We’d been married only a year and were ecstatic to find that Missy was pregnant. The realization ushered our marriage to a new level of intimacy and sense of family. We no longer passed by the baby section in Target, but dove in, aisle by aisle, soaking up our new environment with elation. Our evenings were spent on Craigslist, comparing prices and finding the best deals in Boston. It was a euphoric time, even amidst the college courses and daily work schedules. We felt beyond blessed.
Months into the pregnancy Missy believed something wasn’t right. Our family practician confirmed the suspicion and sent us to the hospital where we were told a heartbeat could not be found. Our baby had died. Once the doctor had left the room, we felt the full weight of the situation. Our bodies crumpled down together where we promised each other, “We’re still going to love God.” It was all we could say between the sobbing, a type of mantra. I suppose it was to convince ourselves as well as commit ourselves. We both knew well that He “gives and takes away,” but were experiencing the full impact of that truth. And it hurt. The pain of a miscarriage, however, doesn’t end when you leave the hospital.
Waiting at home are the baby clothes you purchased in sheer excitement, the sonogram images hanging on the refrigerator, and the baby magazines stacked in the living room. You don’t know whether to tuck them under the couch, throw them across the room, or just ignore them, hoping it’s all a bad dream. There’s also the process of actually birthing the baby. Together. In your bathroom. I remember walking Missy to bed to rest while I retrieved our child. I sat there on my knees, holding my baby in one hand. A lifeless body. The tiniest features I’d ever seen. I asked God to hold my child for me.
[Read the rest of the article at Start Marriage Right.]