Miscarriage, Grief and the Closeness of God: One Mother's Story

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By Meg Stout

Yesterday began, what I am sure will be, one of the longest two weeks of my life. We learned that our almost seven week old unborn baby is nearly two weeks behind in development. We expected to see the baby's form and a flickering heartbeat, but only saw an empty black circle. For medical reasons, we have to wait two weeks to confirm what we already know has happened — our baby is dead. We now have lost four children to miscarriage.

Our first miscarriage happened in a traumatic fashion. I was just entering my second trimester and my husband and I had travelled to Ukraine to adopt our son. Physically, the loss happened suddenly, and because I was a little further along I had to go to a hospital in Kyiv for care. There were a few layers of trauma. I didn't talk about it for a year; I was silent even with God. I didn't feel angry; I just felt… hardened. Through months of heartache and bad dreams, I realized that closing myself off was a mistake. I learned I needed to keep my heart soft during suffering, especially toward my Father.

My next two losses were several years later. I asked the Father to help me be vulnerable. He knew my heart, my emotions, my thoughts, but I didn't want to question him or have a lack of faith. I wanted to trust, though it was difficult. I was drawn to Job from the Old Testament. He lost everything — not only his children, but his wife and his possessions. He grieved deeply, even saying it would be better had he never been born and asking God why he was his target. And yet he still proclaimed, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord" (Job 1:21). Despite his feelings, Job declared God's faithfulness through an act of the will. I knew that's what I needed to do. Days after my third miscarriage, amidst tears and trembling, and while I was driving no less, I repeated those words of Job. What followed in the days after continues to confound.

Just like he did with Job, the Lord drew near. He didn't give me answers; he gave me himself. I remember stumbling upon a quote from C.S. Lewis' final novel, Till We Have Faces, which touched me deeply. It reads, "I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice?"

Somehow, with God being close and, through grace, my heart softened to receive, my suffering became intertwined with joy. I still do not understand it. There was a swelling of gratitude that I could physically feel in my chest: gratitude for every moment I was able to spend with my children on this earth, and gratitude for God's promises of eternal life. For so many years, I had hoped for children. God smiled upon that earthly hope, but being a good Father gave me something greater. He poured out the hope that can only come from him, the "virtue by which we desire the kingdom of heaven and eternal life as our happiness, placing our trust in Christ's promises and relying not on our own strength, but on the help of the grace of the Holy Spirit" (CCC 1817). Simultaneous with tremendous grief, it is now a true joy to entrust three — now four — of my children's souls to the God of Hope. Somehow, by God's grace, the suffering itself has become almost sweet.

For the next two weeks, unbeknownst to those around me, I'll be carrying a baby whose earthly life has ended. I'll be wondering, with some dread, when the time will come where I'll lose my physical connection to him. There will be sadness and anxiety, moments of tears and panic. But God will be so close, and there will be so much grace. I remind myself, "Stay soft." Don't run from suffering; embrace it and love it. Your good Father has only goodness planned for you.