own. “He comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God” (2 Corinthians 1:4).
The time for surgery arrived, and I cried the entire way to the operating room. Lying on the table, fear consumed me. But the anesthesiologist placed his hand gently on my head and whispered, “Trust in God — He’s got you.” And I did. Even in that moment of loss, I surrendered.
Trusting God Still
Now at home, my body is sore, and my heart is heavy. My arms feel so empty, and the silence where a baby’s cry should be is deafening. Yet in the stillness, I cling to Isaiah 55:9: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.”
I don’t understand His ways. I may never know why my story includes so much loss. But I do know this: God is faithful. He has never left me. He held me at the altar, in the waiting room, in the operating room, and now in the quiet of my home.
One day, maybe, I will hold a baby again. But even if I don’t, I will keep walking the path God has set before me. Each tear, each prayer, each step is teaching me to trust Him more. And I know He will redeem every broken piece of my story for His glory.
A Word to you, Mama
If you are reading this and your arms feel empty, your heart heavy, or your prayers unanswered, know that you are not alone. God sees your tears, He hears your cries, and He is holding you even when it feels impossible. “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7). Take each day moment by moment. Let your grief have space, but also let His love meet you in the brokenness. You are seen. You are cherished. And one day, even if the story looks different than you imagined, He will redeem every tear, every sorrow, and every longing in His perfect timing.
A Prayer for the Brokenhearted Mama
Lord,
You see her pain. You see her tears before they fall. You know the ache of her empty arms and the questions that fill her mind. Lord, hold her close. Remind her that You are near, even in the valley of loss. Give her strength for today and hope for tomorrow. Surround her with people who will love her well and point her back to You. And when her heart feels too heavy to carry, remind her that You carried the cross, and You carry her too.
In Jesus’ mighty name, Amen.
