Meg’s Story

I got into my car, shaking, and responded to my doctor’s voicemail requesting me to call her personal line so that I might talk to her that evening. That Friday evening. A week prior to this, I had chosen to take a voluntary, non-invasive blood test on a whim, and some results were flagged.

My doctor mentioned words I had never heard, and I scrambled to write anything down on the back of the one receipt I found. It was my first brush with such grief.

I had experienced some loss before, and had already had a few rocky appointments with my OB. But five days later, I walked into an ultrasound room, watched my sixteen-week-old baby kick and flip on the screen, and squeezed my husband’s hand as we dreamed of this little boy’s life. “We’re seeing some problems,” the doctor so gently explained. Our son would not live as long a life as we had imagined.

Every few weeks we showed up for more ultrasounds, primarily so that we could “see” our baby boy as much as possible. We were initially told that he may not survive to full-term. He may not survive birth. He may live minutes. It would be rare for him to live several hours after birth.

But in the earliest of hours on a Tuesday, our sweet Jacob defied the odds and was born—alive. His first breaths were on my chest, and for the next seven hours he was held, adored, kissed, and passed around to doting family. As the sun rose and the raindrops fell outside our window, Jacob opened his eyes for the first time in the presence of Jesus, while his earthly body lay against my chest.

The world may count his life as short, his body as incomplete, and his impact quite tiny.  But God’s currency measures differently.

Jacob’s birthday was one of the best days of my life.

The next afternoon, I begrudgingly walked into my house, with empty arms. Tears met with more tears as we took our next steps towards the rest of life without him.

In the window of time between that first Friday afternoon phone call and the Wednesday morning ultrasound, God impressed upon my heart Psalm 16—the lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed I have a beautiful inheritance.  What did it mean to trust Him that the lines had fallen in pleasant places, that He was my inheritance, and that it was beautiful?

For the weeks and months following Jacob’s diagnosis, my husband and I felt overwhelmingly showered by God’s grace as He empowered us to pray, “Take this cup, Lord… not our will, but Yours be done.” 

The simultaneous collision of joy and sorrow that marked Jacob’s life here on Earth felt increasingly painful as we entered into deep grief following his death. And in my darkest, most hidden moments, I found myself sobbing on the bathroom floor, door closed, crying out to God. Babies aren’t supposed to die. The pain was too much. The aching, the loss, the grief—too heavy. God would speak to my heart, “Rest in My grace,” as I would dry off my face, wet from tears, and enter back out into my world of pain.

Several months went by and I began to learn what it meant to be a grieving mother — longing for my child, and yet so new to motherhood to begin with. My weary eyes had nowhere else to look but to the Lord, and yet, it was painful to read Scripture; it was challenging to pray. Just doing the next thing became part of my rhythm, and God was somehow sustaining me.

Eight months later, my heart skipped a beat as I looked down at my positive pregnancy test with the instant thought: I get to love another baby! Almost immediately, we shared the news with family and friends—determined to celebrate this baby’s life for as long as we could.

We knew that we would face another potential diagnosis again, but until that point, we would wait. As I battled more morning sickness than before and other now-familiar pregnancy symptoms, I would casually ask others to pray that we’d see a heartbeat. There was no real thought behind it, but it was the next hurdle in what felt like an excruciatingly long wait until 10 weeks, before we learned more.

And so, we walked into another ultrasound room, watched on the screen, and again heard the devastating words, I’m sorry. This time, what followed was: There’s no heartbeat. I had seen it the instant that I saw our baby’s body appear on the screen. No flicker. They double-checked my dates. They measured for size. We had lost this baby within days, most likely. There was nothing we could do.

My full body shook as tears fell rapidly in that ultrasound room. Again? How? Another baby lost. Jacob would be almost 10 months. It was so unthinkable.

Another phone call to family. Another painful car ride home. More tears. More sitting on the couch in silence. More shock. 

How could we continue to stand when this new wave crashed over us?

Miscarriage following infant loss was confusing and painful. Numbing. My only way to get through was to simply be.

It was almost Christmas, our first without Jacob, and I remember sitting with my counselor and sharing with her all the sorrows the holidays would bring. I didn’t know how I’d possibly get through it first with one loss, and now two. Words spilled out of my mouth as I confessed to her that I felt like I was free falling. I had let go.

She responded so tenderly. Isn’t that what we’re all doing, all along? There she pointed me back to the nature of God—His tender, strong, and loving hands, holding on to me. I had come to the end of myself, realizing I had nothing more to hold on to, nothing more that I could control. And yet, I never had control. For the first time, I could truly rest. And it was beautiful.

Beauty—the God who came as Immanuel, God with us, is the same God who walked in the Garden among His children. He’s the same God who we can look forward to being with in heaven, as it says in Revelation 21:3, for “God Himself will be with them,” which precedes that most famous comfort, “He will wipe away every tear…” I cling to that hope.

My oldest children are in Heaven. My house still echoes the quiet; my arms ache for them. The loneliness threatens to overwhelm me at times, but in the stillness, that’s when I hear Him. That’s when I know that He’s there. When He shows me, once more, that He sees me, that He loves me, and that He loves them.

Even in the midst of the pain, I have learned to be able to say: the lines have fallen for me in pleasant places. Indeed, I do have a beautiful inheritance… because God is with me.  And for that, my heart can still sing of His praise. He is the God who sustains.

My husband John-Mark and I live in Richmond, VA, where we spend our days with college students, sharing the grace and truth that Jesus offers as He transforms their lives – and ours. I am a big fan of warm weather and the beach, meaningful conversations with those I love, and my family. These days I am in a new phase of my motherhood as I invest most of my time caring for my youngest, a sweet baby girl. The greatest honor of my life is being a mom of two with babies in Heaven.

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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