Morehouse Made Homemaking

The blog has remained silent for quite a few months now. The first half of the year, I was trying to process the political spectrum we suddenly found our country in. The second half was filled with a trial I didn’t expect to be in, but God allowed it into my life.  

Back in July, I had found out we were expecting baby number three. The weeks were long as we waited to see our sweet baby on the ultrasound, and the day had finally arrived. I was so sure it was twins. Or a girl. So so sure. But the ultrasound revealed that the baby wasn’t the right size. There was no heartbeat. We waited a week and a second ultrasound confirmed the worst. The baby had died at only six weeks.  

I’d always told myself that God hadn’t allowed me to face the trial of miscarriage because I couldn’t handle something like that. There was just no way. And yet, there I was. It wasn’t someone else. It was me that was facing this trial this time. I cried a lot in the two weeks before my body processed the miscarriage. I guess I’d expected myself to be mad at what had happened- betrayed, if you will. But I was really just…. sad. I had started coming up with names for our newest family member. I’d decided where the baby would fit in our small house. I’d bought some new maternity clothes. And then, a single appointment ended all those dreams.  

I clung hard to the shortest verse found in the Bible. “Jesus wept.” So simple, and yet so much complexity all in the same verse. This verse is found in John and is written in the context of the loss of Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha. They were mourning the loss of their brother. They knew that if Jesus had only been there, their brother would have lived. We’ve seen in other accounts that He simply could have spoken from where He was at and Lazarus would have lived. And yet, Lazarus died. At seeing Lazarus in the tomb, Jesus weeps. He is sympathetic towards their pain (Heb. 4:15), and He weeps for the effects of sin (I Cor. 15:26). There are plenty of other reasons that Jesus could have wept, but these are the reasons my heart focused on. Jesus goes on to raise Lazarus from the dead, and I knew Jesus could have done the same for my baby. I knew that He could have breathed life into our little one. But He did not. I don’t understand God’s ways, for His ways are not our ways (Isaiah 55:8-9). But we see here that God is full of compassion. He does not delight in our sorrows. He mourned the death of Lazarus. He was mourning that death was a permanent result of the sin that had come into the world.  

Jesus Himself felt my sorrow. And that was enough for me. Jesus cared me for and my baby. And I have every confidence that our sweet little one is in Heaven with the Savior even now. I love that baby, but how much more does Jesus love him?  

Two weeks had passed, and I thought I was doing ok. My body began to process the miscarriage on a Friday, and I felt that the closure would come after that. I felt pretty nasty for a couple of hours, and then suddenly, I felt better. It was done, I thought. It was done. I got up to use the restroom and realized I’d leaked through my monstrous pad. I thought maybe I’d just been laying down too long, so I cleaned up and laid back down. Ten minutes passed and I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong, so I made a second trip to the restroom (let me back up and say that I had done my research. I didn’t think the amount of blood I was losing was abnormal for what I was going through). But at my second check, I started getting light headed. I realized I was losing too much blood and I started passing out. I called for Paul. 

Everything from there is this weird, vivid memory which I’ll spare you the horrific details on. Paul shuffled the kids into the van and ended up carrying me out because I couldn’t make it past the couch ottoman. When I arrived at the ER, I felt mostly better. A fluke, I thought. Nothing to worry about. By the time the ultrasound tech had made his way in a few hours later, I’d passed out probably four additional times. The ultrasound came up as one of the most horrifically colored images I’ve ever seen in my life. I knew that the colors showing up the screen were bad news. I was hemmoraging with an incomplete miscarriage.  

The OB/GYN on call came in, and they quickly put me in for emergency surgery. I was given blood transfusions, taken to surgery, and about an hour later, it was done. They sent me home at 1:30 a.m.  

The days to come were difficult days I didn’t expect. I was puffy from all the IV fluids, and I could hear the blood in my ears because of the extent of the blood loss. More than that, the emotional and spiritual trauma were a looming cloud. My baby was gone. I had almost died. It was a lot to process.  

It took me weeks to kind of normalize. I was depressed. I was depressed that I’d lost the baby and I was depressed that the situation became so dangerous. I was full of questions that I didn’t feel I had answers to and wasn’t sure I ever would. I guess everyone responds a little differently to things like that, but somewhere in there, my heart began to look at things differently. I was sad, but I saw so much of God in it all.  

I saw God in the support He sent to me. People sent me meals. My sister came to stay with us and take care of the kids. Church members reached out. Our music director and his wife took in my kids so Paul could stay with me in the hospital. My sister-in-laws talked me through hard things. Friends listened to my story even when it was hard. And I can never thank those enough who told me their own heartbreaking stories to let me know I was not alone.  

I saw how He went before me and provided for me. There was the right blood when I needed it. He sent the right doctors and nurses my way. He knew all that was coming. He protected me from so much, and He made sure I was taken care of.  

One of my Godly friends encouraged me by pointing out that our God is sovereign. And that is where my security is. God holds my life in His hands, and nothing will happen to it that He doesn’t allow. Does that always mean the path will be easy? Absolutely not. But He will always be there. Always.  

It’s been three months since everything happened. The miscarriage still hits a raw nerve at times. I listened to a lot of worship music afterwards that I attribute to a great deal of my healing. I’m not talking about the songs themselves, but I’m talking more of their focus on who God is and His worthiness of praise. Songs that point to His character. He is worthy in the good days and the bad.  

The whole experience has given me a new passion for the Gospel itself. It’s easy to get into a rut (I speak from experience). Sharing the Gospel becomes a secondary aspect of life. It’s a thing we do because we have to. But no one is guaranteed tomorrow- you, me, anyone. I was so thankful that I knew Christ in that moment. I was thankful for the hope that my baby had gone to Heaven and I’ll one day see him. I was thankful to know that I have a home there one day, as well. And I was thankful for the assurance that God was with me from the moment we found out about our sweet little one to the dark moments after the miscarriage.  

We named our baby Rowan Blair. Our baby was (and is) so loved. I’m thankful for the pregnancy, and I’m thankful that God allowed our baby to live if even for six short weeks.  

As a pretty private person, I debated sharing this story. It’s been a hard road, and I know I’m not all the way through it, yet. However, I hope this story brings hope. If you’ve miscarried, know you’re not alone. It would be a great honor to help carry your burden should you ever need someone to talk to. Our God is greater than we are. And nothing is out of His control. Be strong in the Lord. Know that He will never take a Christian through a trial that He will not accompany him on. May your faith be ever strong in the living God of the Bible, for He is with us.