Leah’s Story

We were in shock, elated shock, to find out that I was pregnant in 2018. We had struggled to conceive both of our boys for over a year each with a miscarriage in between them. As much as our hearts wanted to keep growing our family, I just couldn’t handle the ongoing heartache of trying. So, we didn’t try, didn’t really prevent, and sort of assumed that pregnancy was off the table. Our reactions to the positive pregnancy test confirmed just how much we really did hope for another baby.

Even though I was 38, my doctors were fairly relaxed about additional testing. I was healthy with two healthy kids, so there was no pressure to be extra vigilant. My anatomy scan showed that the baby was small, but my older boys had been small as well, so my doctor assumed everything was on track and healthy. Then just after Thanksgiving, at 29 1/2 weeks, I was concerned about some symptoms and called my doctor. They sent me to the hospital to make sure everything was okay. The nurse thought she found the heartbeat after a few moments, but then she got quiet. Another nurse came in, and they both stayed very quiet, keeping the ultrasound screen behind my head. When my doctor finally arrived, she told me that there was no heartbeat. 

My husband had just picked up our boys when I called him, and I had to tell this dear, sweet man over the phone that our baby had died. Once he arrived, we began the long and painful process of making phone calls and covering work. Family members, as well as our pastor and his wife, came to visit us that night. The friend who was watching the boys dropped them off to us at the hospital, where we explained to them that our baby had already gone to heaven. I was so thankful for faith in that moment, because while I didn’t have many answers, at least I had that one most important answer. Our baby is in heaven with Jesus; of that we are certain.

My body started laboring naturally overnight, and I had a relatively peaceful labor. Our baby came quickly and naturally just after 8:00 the next morning, and we learned that he was a boy. We named him Max after my grandpa. We spent the day with Max as family came by to love us. My boys came in the afternoon, though they didn’t want to see him. As my husband walked them out of my room that night, my five year old’s wails for his brother filled the unit, shattering the heart of every nurse on the floor.

During my time in the hospital, God showed me Psalm 86, and verses 5-7 became my prayer. 

“You, Lord, are forgiving and good, abounding in love to all who call to you. Hear my prayer, Lord; listen to my cry for mercy. When I am in distress, I call to you, because you answer me.”

I spent the next weeks experiencing more love than I knew was possible. We were cared for so deeply by our family and our church family. Many people came to Max’s funeral and simply loved us. We found many more members in our new club than we expected. 

Throughout the journey of losing Max, I felt certain of God’s plan. As a preschool children’s church teacher, I often appreciate the simple words we use to explain God to children. I reminded myself that God’s plan is always good, even when it doesn’t seem good for me, and was comforted by the fact that every day of Max’s life was always known to God.

There was never an official diagnosis for Max. He was small for his gestational age, but that was the only thing the doctors found. We believed that what happened to him was a fluke, and that I could expect to carry a full term pregnancy in the future.

A few months after Max died, I found out I was pregnant. I was cautiously hopeful, begging God for this blessing. But it wasn’t meant to be. I experienced an early miscarriage. What I remember most about that was the loneliness. Everyone knew about Max, but only my closest friends were praying for this new life. 

Many women have shared their losses with me since Max died, and they often minimize their miscarriages as less of a trauma than stillbirth. I am thankful for these conversations, because each time, I am able to reassure these moms that they deserve to grieve the magnitude of their loss. My stillborn baby was bigger. My labor was longer. My pain for him was more public. But I also said goodbye to babies that no one knew were here. We are all mothers with babies who went to heaven instead of into our arms. There is no competition in grief, and I exhort any woman going through miscarriage to acknowledge the full depth of her loss.

We continued to hope for a baby as we healed. We knew there would always be a Max-sized hole in our world, but a new child would bring joy to our broken hearts. I couldn’t bear the pressure of trying to conceive, so we simply enjoyed our marriage with only brief glances at the calendar.

In late January, I very nervously took a pregnancy test and was surprised to see that it was positive. I wasn’t feeling any symptoms, so I was immediately detached, certain that I had already miscarried again. When I called the doctor at eight weeks, I refused to make an appointment before getting an HCG test. They called that night to say my levels were consistent with eight weeks and to make my appointment. At just under 12 weeks, we saw our baby bouncing like my uterus was a trampoline. My doctors put me on aspirin to prevent pre-eclampsia and reassured me that we would do extra ultrasounds during the second trimester.

I went for my anatomy scan as nervous as a first time mom. Because of Covid-19, I was alone and facing the technician mask to mask. The scan took too long. As she wrapped up, the screen flashed through a page of size markers, and my baby was at least a week behind on all of them. As I sat alone in an exam room, waiting for the doctor to come in to discuss the results, I simply prayed. I knew in my heart that all was not well, and I begged God for the strength to get through those next few minutes.

The doctor believed we had multiple markers for Trisomy-18, a typically fatal chromosomal disorder. My next appointment would be two weeks later with maternal-fetal medicine. All I could do was wait, hope, and pray. 

While the maternal-fetal specialists cleared the T-18 markers, they confirmed that my baby was severely growth restricted. I was sent for further blood tests and was told to prepare for an extremely premature birth into NICU. The baby’s placenta was not providing what the baby needed to grow. There were no dietary or lifestyle changes I could make to fix it. All I could do was pray for my baby to keep growing.

Unfortunately, my baby did not continue growing. At my next appointment, the baby was measuring 9 ounces at 22 weeks of gestation, when 1 pound would have been appropriate. The umbilical cord was in reverse flow, and my risk of stillbirth was extremely high. That Sunday, I was keenly aware that my baby had stopped moving. I tried everything to encourage kicks, but they weren’t there. I saw my regular OB the following morning and confirmed what I knew to be true. My baby’s heartbeat was gone. I asked my doctors to look at the blood test results to see if it was a boy or a girl. He was another boy. My fourth son—boy mom status confirmed.

Those few weeks of knowing my baby’s risks were some of the most difficult. In the sudden shock of losing Max, God’s plan felt like a ballast. In these weeks of waiting to find out if my baby would die, physically isolated from my support community, I felt like God was punishing me. I felt that I was so incredibly unworthy of Grace, believing that I had so deeply disappointed my Creator, that He was showing me His anger by using my own body to fail my children not once, but twice to make sure I really knew it was deliberate. I did not question God’s judgment, I only felt heartbroken that I had failed Him.

I entered the hospital still feeling this despair. My labor was excruciating. It was slow to start, my body not yet having noticed that it should stop holding the baby inside. My doctor’s methods were painful, and I felt every ounce of pain and difficulty as deserved punishment. I listened to a woman in a nearby room give birth, heard her baby cry, and knew that I may never hear a baby of mine cry again. I labored through the contractions in silence, begging God not to make it go on for much longer.

Our sweet Joseph finally came in the early evening, and we held him all night long. He was perfect, just tiny and lifeless. We went through the familiar ritual of receiving our Hope Box, taking pictures, capturing his footprints, and updating our family, friends, and church with news that no one should ever have to share more than once.

I had not received Anchored in Max’s box. I got it in Joseph’s box and began reading after a few days home, not expecting the book to help very much. I thought it would be full of platitudes and lack strong theology. I have never been more thankful to be wrong in my life. Erin wrote a compact and powerful devotional that honors God as sovereign and the author of this journey. I saw God’s hand on my life every day as I read the book. It referenced another book I hold dear, and then it discussed lament, which was the topic of the Bible study in which I’d been participating the past few months.

It was in the pages of Anchored that I finally pulled myself out of the lies that had ravaged my soul. As I read Simeon’s story and his mom’s brave words that God, “saw fit to take him home before he had suffered in this world…giving him the very best,” my aching heart finally heard its Savior calling.

God has a special purpose for each of these infants who go to heaven before they breathe on earth. He chose them before He laid the foundations of the earth, just as He chose me—me, who thought I was so unworthy of grace—to be mom to these precious children who went straight to heaven. They get to enjoy the perfection of their Creator without any earthly struggle. That is not punishment at all, is it? How blessed am I that God would choose me to carry these special babies just for Him?

Many brave women of the Bible are known for their trials in motherhood, or lack thereof. I believe that God connects to women in a very special way through our maternal nature. He uses it to draw us near to Him, to teach us to trust only Him, and to strengthen our faith in His good plan.

My heart remains broken and scarred. My human self wants my boys here with us. My heart aches for my older boys who love and miss their brothers. My sinful self-pity lingers when I see a pregnant woman or beautiful newborn.

But I remain His. My boys are celebrating with their Father in heaven, where I will see them again. My older boys are mature and compassionate believers who love deeply and understand more than their years would suggest. My ministry is revealed in how I will love, support, and speak truth to moms of children in heaven. God is good. He has brought me here for His good purpose, and I will follow Him.

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Leah lives in the Philadelphia suburbs with her husband and 2 boys, and they all miss their 4 babies in heaven. While currently self-employed as a copywriter, Leah plans to begin training as a bereavement doula and grief counselor for grieving moms.

We would be honored to share your story as a Hope Mom on our blog. On Saturdays we feature Hope Moms’ stories in order to showcase God’s faithfulness even in the midst of such deep sorrow. If you would like to have your story shared on our blog for this purpose, learn more and submit here.

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