Kristin’s Story

On July 20, 2018, our third child was due to join our family. Her room was pink, her brothers were excited, her Dad and I were ecstatic for a girl. It felt so different this time. We had all the ideas of bows and frilly things, and had decided exactly what her wedding day would be like. 

Our firstborn came at 31 weeks after a quick and scary bout with preeclampsia, so this pregnancy they watched my blood pressure carefully. On July 6th, I was 38 weeks, and that afternoon I got a high blood pressure reading on my cuff at home. I called the nurse and she asked me to come to the hospital. However, in the hospital that day, my blood pressure never spiked, we both checked out “perfectly,” and home we went. One week later, on Friday, July 13, I was at my OBGYN’s for my last check before our c-section planned for the 17th. It was supposed to be my last prenatal OB visit, ever. It was supposed to be quick—weight, blood pressure, heartbeat, see you later. 

The medical student with my doctor that day couldn’t find her heartbeat. I tried calming myself over and over again. “She’s just a medical student.” 

My doctor took over. “Has she been active? When did you last feel her move?” I was spiraling downwards. They always found her heartbeat right away. “I’m going to stop torturing you, let’s go around the corner to the ultrasound.” We were joined by a few more nurses, and they all stood over me staring at the screen. My hand covered my face so I couldn’t see theirs. “I’m so sorry. There is no heartbeat.”

In that instant, my life was divided into before and after. It will forever feel divided by that moment in time. We did a lot of very hard, very awful things over the next few days—one of the hardest for me was calling my husband to tell him our baby girl had died. He eventually met me at the hospital. I’ve never heard such wails come from our bodies. Everything was too surreal; sometimes it still is. Our family made their way to the hospital, as did our pastor and his wife. No one had words to say. The sadness spoke volumes. 

At 3:48pm, our beautiful 6lb 14oz curly haired girl was born. She did not cry, but we sure did. We named her Abigail Elizabeth—Abby (Abigail) after her great-grandmother Mary Abigail, and Elizabeth to share a middle name with her Mom. She had long narrow feet and toes like her mama, and full beautiful lips like her daddy. Altogether, we spent a day and a half together before we said the most difficult goodbye. 

We’re now coming upon two years. I had always imagined at some point there would be more answers than questions, yet at this point, there are not. I’d be lying to say our faith has been rock solid through it all. It sure hasn’t. We have questioned. We’ve been angry. There have been a million conflicting thoughts and emotions. In two years I’ve settled on trusting that God is in control, that all the unanswered pains in my heart are truly what faith is all about, and that despite my circumstances I can choose to believe that God is good. I don’t really ask ‘why’ so much anymore. If I truly believe God is who He is, His reasons are far beyond me anyway. I’m choosing to trust in spite of that. What I can look back on and see is the unshakable way God has walked with us through this valley of death. There were so many tangible, beautiful reminders when God showed us that was had never left us. 

We had hired a young woman to help us through the summer, knowing I had two energetic toddlers, a huge pregnant belly, and late in the summer, a newborn to add to the mix. The teacher ghosted us a few weeks before Abby’s due date, so we quickly did a secondary search and hired a college student. We felt okay about it but were put off by our first hire. Even so, “Miss Terry” quickly became part of our family. Not any 20-year-old would be so confident and capable, shuttling these super active boys to the park and the playground. And oh, did she love them! The day Abby died, she showed up at the house and took the boys for the day. She packed Isaac’s overnight bag, meds and all, to hang with his friend for the weekend. And through the latter part of the summer, she entered our (greif-y awkward) home with a smile and a willingness to take on anything. She loved us and wanted to do what she could to help. When some might see our first hire bailing out, we saw God’s hand all over it— “I’ll give you Miss Terry, you’ll need her.” His provision was far beyond what we had hoped for. 

We saw His hand in the way our Pediatrician “randomly” showed up at the hospital that day. She loved on us, talked with us, and in the end, she carried Abby’s tiny body away from our hospital room for the last time. We needed someone familiar there, and God knew it. Again, He was reminding us that He was there. He was near. We were not alone. 

We felt God’s presence in being surrounded by so much love at Abby’s funeral. Scores of people showed up, tears in their eyes and lumps in their throats, willing to share in our pain. We see it in the memorial tree we planted—Abby’s tree. To see those tiny buds again after a long ugly winter gives me so much joy, her tree beaming with fresh yellow life. Winter, like death, does not have the final say, God has reminded us. We see God walking with us in the scores of new friends, with stories you wouldn’t believe, quick to wrap their arms around us because they, too, know what it’s like to live here on earth with a child in heaven. In their eyes and in their love we see God reminding us, we’ll all be home soon. 

So, although we’ve made peace without answers we’ll never have this side of heaven, it has been enough for us to see God’s tangible presence through this dark valley. I often think about how many times in my life I have prayed, “Make me more like you, Father.” I say that thinking about becoming more loving, more forgiving, less judgemental and selfish. But I never once had thought God, my Father, would answer my prayer to make me more like Him by allowing me to understand His heartache—the heartache of incredible and unrelenting death stealing away the life of an innocent child. If I knew this was His answer, I might never have prayed that prayer. 

And while it almost never feels like an honor, it is. It is beautiful to have a glimpse of our Father’s heart, an idea of what He felt when death stole His perfect child. When it seems as though I roam a world where hardly anyone understands my pain, God reminds me that He truly does. He completely understands my grief, my heartache, my inability to just move on, the conflict of living with one foot in heaven and one on earth. And I am honored that He has counted me worthy to show me that precious piece of His heart.

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Of all the roles I’ve ever held (ballerina, first mate, missionary, teacher, founder) these are my favorites: daughter of the King, wife to Daniel and mommy to Isaac, Eli and their sister Abby in heaven.

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