Liv’s Story of Hope

My life plan was abruptly interrupted on April 14, 2010 when I got the most earth-shattering news I could have imagined. Our 11-week-old baby’s heart was no longer beating. With the swirling of an ultrasound wand and seven horrible words, “Honey, more people miscarry than you know,” I was broken.

I had longed to be a mommy since my baby doll days. But just like that, in one little moment, it was stripped away. The doctors scheduled my D&C for two days later. Could they really take my baby? What if they were wrong about that little heartbeat?

That night was the darkest of my life. When we switched the lights off to go to sleep, anxiety crept up and threatened to swallow me whole. I was transported back to the ultrasound room and I couldn’t stop my emotions from spiraling out of control. I stumbled out of bed and down to the living room. Two hours later, I was still sprawled out with crumpled tissues and a mascara-stained pillow beside my red, swollen face.

Through my bitter tears that night, I prayed. It was a messy prayer as I laid everything out. “God, what do I do?! Why would you allow this!? Please bring our baby back to life.” What eventually gave me the strength to crawl back into bed that night was the peace of God. That peace didn’t make it okay, and it didn’t make the pain go away, but it helped me sleep. And inhale. And take steps forward. And none of those things made sense in the face of my anger, longing, and confusion.

That same peace would blanket my fearful heart over and over again. It took us eight months to get pregnant with our second. Eight seemingly endless months. Then came the second miscarriage seven weeks in. Our devastation was on repeat. I feared that something was wrong with me. When we got pregnant a third time, I was a total wreck. Fear was my life. Those fears were realized when our third miscarriage placed me in the small percentage of women who lose three babies in a row.

My husband and I longed for a baby in our arms. It seemed to be the only thing in my life that I couldn’t work harder to achieve. I blamed myself and my body.

After lots of prayer, we started pursuing adoption. We began the paperwork, home study, physicals, and seemingly endless other hoops. Just two months later, we got the phone call. A birth mom had chosen us! This was not the long wait we had been dreading. We fell in love with the momma and the baby boy she was carrying.

Our hope grew as her due date drew near. Then, the phone call no one wants to get. Our birth mama had changed her mind about the adoption. It was like a dagger to our hurting hearts.

“Why are children being withheld from us?” I kept asking God. 

There were many days filled with physical, emotional, and spiritual exhaustion. I developed anxiety I had never known before. I was short with Kevin and had little direction in my professional life.

Throughout those years, God was knocking on my heart—seeking to capture it. I would be lying if I said I always let Him in. But week after week, I found myself at church, usually sitting in a weeping heap. Every Sunday in that pew my soul was softened and became sensitive to the Lord. I knew He was calling me to have faith, but it was so hard. In those vulnerable moments, He infused hope into me as I was increasingly willing to receive it. I believe those moments gave me the strength to keep on. 

Mere days after our first adoption fell through, I got a Facebook message from a girl we used to attend church with. She was hoping we could get together. Would you believe me if I told you she was pregnant and wanted us to adopt her baby?

That really happened; I still have to pinch myself sometimes. I got to hold her hand as she birthed our 6lb 3oz Coleton into the world. When she laid him in my arms, I remember the hot, fresh tears streaming down my cheeks and dropping onto our little blondie bundle of joy. 

But it wasn’t only sweet from that moment on. In the 4 1/2 months leading up to his birth, we had two more miscarriages. The fifth loss happened naturally at 7 weeks. The bleeding started the morning of Coleton’s birth. It was all so profoundly bittersweet.

We couldn’t seem to escape the loss. Was it time to stop trying? The waiting was wearing on us and we didn’t want to lose any more babies. But for some miraculous reason, we weren’t ready to give up.

My sixth miscarriage was a chemical pregnancy, which some people write off as nothing at all. It’s sometimes called a blighted ovum, where a fertilized egg implants in the uterus but the resulting embryo either stops developing very early or doesn’t form at all. Since I believe life begins at conception, it was another lost life. Another sweet little one who spent only a few days with me before going to heaven. At that point I wasn’t surprised, but a girl can hope. And this girl did.

I was as shocked as you might be to learn that our story wouldn’t end with loss.  We would have adopted again had we continued to miscarry, but God’s plan for us looked different. Three years later, almost to the day, we said hello to our first biological child, Annabelle Hope Ryan. Two years later, yet again, my body birthed another healthy baby. Calvin Micah Ryan. All the tears of joy. Ridiculous beauty from ashes.

“You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
You have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness”
Psalm 30:11

These three children filled our arms quicker than we could’ve dreamed. If you saw us on the street, you would think me one of those fertile myrtle types—three kids under four and a diaper bag the size of Texas in tow. But if you looked beyond our hot mess, you would see a sparkle in my eye. It’s a sparkle that comes from looking at those living, breathing babes and thinking, “Wow, this is all one giant miracle.” 

The first flutter of their movement in my womb had me throwing up in excitement, “Could this be real?” Each kick in the ribs was a gracious reminder that the baby was still with me. I took those pregnancies one long day at a time.

Finally, labor arrived. As crazy as it sounds, I treasured each painful contraction. The pain resonated through my every nerve as I was brought closer to holding my second and third (but really eighth and ninth) littles. The moments Annabelle Hope and Calvin Micah were laid into my arms are indescribable. They were moments I thought I would never live to experience. Oh, but God has been so gracious to us. Every step of the way He continued to infuse our hearts with hope and fill us with His peace and comfort.

Is life perfect now? Of course not. Are my hands and heart full? Resoundingly yes. But my hope fulfilled didn’t come in the form of baby bundles. My hope came from and still comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. The Lord who never grows weak or weary, whose understanding is unsearchable (Isaiah 40:28). It was He who poured out just what I needed to get through those dark days, one at a time.

Liv is a Midwest native who loves Jesus and is head over heels with her hubby of eight years. She is passionate about bearing and sharing hope with those walking through the darkness of waiting for a child. Liv stays at home with her three miracle babes, but on the side she’s an avid writer, holy yoga instructor, public speaker and (slow) runner. On any given day, you might find her rocking out to worship songs in the kitchen, braving playdates with her toddlers, chugging coffee and/or curling up in a ball because mommying is hard. She heavily relies on her people, the word, date nights and foodie food to keep her sane.

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.