As February draws to a close, I would like to honor the life of our third child, Abigail Christian, who left this earth in the second trimester of my pregnancy in 1997. It was Feb 13 and it is a day and a moment I shall never forget. I want to share with you an essay that I wrote that was published in my husband’s book, Silent No More. In this particular month, the memories of that tragic day come rushing back more than usual. I think of our daughter and wonder what she would’ve looked like now, what would her interests be, would she be like her sister or brother or uniquely different, what life would be like with three kids, and especially how adored she’d be by all of us. I imagine Austin as a great, big brother and Ashton as the doting big sister that Abby would’ve wanted to be just like. As I state in this essay, miscarriage is not the loss of a life but the loss of a lifetime. It’s important to all of us to validate the life of these children and the loss that is suffered by the parents as well. For me, I will see my little girl again, for heaven is my blessed assurance, but until then I will never forget…
There is nothing in life, I feel, that changes the fabric of your existence quite like tragedy. While it may not define you, surviving tragedy will forever mark you. The wounds may heal, but the scars remain as a reminder of God’s grace and strength that led you through “the valley of the shadow of death.”
There is a vast and indescribable difference between an unwanted pregnancy and the unwanted loss of one. When my husband and I suffered a miscarriage in 1997, I discovered a bewildering irony in the church. The very same Christians who waved their pro-life banners and wore their buttons and bumper stickers with militant pride were the very same ones who dismissed the loss of my “wanted” pregnancy as though I had the common cold.
The devastation that I felt over the loss of this little life was suffocating--every breath seemed a conscious effort. My once tranquil soul became a tidal wave of emotion as grief washed over every ounce of my being. This was not just the loss of a pregnancy; this was the loss of my baby, my child, my teenager, my married daughter, and the mother of my grandchildren. A loss of life, yes, but a loss of a life, and a lifetime even more so, became the anthem of my heart’s cry.
I woke up each day wishing I hadn’t. I knew, though, that my other two children needed me. I pushed the autopilot button and went through the proverbial motions of our daily routine. Where many others were concerned, I was met with sympathy, but I mostly recall their sometimes unfeeling remarks: “Well, at least you never knew the baby.” “At least you never bonded.” “You’ll be together in heaven.” “You can try again soon and have another baby.”
If I had been rude, I guess I could have responded, “Yes, I knew my baby and fell in love with her the moment I knew she was alive on the inside of me.” “Yes, we bonded; I talked to her all day. I told her stories about her brother and sister and how I throw the grandest of birthday parties and how fun Christmas is at our house. I told her how great her daddy is and that she would totally wrap him around her finger and get everything she wanted like her brother and sister do. I told her about her wonderful family and how excited we would be to see her. I told her about Jesus and that I was sure she was one of His angels that He was sending to me. And yes, I thank God for the blessed assurance that I will hold her in heaven, but I want to hold her here on earth, and if that’s selfish, so be it.” “And no, I can’t try again for another baby, and even if I could, this is the one I want.”
All I wanted was my baby and for someone to understand and to validate the life and loss. This life was precious, and the loss so painful and unique. There is no funeral, no memorial, no closure, yet such emptiness; nowhere or no way was provided to announce to the world, “This is our child, and she is no longer with us.”
She wasn’t just fetal tissue; she was alive. I saw her heart beating in an ultrasound one day and not beating in an ultrasound another day. I looked at her lifeless body on the screen and said my goodbyes. That is all I had, a life one day and a death another. I promised our baby that her life would be a ministry and that Mommy would always help others who lost their little angels, too. We honor her life and her memory. People cope in different ways. I have always coped through purpose, finding a way to serve through my pain to others in need.
My perspective as well as my priorities are so different. I “don’t sweat the small stuff.” Each day is a gift, and when much has been taken from you, you appreciate everything that you are given.
God is the God of amazing grace, and through that valley I learned and I grew, but I never forgot. We planted a weeping willow tree in our baby’s honor, and every year we sponsor a student in our preparatory school who would have been our child’s classmate. No one has ever known--it has been my private memorial in hopes of honoring her and giving her life purpose. I know she would have wanted it that way.
To my daughter, my Abby… you are where I long to be, you have seen the face of my Jesus, you have known the glory that is heaven, you have never known pain, you have never shed a tear, you have only known joy beyond human comprehension, peace that does pass our understanding, and the eternal presence of the God that loves you and made you. How can I cry for you? I only cry for me but knowing these things, and knowing my Savior is what gives me comfort and of course, knowing that I’ll hold you in Heaven. Until then… All My Love, Mommy..xoxo
