Miscarried Life

It has been one week today since I heard the words, "we can't find a heartbeat. It looks like the baby died last week."

Up until that moment, it seemed like I had all of the normal symptoms of pregnancy. I was experiencing severe morning sickness, and food aversions. I felt extremely exhausted and emotional—all of the same things that I had with our first son, Thomas. At nine weeks, I was filled with anticipation and dreams for this new life. Would Thomas have a brother or a sister? What is this one going to look like? Is he or she going to be more like Ryan or me? Ryan and I began dreaming, planning and hoping for this new little life within my womb.

As my first appointment approached, I felt eager to receive confirmation—I was eager to hear the heartbeat and know for certain that there was life within me. A heartbeat—the vital and necessary sign of life—the sound of this vital organ would tell me everything was okay, and that there truly was LIFE, at least according to Webster's dictionary. Little did I know that soon I would go through a process of understanding life in an entirely new manner.

Upon arriving at the doctor's office, Ryan and I were ushered into a room with ultrasound equipment. Our technician was a stout, young lady who seemed nice enough. "Are there any concerns with your pregnancy?" She asked in a matter-of-fact voice. It was her duty to ask this routine question, and we didn't think much about it. I told her that everything was just fine. I was feeling sick, so that had to be a good sign. She began the ultrasound in severe silence. As she probed around, we witnessed a little sac, arm and leg buds, and a tiny head. Ryan and I communicated with our eyes with smiles lighting up our faces. We were silently saying to one another, "Wow! Look at our little one."

The only sound heard in the room was a game going on between father and son. "Where is the light?" Ryan would ask Thomas, and he would respond by pointing upwards. "Where is your belly button?" Thomas would giggle and answer by pointing downwards. This game continued on, as the technician continued in silence.

"I am going to have the doctor look at these pictures." The technician finally broke her silent reverie. There wasn't a smile on her face, and for some reason it didn't dawn or either Ryan and I that we hadn't heard the sound we had been eagerly awaiting—the sound of life, the baby's heartbeat.

The doctor was a tall, young man with a kind face. He came in and introduced himself to us, and then proceeded with the news we had not been expecting. "At this point, we should hear a heartbeat. You will miscarry in the next few weeks."

Miscarry. This word bounced through my ears like a ping-pong ball. It was the last word I had expected to hear that day. Did he get that wrong? I wondered. Did he mean congratulations? Is this real? As he continued his speech saying something to the effect that there was nothing we could have done, and that this is nature's way of blah, blah, blah, I felt like I was in a dream. I was expecting life, and instead we were greeting death.

The tears for lost life came as a flood after the doctor left. I leaned on Ryan's shoulder and wept. I hadn't realized just how attached I had become to our little one until I found out that he or she was gone. "Let's pray." Ryan suggested, and that was the last thing I felt like doing. I will never forget Ryan's short and sweet prayer, "Thank you Lord that you give and take away. Blessed be your name." There was something so comforting in those words, and I felt a peace embrace my weary heart.

That evening I picked up my Bible and read these words in the book of Isaiah, "Never again will there be in it (the New Heaven & New Earth) an infant who lives but a few days…"(65:20). Although I was dealing with death, the Lord was reminding me of life. He was reminding me of His precious words after raising Lazarus from the dead, "I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will LIVE, even though he dies." (John 11:25a) What a glorious paradox! What a beautiful hope.

It's been seven days now, and as I continue to wait for a miscarriage I rest in the resurrection and the life—Jesus Christ. I am learning that life is more than just a heartbeat. It is found in knowing Jesus Christ—the one who came to give us everlasting, true life.

Sometimes at night I wonder if God will raise my baby as he did Lazarus. And in the depth of my heart I know that answer is a resounding, yes! He could choose to raise my baby now, or he has already raised him up in His presence. Lately, I have been dreaming of life: my child with fully grown arms and legs running around in the presence of His maker. His voice is angelic, and he has not a care or worry, as his needs are fully met. He does not face fears, or cry tears, but instead he only experiences joy. He is complete and is using his gifts and talents that his maker has given him. And in my dream I am assured that he is living, really living—my miscarried life.