Margaret’s Story

This is my least favorite season of the year. I know what you are thinking based on my rather pale complexion. You think I mean the hot, sunny summer season, right? While it may be true that I avoid the sun and heat like the plague, the season I am referring to is this yearly season of grief that coincides with summer’s first day. You see, my sweet, much-loved twin sons Matthew and Caleb were born on the first day of summer.

The first day of summer is the longest day of the year for me, not because of the summer solstice, but because it is the beginning of my living nightmare. Matty died that day. I only held him, wrapped in a soft yellow blanket that was knit by some kind stranger, for a few moments. I kissed his face and told him how sorry I was. I told him how much I loved him and that I would take good care of Riley and Caleb. I told him that his Papa and Jesus were waiting for him, even though he was already gone before I held him. In hindsight, those words of comfort were for me.

I got to have 46 beautiful and hard days with Matty’s twin brother, Caleb. I got to stroke his blonde, peach fuzzy hair. I got to feel his tiny little fingers and itty-bitty toes. I prayed over Caleb and read God’s Word to him. I sang “Jesus Loves Me” and “You Are My Sunshine.” I read “Goodnight Moon” and found the mouse with him just as I had with his big sister, Riley.

Those were beautiful moments with my precious son. Those were moments when my faith was strong, and God seemed good.

And then the hard came. The mere act of an actual feeding of my breast milk was overwhelming for Caleb’s system. The only time I was able to hold him alive was almost more than his frail body could bear. A surgery to clip a duct in his heart that closes for full term babies in utero had been done, and we thought we were on the upswing again. But his little tummy started looking blue. That is a very bad sign in the NICU.

I heard hushed tones behind plastered on smiles as medical staff discussed my boy. Caleb had developed NEC (necrotizing enterocolitis). This is the scourge of the NICU, and particularly dangerous for a micro preemie like my Caleb. Another surgery to remove the dead intestine left an open abdomen and a fear that I cannot begin to explain. I begged God to spare my son as I lay wailing on the shower floor of the Ronald McDonald House sleep room that was down the hall from his NICU world. I only left my boy for the two hours a day that parents were not allowed in. And in those two hours, I allowed myself to lose control. To break.

God felt very far away, and my faith felt so very weak. But God was still good, right? Surely, He would not take both babies. Riley wouldn’t lose both of her brothers mere months after losing her Papa, right?

As the days slipped on, it was apparent that this was our long goodbye. There would be no great miracle for Caleb to share with the world. I still prayed for healing during those last hard and sacred days. I prayed for strength to carry the burden of it all. I prayed for comfort for Riley while I was away and as the reality of these losses took hold for her. I prayed for the ability to set aside my grief for Matty for the time being. I knew if I allowed myself a moment to grieve the loss of my other beautiful son, I would have been swallowed up and have missed these last moments with Caleb.

I prayed that God would not let Caleb endure suffering if there was to be no healing. And, I prayed, if healing meant that Caleb would die, that God would not make me choose that for my son, but God would take him instead. I begged God to spare me that agony.

Caleb had one more day with his daddy. Bill gasped when he saw how broken our son had become. He read the Gospel of John to Caleb. He said he wanted Caleb to know how much God loves us. That was important to him in that moment. His voice broke as he sang “Jesus Loves Me” over our dying son. We held Caleb’s tiny hands and each other’s and prayed over him, thanking God for the assurance that we would see our boys again one day. He kissed his boy’s tiny head and whispered something to him quietly. I have never asked what those words were. That was their moment. We hugged and cried for a very long time and then Bill left. It was 2:30am on August 6, 2012.

The NICU staff didn’t make me leave that morning during the shift change. I think they knew. I spent the next several hours talking to my Caleb. I told him as much as I could of the world. I shared stories about Riley. I told him all about his Papa who would meet him in heaven. I told him how Jesus died so momma could be with him and Matty again some day. I sang to him, just as I had every day since I knew he existed. I prayed over him.

I knew that Caleb was in pain and tired. I told the nurse no more. No more needles. No more meds. No more machines. I held my son for the first time without tubes and wires. I kissed his tiny, perfect face and sang over him. I told him I was so, so sorry, and that momma loved him more than all the stars in the sky. I held him as Dr Brown whispered his time of death. I held Caleb as he took his last breath in my arms and his first breath in the arms of Jesus. It was the most heart-wrenchingly painful and holy moment of my life.

I wish I could tell you that my faith was not shaken through the loss of my sons. I have struggled with grief, anger, and guilt, and have questioned the sovereignty of God. I tried very hard to walk away from God after losing Matty and Caleb, but He has pursued me with a gentle heart full of compassion. It’s taken years for me to realize that the grief I have felt is not something God doesn’t understand. Isaiah 53:3 describes Him as “a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief.” God has met me in every moment of pain and doubt. He has shown me that I was never alone during those hard days. He has never left me or forsaken me (Deuteronomy 31:8).

God has given me so many blessings in the years since the boys have gone. I’ve created a new family of people who choose to walk with me, even on the days I push them away. I have stepped into other ministries that have stretched me out of my comfort zone. I’ve been able to support other families as they navigate life in the “after” of child loss.

My faith was shaken, to be sure. But I think it was to sift away the dead things in my heart that held no value. What I am left with is a greater dependence on God and a deeper longing to know Him. God has loved me through the darkness. He will love me on the mountain. He gave me an entire lifetime in 46 beautiful and hard days. He gave me His Son for my salvation, and He has given beauty for ashes (Isaiah 61:3).

I am a Christ follower trying to love Him more. I am momma to a beautiful, brilliant 22 year old daughter here with me and beautiful 11 year old twin sons waiting for me with Jesus.

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.