No matter how much time passes, I can slip back into a significant event in my life in a split-second—even if I'm sitting in the driver's seat of my car on the way home from the kids' soccer games. Seven years of distance failed to erase the clarity of the tragic moment that rose to the surface on that day.
I was still living overseas at the time, expecting our second child. Everything was sailing along smoothly when I showed up for my 13-week OBGYN appointment. This was the first time my husband hadn’t come along for the appointment, but we had no reason to expect bad news.
Everything about the visit felt normal. But in a blink of an eye, before my OBGYN could utter the words, I knew something was wrong. Her body tensed. Silence filled the room as she moved the ultrasound transducer over my stomach. She looked down at the floor.
I propped myself up on an elbow. “What’s wrong?” My heart pounded as panic seized control.
When she lifted her brown eyes, sadness greeted me.
How could anything be wrong? I felt fine. There was no bleeding.
“Jenny,” my doctor began, “there’s no heartbeat.”
My mind raced to decipher her words. No heartbeat? Why wouldn’t there be a heartbeat? And then the weight of her words plummeted into my heart. I no longer carried a living baby.
“It’s called a missed miscarriage,” she explained. “I’m so sorry.”
The room whirled around me. Sobs crested in my chest before crashing out audibly into the sterile room. The coolness of the silver exam table on my skin. The glint of the fluorescent lights on the medical tools. The white gown I donned. This was not a place designed to comfort—the irony augmented my confusion and pain. And in those disorientating moments of grief, one thought drifted through my mind: God, why did you let me be alone to face this news?
My doctor led me to a private room to stay in as long as I needed. But the shame of my secret was written across my tear-stained face as I exited the exam room. Twenty minutes earlier I had entered that same door pregnant. But now, as I stumbled out, was not.
Women—strangers—in the waiting area likely heard my sobs and knew precisely what news I was told before I could tell one person who knew and loved me. God, why this way? I felt so alone. And I couldn’t stop weeping.
THROUGH LOSS
One out of five women will experience a miscarriage in their second trimester (this number increases to one in four if widened to include miscarriage at any point during pregnancy). This means when a group of 15 women meet up for a weekly moms group, at least three women will have walked through miscarriage.
In American culture, some women wait to share their pregnancy news until the second trimester. When hardly anyone knows about the loss, women can feel isolated and alone as they walk through intense sorrow.
Discussing miscarriage has been a slightly taboo conversation within the church. While a positive trend to change this is in motion, it still can feel as though miscarriage is meant to be kept private. And this can augment the pain and isolation of hurting women.
The month of October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It’s a time for women to share their experiences as they navigate the loss of a child. In openly talking about their journey, women help bring discussion about miscarriage from the back burner to the front. This road of healing from pregnancy and infant loss is not meant to be traveled alone—and October is a chance to vocalize this truth.
CLINGING TO JESUS
As I waded through the tides of my pain and sorrow after the news of my missed miscarriage, numbness encased my heart like frost. I didn’t know how to make the pain stop. But I knew whose arms I could run into. Jesus embraced me as darkness enveloped me, and He extended a candle to help me along the shadowy path of grief.
In Psalm 62, God met me in the depths of my sorrow and offered healing. He melted the frost away slowly—just as you need to do for frostbite. More damage can occur if you try to warm your hands too swiftly after frostbite. And so it was with my heart as I grieved.
While I carried a dead child in my womb, I recalled how “He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken” (v. 2). As I waited for my body to expel the fetus, I mulled over how for “God alone my soul waits in silence” (v. 1). When I underwent a dilation and curettage, knowing that “God is a refuge for [me]” (v. 8) was a balm for my aching heart. When I was wheeled past the hospital room I held my first son in, I clung to the truth that “my hope is from Him” (v. 5).
But the verse I meditated upon the most was v. 8:
“Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us.”
And so I poured my heart out before Him. Tears spilled onto journal pages of prayers. Hours spent listening to worship music met me in my sorrow as I couldn’t find words to utter. I could only envision myself running into a tall stone tower, slamming the heavy wooden door behind me, and crouching on the ground—for this tower was God my refuge.
As my soul waited on God, He illuminated the path forward after my miscarriage. The pain never really goes away. But I’ve learned to live with it. And the tenderness of the Lord’s love continues to sustain and remind me that I was never once alone—even in that doctor’s room so many years ago. God was there to comfort me. He knew I needed more space than I could have known to grieve. I can see it now. He carried me through that dark season because only He could bring the healing my heart and soul needed.
Women everywhere—in our neighborhoods, at our churches, and around the world—experience pregnancy and infant loss and still bear the scars of their unseen grief. As the days of October pass, we can pause this month to remember these women and pray for their hurting hearts today.
Lord, please help women experiencing pregnancy and infant loss to trust you even in pain. Bring healing to their aching hearts and souls as they pour out their hearts to you. Please help these women to cry out to you and know you are with them. Be their refuge and comfort as they walk this difficult path (Psalm 62:8). Amen.
As I waded through the tides of my pain and sorrow after the news of my missed miscarriage, numbness encased my heart like frost. I didn’t know how to make the pain stop. But I knew whose arms I could run into. Jesus embraced me as darkness enveloped me, and He extended a candle to help me along the shadowy path of grief.
In Psalm 62, God met me in the depths of my sorrow and offered healing. He melted the frost away slowly—just as you need to do for frostbite. More damage can occur if you try to warm your hands too swiftly after frostbite. And so it was with my heart as I grieved.
While I carried a dead child in my womb, I recalled how “He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken” (v. 2). As I waited for my body to expel the fetus, I mulled over how for “God alone my soul waits in silence” (v. 1). When I underwent a dilation and curettage, knowing that “God is a refuge for [me]” (v. 8) was a balm for my aching heart. When I was wheeled past the hospital room I held my first son in, I clung to the truth that “my hope is from Him” (v. 5).
But the verse I meditated upon the most was v. 8:
“Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us.”
And so I poured my heart out before Him. Tears spilled onto journal pages of prayers. Hours spent listening to worship music met me in my sorrow as I couldn’t find words to utter. I could only envision myself running into a tall stone tower, slamming the heavy wooden door behind me, and crouching on the ground—for this tower was God my refuge.
As my soul waited on God, He illuminated the path forward after my miscarriage. The pain never really goes away. But I’ve learned to live with it. And the tenderness of the Lord’s love continues to sustain and remind me that I was never once alone—even in that doctor’s room so many years ago. God was there to comfort me. He knew I needed more space than I could have known to grieve. I can see it now. He carried me through that dark season because only He could bring the healing my heart and soul needed.
Women everywhere—in our neighborhoods, at our churches, and around the world—experience pregnancy and infant loss and still bear the scars of their unseen grief. As the days of October pass, we can pause this month to remember these women and pray for their hurting hearts today.
Lord, please help women experiencing pregnancy and infant loss to trust you even in pain. Bring healing to their aching hearts and souls as they pour out their hearts to you. Please help these women to cry out to you and know you are with them. Be their refuge and comfort as they walk this difficult path (Psalm 62:8). Amen.