Baylee’s Story

Several weeks before my husband, David, left for Air Force Basic training, we found out I was pregnant with our first child. We’ve always held the belief that every life should be celebrated, so we would not hide our child’s life, no matter how brief. We weren’t “expecting” a baby. We had one. What we didn’t fully grasp were the chances of losing that baby. You hear the statistic that 1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss, but those odds are for other people, not for me and my baby. I’m glad of that naivety at times, because it allowed for pure celebration, undefiled by odds and statistics.

We announced the news to our families, but a few hours later, I started spotting. It became apparent that this wasn’t just spotting, so we called the doctor. He said we could go to the ER, but there wasn’t anything they could do. We decided to go anyway, holding on to the hope that maybe there was something that could be done. Our fears were confirmed—just a day before our second anniversary.

I was angrier with God than I had ever been knowing that He had the power to keep our baby here with us, yet chose not to. I didn’t know how to reconcile those feelings. David read Scripture aloud every night, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. I just wanted to sit in my anger.

Fast forward three weeks. David left for basic training, which meant no communication for an undetermined amount of time. A week after he left, I saw two pink lines.

Beautiful. New. Terrifying.

I was around eight or nine weeks pregnant when I finally got a call from David. I was nervous to tell him, especially knowing that the next time he called I may have to tell him that we lost another baby. Thankfully that wasn’t the case. I had genetic testing done early, so we learned the gender about three weeks later. We had already discussed names ahead of time, so when I read the results, I told him, “It’s a Melanie Kate.”

Melanie means darkness and Kate means pure. We struggled with the thought that her name meant darkness at first, especially because of our first loss. We prayed for the Lord to reveal a deeper meaning, and He showed us 2 Samuel 22:29: “For you are my lamp, O Lord, and my God lightens my darkness.” In the Bible, light is often equated to purity. The Lord reaches into our darkness, takes us by the hand, and brings us into the light to make us pure. That’s what He had started to do for me.

I had a completely healthy pregnancy. I followed most, if not all, of the “rules” and was very aware of Melanie’s movements and schedule. There was a very minor issue with the way her cord was attached to the placenta, which prompted extra monitoring towards the end of pregnancy, but never actually caused an issue.

Her due date had finally arrived, and I had been having pretty regular contractions. I noticed within a span of a couple of hours that she hadn’t been moving. My doctor had me go to labor and delivery to see how much I’d progressed and to check on Melanie.

Then came, “I’m so sorry.”

Nothing made sense. She was fine at the doctor’s office the day before. She kicked normally all night. If I’m being honest, I didn’t feel God in those moments. In fact, I thought that this must be hell. I wasn’t angry with Him like after our miscarriage. It just felt like He wasn’t there. Looking back, it’s evident that He was right there all along.

We were able to keep Melanie with us the entire time I was in the hospital. We held her and shared her with our parents, and a wonderful nurse offered to take pictures for us—something I will forever be grateful for.

Our parents helped us begin the process of funeral arrangements, and the time came to hand our newborn over to the funeral home director. I said the most painful goodbye imaginable as I watched David leave the room with Melanie.

We came home to our perfectly prepared nursery, which remains empty.

I quickly realized that my only hope of surviving this loss would be to cling to Jesus like never before. In the early days, there were many times when all I could bear to do was turn on some music that spoke truth into my darkness. Songs declaring that God is good and that He would hold me fast were on repeat. At first, it was almost intolerable to hear because I didn’t think the truth I was hearing matched the reality I lived in, until one day an artist gave a monologue in the middle of a song. She said that we may not be in a place in our lives where we can see His goodness, but even still, we should sing of it until we believed it to be true again. And so I did.

Many well-meaning friends and family members asked me what I was doing to keep myself busy. I wasn’t working as I planned on staying home with Melanie. That question became the source of a lot of heavy anxiety. What was I supposed to be doing? I couldn’t keep my baby alive—basically my main job as a mother—so how could I do anything else?

I began to drown in these thoughts, until one day I saw the words “BE STILL” in big, bold letters. Now, “be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10) is the verse that comes to mind for many, but for me, it was “the Lord your God will fight for you, you need only to be still” (Exodus 14:14). That verse gave me permission not to be lazy, but to rest in the Lord’s goodness and faithfulness. I sat in my feelings and gave them all up to the Lord—the good, the bad, and the really ugly things I couldn’t even say out loud. He provided so much healing through that practice.

Several months after Melanie was born, I hesitantly went to a conference at our church. The speaker was Kate Merrick, author of And Still She Laughs and fellow loss mama. Many times, I felt like she was speaking directly to me. She talked about several different women in the Bible, the hardships they faced, and how God used them because of those hardships, not despite them. During one of the breakout sessions, I was able to lead a fellow struggling mama to Christ through Melanie’s story. It was the first time I felt like something truly good could come from our loss.

We ask why this happens, but the truth is, I don’t want to know. There’s no reason, no explanation, no answer that would be good enough. What He has shown me though, is that I can make it good.

Our world is so broken, and until He comes again, there will be suffering. Until then, He is El Roi—the God who sees. He sees my hurt and He sees my tears. He pulls me close and reminds me to press on, for one day I will see Him and my babies face to face. What a sweet day that will be.

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Hi! I’m Baylee. I’m a Texas native turned military wife nomad. David and I have two children who call heaven their home, and a 100 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback who calls my lap his home. I spend most of my days sewing and visiting family and friends whenever possible.

 

 

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