The room is dark. Where am I?
Cool mist irritates my nose. Overwhelmed with the sensation, I scratch at my face.
Everything feels like it’s in slow motion.
Where am I?
Slowly, agonizingly, the fog creeps away. I turn my head as the blood pressure cuff begins its constriction. The beeping machine penetrates my senses.
A hospital room. Alone. Dark. Empty.
I feel empty. Why?
Too tired, my eyes drift closed as consciousness slips into troubled sleep.
I don’t know how long before I wake again. But this time, I know where I am and why.
As my mind fog clears, my eyes fill and overflow.
No longer pregnant. My baby died in my womb.
What had I done? The darkness now appropriate for my sorrow.
Quietly a nurse comes in to check my vitals.
Sniffing quietly, I reach up to wipe the tears but can’t do anything about the nose. It’s no use. The tears are flowing too heavily. Keeping my head turned the other way in raw grief, I pray she’ll do her job and leave.
“Try not to make a whimper or sound of any kind,” I tell myself.
Nurse quietly comes around the bed, “Are you in any pain?”
“Just my heart,” I think, while shaking my head slightly in response to her question.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmurs and then slips quietly through the door leaving me alone with my grief. Her tender ministrations further undo my waking emotions.
I turn toward the other side of the room and notice a shaft of light on the floor. With watery, anesthetized eyes I glance over to see the window coverings partly open. Moonlight floods the room as agonized sobs overwhelm my fragile heart.
Staggering under the reality of my now empty womb, I feel no other pain. My baby is gone.
Assaulted by questions, I look again to the moonlight, toward the sky. Swift clouds tumble across, over, and under each other scurrying ahead of the blustery wind now hiding the moonlight. Skeletal tree limbs barely visible in the storm.
Suddenly, the clouds break open for just a moment revealing the full glory of the moon. Bright, defiant almost against the scudding clouds.
And then I see Him.
Jesus with His arms held toward His body as if shielding something from view.
Whispering, I ask, “Jesus, is that my baby? Will you take care of my baby?”
With utmost tenderness, He turns His body ever so slightly, lowers His arms, and I see a beautiful child nestled close to His heart.
Safe. Secure. Content. Whole.
“I’m holding your child and will never let go.”
Today, if you are mourning the loss of your child—born or unborn, through miscarriage, abortion, illness, or injury—I encourage you to look to Jesus. I believe He holds you in His arms, giving you comfort and peace amid this storm.
Grieve well. You will always miss this precious child, the moments that might have been.
Today, remember the extraordinary moments with that child. Remember, and cling to hope.
Yes, my soul, find rest in God;
my hope comes from Him.
Truly He is my rock and my salvation;
He is my fortress, I will not be shaken.
Psalm 62:5,6
If you need someone to pray for you today, please reach out.
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