Megan’s Story

My husband and I have lived in Osaka, Japan working as church planters for the last six years. The Japanese are considered “unreached,” meaning less than 1% are Christian; most people have little to no understanding of the Gospel. We have been blessed to have two children in Japan. My Japanese friends ask me how childbirth here compares to the United States, to which I usually grin and say, “I don’t know, I’ve never given birth there!”

I was so anxious to get pregnant with our third child. We have a four-year-old boy, and a two-year-old girl, and I was excited to add another child to the family. When we discovered we were pregnant, it was a joy! Over FaceTime, we told our families, who celebrated with us. A few weeks later I had lunch with the other wives from our ministry.  We were praying and sharing together, and I told them our good news. They celebrated with me and were so supportive.

For my first appointment, at 8 weeks, the ultrasound revealed a healthy little life. I saw the sweet little heartbeat and was in awe of God. Knowing we had graciously experienced two healthy pregnancies, I felt a low level of anxiety about this one. We started discussing names and made plans to re-arrange the house to make room for the baby. We didn’t tell lots of friends yet, but I was planning to announce it after my next check-up.

My second appointment was just two weeks later—in Japan, you visit the doctor quite regularly, and get an ultrasound each time! That morning I saw a post on Facebook from a friend, who shared that they just experienced a miscarriage. Grief for them swept over my heart. After reading their post, anxiety came over me about our baby. I told my husband my fears. He encouraged me to trust in God and I resolved to do just that.

After taking my son to preschool, I made my way to the clinic with my two-year-old in tow. Right before arriving, a strong wave of fear and anxiety came over me again. What if something was wrong with the baby? What if we lose the baby? The fear was so strong I prayed out loud in the car to focus and cast my anxiety on Him. I told God I was concerned, but vowed to give Him my fear. I declared He is in control, and that I can trust him. The anxiety subsided and I arrived at the clinic.

Soon I was in the exam room and prepped for the ultrasound. My two-year-old daughter bounced around the room excitedly. The doctor waved the wand around. After a few short moments I felt the anxiety return.  Looking at the large TV across from the bed, I was quickly aware something was wrong. There was no movement from the baby. Before I could compile my thoughts, the doctor said in Japanese, “I can’t find the heartbeat.”  As she searched, the room was filled with a sudden seriousness. The nurse left the room to call the head doctor.

In the next moment she confirmed my greatest fear—the baby’s heart was no longer beating. This is unreal, I thought. I felt like it couldn’t really be happening. After my all fear earlier that morning and giving it to the Lord, how could I be sitting here experiencing this awful reality? I called my husband, crying, and he came by taxi to meet me at the clinic. The nurse escorted me to an incredibly small private room to wait. Once my husband arrived we would be seen by the head doctor for confirmation.

In that tiny room, I felt desperate for help. Fear, confusion, and questions, swept over me like a tidal wave. I gave my daughter snacks to keep her busy, while I hurriedly pulled out my phone to read Psalm 18…

“I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer…”.

I read it out loud. I prayed. I declared truth to my confused soul. I hoped that God would heal the baby and the next check would show a beating heart in my womb.

It did not.

Our baby’s life had ended.

We named our baby Reed Noel.

The next part of our story involved us navigating the cultural and faith differences as Christians living in Japan. My original clinic did not seem to offer treatment that would respect Reed’s body and life. Through God’s clear provision we transferred to the only Christian hospital in our city. God allowed for a member of our church to be my physician. She was a vessel of God’s grace in our deeply painful time. She helped us understand miscarriage procedures in Japan, Japanese burial law, and funeral procedures. As we navigated these strange waters, the truth of being foreigners in this world was profound. Not only are we foreign to practices in Japan, but more profoundly as Christians in a place so devoid of Christ (1 Peter 1-2). The hospital informed us that if we waited for surgery until I was at the twelve-week mark, we could receive a death certificate and have a legal cremation for our baby. So we waited until I was twelve weeks for a D&C.

In what was nothing but grace, the doctors were able to delicately care for Reed’s body so that we could see him. We saw and held his tiny body. His ten, teeny tiny fingers and ten toes are an image that will never leave me. Seeing them was a joy in the midst of the loss. Months after, I sometimes feel worried about why I haven’t “gotten over this.” I wrongly listen to the lies of culture that says I shouldn’t be sad because the baby was so small, “not a real life.” But God’s truth speaks to those lies (see Psalm 139, for example). I am reminded of Reed’s teeny tiny fingers and I know God values each life. I know that Reed’s death is worthy of grief.

Reed’s cremation was June 7—ironically also our older son Asher’s 4th birthday. In the morning we celebrated Asher’s birth, then went to the crematorium. Funeral homes in Japan operate much different than in the US. Here, you say goodbye to the loved one, and then return hours later to receive the ashes. In that waiting time to receive Reed’s ashes, we continued to celebrate my son’s birthday at an indoor playground nearby. I have never felt such joy and grief in one day, it was a paradox of emotions. But God was with us.

Later we held a small funeral for Reed on a beautiful beach near our city. Surrounded by a few dear friends, we listened to the Word, prayed, and praised Him. Though my heart was deeply sad, I was strengthened by God’s word and the faith of those around me.

I looked out on the open ocean through tears as we scattered the ashes of our child. The words of this song later spoke hope to me:

My hopes and dreams were buried in the sea

But You were there, calling out to me

Life will rise,

Death will die

Your love is mine, Your love is mine.

 (“Your Love Is Mine” by I Am They)

Indeed, death will die. And all life in Christ will rise. Praise be to God.

Prior to the miscarriage we purchased tickets to visit the US. It would have been our first time in 1.5 years. Longing to see family, I was grateful this trip fell just two weeks after the funeral. However, the day after Reed’s funeral my husband was hit with severe appendicitis and required surgery. Due to surgery complications we were unable to make our trip and had to postpone. Though frustrated to not see family, I soon realized it was an opportunity to experience that God is enough. He is my true and ultimate source of comfort, peace, strength, and joy.

We were so tangibly loved supported by Christian community. Our families were thousands of miles away and I sometimes felt alone, but we were not. God’s love was felt through the meals, prayers, and words from friends.

My goal for my children is that that they would grow to know and love the Lord. That by trusting in Christ, they would spend eternity with Him. Had Reed been born, this would have been my goal for him, my hope. Realizing that this goal has been accomplished for Reed has brought me much peace. By God’s grace alone, Reed has eternal life. Setting my mind on things above, I see that Reed is ultimately where I want him to be, where I know there is fullness of joy in God’s presence. I have hope, and all the glory goes to God.

– Megan

Hope Mom to Reed

 

We would be honored to share your story as a Hope Mom on our blog! Every Saturday we feature a Hope Mom’s story 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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