Meghan’s Story

“Lord, this is too dark of a valley. I do not want to walk this road again.” Tears ran down my cheeks as I sat by the water by myself. I had just left an emergency midwife appointment where I learned that my baby girl’s heart had stopped beating at 13 weeks. I should have been 16 weeks pregnant. 

What stung the most was this was my fourth loss. Four babies in heaven. This time was different, or so I had thought. I had been so peaceful. I had dared to hope! With my 12-year-old daughter and 1-and-a-half-year-old new blessing baby boy at home, we had been getting ready for our tie breaker. Our previous miscarriages had been early, so we thought we were on safe ground this time.

I was shocked. I was deeply sad. I was afraid of the darkness of the valley that I found myself in again. My previous miscarriages had been so hard on me and my family. Nothing could have prepared me for the hormone fluctuations as my body had tried to find a new normal. There had been times when I literally wondered if I was going to go crazy. The hardest had been the rocking of my faith. I had wondered where God was through all of this. He could do anything, so why didn’t He spare me from this suffering? How could a good God allow babies to die in the womb? 

Over the course of four years, spanning two miscarriages and the birth of my new blessing, I had dug deep. I prayed. I accused God. I cried. I read every devotional and book I could find on infant loss and Christian suffering. Finally, I met fellow believers who shared in my suffering, and I began to heal. I began to share my story, and I started to see beauty grow from the ashes. I finally, truly believed that God is good “even if.” 

Here I was again. I was facing my dreaded “even if.” My heart submitted to the cry of acknowledgement that God was good, even if my baby had died in the second trimester. 

That night as I lay in bed pretending to sleep, I cried for mercy. Out of the darkness it was as if I heard:

“Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as day, for darkness is as light with you.
Psalm 139:7, 11-12 

I had never truly understood that verse until that very moment. God was with me, and the darkness that I was entering was not too dark for Him. He would be with me through it all. 

We had planned a home birth for our little one. Instead, I had to decide if I would go (by myself due to COVID) to the hospital for a D&C, or face a potential hemorrhage situation at home with faithful midwives on call. 

Thankfully I didn’t have time to decide. 12 hours after finding out our baby girl was gone, and before the sun was up, I started hemorrhaging. There, in the bathroom, while I waited for the faithful praying midwife to come and assist me, I was overwhelmed with the most powerful peace I have ever experienced. I understood the physical urgency of my situation, but I also had a song on my heart: 

“Jesus, Jesus, how I trust you!
How I’ve proved you o’er and o’er.
Jesus, Jesus, blessed Jesus!
Oh for grace to trust you more.”

Only God could help me sing a song of worship in the darkest and scariest part of my miscarriage journey. God had said He would be with me in my valley. And He was. 

Because I was able to deliver our baby girl at home, I was able to hold her. No one had ever told me how perfect little fingers and toes were at 13 weeks. I was able to tell her I loved her, hoped for her, wanted her, and how much it broke my heart to meet her now— in this way.

God’s abundant mercy towards our family was so clear we decided to name our daughter Mercy. Mercy Leigh Grace wasn’t the tiebreaker that we were hoping for on earth. She was more. She taught me that God is peace, and that He is very clearly with me in the darkest of valleys. I no longer fear the valley.

We planted a climbing rose in honor of Mercy. It is our Ebenezer, which is a visual reminder of God’s goodness towards our family. Every time I see a new bloom on the rose I grieve, but I also rejoice, knowing my babies skipped the sorrow of this world.

I’m still sad. I still weep. I still have questions. But Mercy’s death taught me how to lament. Now I can walk in sorrow and bring my complaint to God, trusting that He hears me, is still good, and weeps with me. I know my babies are in heaven, thriving in the very presence of His love. I would be lying if I didn’t say I wait a bit impatiently until I get to meet them again. But until that day, I grieve in hope.  

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Meghan lives in sunny Florida with her husband, pre-teen daughter, and toddler son. She uses her experiences of deep heartache and sweet redemption to minister to those who are hurting and grieving. She enjoys discovering tropical flowers, coffee, knitting, and genuine heart felt conversations.

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