Miscarriage was Our Greatest Win
After our miscarriage, I needed God to tell me what it meant. So I could get my head right. I needed Him to tell me how to think about the death of our tiny, innocent baby.
Because—even in that one day we knew we were pregnant before the miscarriage—I had already daydreamed our baby’s whole life. I had run serious girl and boy names by Brent. I had told Max “there a baby in mommy’s tummy!” several times. I had drafted a mental list of things that would need to be done "before the baby came." I had joy and wonder and awe. And thanks to NFP, I had a due date. I knew we were 7 weeks pregnant, and that the baby was due Aug 22, on the Feast of the Queenship of Mary.
In that first, short day, I had already carved a wide, sacred space in my heart for the tiny baby nestled in my womb.
But the very next day, we lost our baby.
And I couldn’t understand this; how was I to view this loss? Why had a loving, intentional God wanted us to know of our baby's existence for just one day? It seemed cruel.
But cruel didn’t fit the God I knew, so I kept after Him—I kept asking.
I realized the day we learned we were pregnant was the Feast of the Epiphany. And "Epiphany," as it turns out, means: "a moment of sudden revelation or insight; a manifestation of a divine or supernatural being."
And that fit.
God had, in His Infinite Love, revealed to us this tiny, divine being for just one day because one day was all we needed to manifest the existence of this tiny baby into our minds and hearts. In His Infinite Mercy, He spared us the pain of not having known or loved at all, as well as the suffering of having known or loved longer. He permitted us this one, perfect day to know and love our baby—and we did.
But despite this insight—I still needed more from Him.
So I went to sit with Jesus.
I went to the perpetual adoration chapel, where I often go to find Him. In my weak, failing prayers, I asked Him for an anchor. Of truth. Of love. Something I could cling to.
And as I was praying—or rather, listening—I felt the undeniable feeling that He was with me. I felt the permeating warmth of His presence, like the touch of sun soaking into, warming bare skin.
And He was not just with me—He was holding me. Weeping. Sorrowful. Like that empathetic parent or friend who doesn't say anything, but says everything, as they take and hold your hand, fold you into a crushing, rocking hug of love and safety and strength and shared tears.
So I sat; I let Him hold me. I had run out of tears, but He cried for both of us.
After a bit, I sensed He had some things He wanted to tell me—vital things He wanted me to know, have, cling to.
First, that this miscarriage did not mean anything about His love for me. Or our family. It did not mean anything about His approval. He more than approved—He was well-pleased—of the job we were doing as parents.
Also, He was touched by the depth of my faith, by the gesture I had made in blind trust and love when I had consecrated our baby to Him at Mass, in the early moments, when I was still unsure whether or not I was having a miscarriage.
And He was cradling our tiny baby, gingerly, in His cupped hands. Our baby was pure and precious to Him. Our child was His child, too, and He was also grieving the death. His embrace wrapped around our family, our suffering, our grief, our loss, the baby—all of it.
As I sat with Him, as I continued to let Him hold me, an anchor started to settle in my mind.
To us, on earth, this death looked like an end. A complete loss.
But it was not, is not. It’s an ongoing victory.
The kind of victory that’s invisible to us because it doesn’t exist in our world. It’s an other-wordly victory—not unlike the victory of the cross.
We cannot quite grasp this victory because we are stuck in this world, on the grieving end of a cord tethered to a bundle of joy that exists in the other world—the world of heaven—which we are not (yet) part of. And this separation—this earthly loose end—is hard.
But, as the Lord assured me, nothing we suffer or offer to Him from this world, in our time of grief, will be wasted.
He will accept and match and multiply everything we give Him—He will repurpose it for the good of other souls—like an anonymous donation.
And we can be proud parents, knowing that we have an ally in heaven: a champion intercessor for our family. And others.
He let me see that we have lived every parent's dream, in the most unlikely of ways. We had been able to shield and protect our baby from every pain, suffering and evil in this world. Our precious child was never cold, hungry, sad, rejected, lonely or hurt.
And we had successfully completed our duty as parents—we have borne little Dakota Francis directly into heaven.
And as I was still sitting with the Lord, still trying to absorb this rainbow—this sacred glimpse of His truth and love—a verse came to me. It was tangibly alive and immediately took root in my mind:
"Well done, my good and faithful servant."
Points to Ponder + Discuss:
- Miscarriage affects 1 in 4 clinically confirmed pregnancies (many more go unreported). Why is miscarriage such a prevalent—but rarely discussed—phenomenon?
- Do you think there is adequate support around miscarriage—in your church, workplace, family, friend circle, burial assistance, etc?
- How has your family been affected by miscarriage?
- Where do you see God's peace and hope in the tragedy of miscarriage?
- Ponder / discuss the following verse as it might relate to this article's topic: