Anne’s Story

A year after Nate and I married, we found out that I was pregnant with our first precious life. Twelve weeks into that pregnancy, we learned that our baby no longer had a heartbeat, and my heart felt like its own pulse was forever altered.

Two and a half months after our miscarriage, I found out I was pregnant again. There was an excitement and renewed hope I hadn’t tasted in months, and yet a crouching, nagging hesitation left me anxious to grasp onto any certainty that this little one’s life would not end in another miscarriage. My desire to have certainty clouded any ability to see and handle the brutal reality that I have never been, nor ever will be, the sustainer of life, and this new pregnancy left me riddled with anxiety that often felt crippling. Looking back, I see the Lord’s Hand using even my doubt to prepare me for the valley ahead, for I wrote in my journal on September 20, 2013, “I’m only five weeks pregnant, but something just hasn’t felt right. I don’t know if it’s intuition or just plain fear — but it’s been crouching all week long. I feel a battle being waged in my soul, as I wrestle with the fear that seeks to consume. My mind is continually flooded with the words…’My God shall supply ALL your needs…according to His glorious riches in Christ Jesus.’”

It was in this state of anxiety that we walked into the hospital for our twelve-week sonogram on November 15, 2013. As Nate and I walked into the hospital that afternoon, I felt a weight that was undeniable. I remember grabbing Nate’s hand and stopping in the hallway, inwardly fighting my desire to turn around and run right back through those glass doors. This fear continued right up until we saw a big-bellied, active baby flittering to and fro on the screen. I was ecstatic and overcome with relief — already chiding myself for having let my misgivings have such a hold on my heart. I had no inkling that something was so terribly wrong with the tiny life inside of me.

Over the course of the next few hours, Nate and I would be told that there were several markers signaling serious, life-threatening complications in our baby’s development. Though it would take further testing to be sure, the specialist was confident that this baby had Trisomy 13 — a chromosomal disorder that was too severe to offer any hope, short of a divine miracle, of a sustainable life outside of the womb. I remember feeling like someone had physically ripped my heart right out from inside of my chest as I tried to wrap my brain around the words that were suddenly being thrown my way. Numb with grief, and entranced in a nightmare that I kept hoping would end, Nate and I unequivocally told the doctors that we were going to carry this little life for the remainder of his or her days, but I remember the reality of that decision, even in the fog of such shocking news, already felt full of consequences too heavy for my broken heart.

We found out one week later that our precious one was a little girl, and that the initial Trisomy 13 diagnosis was, in fact, correct. Nate and I decided to name our baby girl Ava Elizabeth Ungarean. Ava, meaning “breath of life” and Elizabeth, meaning “consecrated to God,” felt fitting for this little life we so desperately wanted to honor and celebrate. We spent countless hours over those next six months begging the Lord to heal our baby girl, but even more so begging Him to prepare our hearts for whatever it was He might ask of us.

Ava was ushered into this world on May 13, 2014. After a ten-hour labor, when I finally heard Nate’s whispers that she was, indeed, alive, the tidal wave of emotion came crashing down as all of the tears that had accompanied almost our entire journey together melted away into a cacophony of pure, unabated joy. Her five pound, seven-ounce self was the pinkest, chubbiest and most precious thing I had ever seen, and her little head was covered in curls. I was finally able to hold this precious person who had simultaneously broken and completed my heart in one fell swoop.

We spent the next six hours absolutely enthralled with our tiny love — reveling in every coo and whimper as she buried herself deep into our arms and hearts. Surrounded by family, we soaked in every morsel of Ava, all the while knowing that each moment was a divine gift that we ourselves could never have orchestrated. And yet late that night, as Ava’s heart rate began to slow, Nate crawled into the bed, wrapped his arms around both of us, and we began to rock our baby girl. We sang to her, we prayed over her, and then I began to whisper in her ear that it was okay for her to let go. That she had fought with such courage and beauty and that her work here was done. My heart, which had begged for more time with Ava throughout the previous six hours, felt a different peace — though no less painful — than it had all day, and in that sacrificial love that only a parent knows, it was so clear to me that it was time to let our baby go.

Looking back, I am struck by the fact that Nate and I both felt compelled to thank Ava over and over again for all of the ways she had changed us and molded us and broken us and completed us — all so that we might be better vessels of God’s love and compassion to a hurting world that had never felt more broken than it did in that moment. As we rocked our baby girl, the most beautiful song began to play. I remember feeling as though the song, entitled “Hope for the Broken World,” by Selah was gently pouring out truth and claiming restoration for us in a moment that held what I pray will be our most broken hour on this earth. The repeating chorus ended each time with the words, “You are Salvation, You are the Joy of the Earth, Restoration comes, Hope of the broken world.” And in those last moments that the three of us had together on this earth, I remember crying out in the silent wreckage of my heart for the endurance and faith to believe that restoration would, indeed, one day be coming — that the hope of our future glory would be enough to sustain me in my brokenness. As the crescendo of our grief lay before our very eyes, it felt that David’s cry had been taken from my very soul when he wrote in Psalm 27:13, “I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”

Those weeks and months after Ava died feel like a blur of foggy grief. And yet the Lord slowly, quietly, and ever so patiently began to woo me to Himself as I sat in the darkness of my grief, and three months later, a new little life began to grow inside of me. Five days short of what would have been Ava’s first birthday, we welcomed her little sister, Grace McKay Ungarean, into the world.

In no way has Gracie eradicated our grief, for Ava’s life and subsequent death have left a hole that no other child could ever replace; but what Gracie’s life has done is usher in so much joy and such deep gratitude even in the midst of our sadness. And as time continues to unfold, the riches of the night continue to deepen and grow, for I have seen the Lord use our heartbreak over and over and over again for such deep, life-giving good. I have seen Him tenderly restore our broken hearts and bind up the wounds that felt beyond repair. Not that the wounds are gone, but rather I have seen them continue to be transformed into scars that hold beauty and promise and purpose.

In the last six months, Nate and I have lost two more precious ones each in the first trimester of pregnancy. The heartbreak of knowing we have four babies in heaven can feel staggering in moments, and yet I keep learning that God’s goodness isn’t defined by the circumstantial landscape of our lives. Surrendering (slowly) to His plans for my life has been the most terrifying, yet freeing process, and I keep finding that His goodness, His tenderness, and His undeniable creativity seem to be most brilliantly displayed in the darkness, for He continues to bring forth life — deep, soul-satisfying life — as He draws me more closely to Himself.

Lastly, I would be remiss not to share that Nate and I have found our deepest comfort in knowing and believing that we are dearly loved children, and because of that fact, we are always a people called into a future. This unalterable truth provides, much like a stream in the desert, the sustenance to survive the scorching heat of refinement. This doesn’t diminish the pain, but it transforms it. And in that truth, I can rest and truly look to the future with hope. For as Elisabeth Elliot so wisely and beautifully wrote, “Of one thing I am perfectly sure: God’s story never ends with ashes.”

– Anne

Hope Mom to Ava Elizabeth and Three Other Precious Babies

My name is Anne Ungarean and I live in Dallas with my husband, Nate, our 18-month-old daughter, Gracie, and our black lab named Slick. We love spending time together as a family and with friends, being outside, and spending as much time in the mountains as possible. If I find myself with a little bit of quiet space, I also love to write and paint.

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