A quiet anniversary

A little life lost, a white stone, and whispered hope

This post centres on (early) pregnancy loss. Please feel free to skip past if it’s likely to bring up unhelpful emotions that make things harder for you—if that’s you, I’m so sorry for your loss and pray that God reminds you of his comfort and love today. 💜💜

I took a Rapid Antigen Test yesterday. Staring at the small results panel, waiting to see if one or two lines would appear, I instinctively held my breath, hoping for a positive (pregnancy) result, yet knowing I should be hoping for a negative Covid-19 result!

It’s the same every time, but felt yesterday’s particularly, as it marked four years since what would have been the due date of the third child I carried within my womb.

The doctor confirmed the loss of that little life at around nine and a half weeks. He or she had likely died around a month earlier, although my body continued to be and think that it was pregnant—somehow, that little one just ‘disappeared’, leaving behind an empty gestational sac to see on the scans¹.

It’s a complex one to grieve: had that pregnancy progressed, my husband and I would not have been able to have our third beautiful daughter, for whom I’m so very grateful; and we didn’t get to see a heartbeat, so it feels surreal that this little life ever existed.

And yet a part of me still aches for the little one that I will never hold this side of heaven. I’d loved him or her, planned to be their mama, considered names and practicalities.

Yesterday, I wondered what life is like for my little one beyond the gates to eternity.² Would he or she be running and playing with those who have gone before into the arms of Jesus³? Would he or she grow up? What would their little personality be like? His or her passing was too soon for me to know whether they were a boy or a girl, and so I haven’t named them—but I believe that Jesus has given them a name, written on a beautiful white stone (Revelation 2:17).

I look forward to meeting my little baby one day. But until then—and beyond then—I entrust him or her to Jesus. And on these quiet anniversaries, I carry them close to my heart.

Note

I found two books really helpful in processing the loss of this little one, and share them here in case they can be of help to others, too:

Held: 31 Biblical Reflections on God’s Comfort and Care in the Sorrow of Miscarriage by Abbey Wedgeworth; and

You are Still a Mother: Hope for Women Grieving a Stillbirth or Miscarriage by Jackie Gibson.

Thanks for reading Openhanded Hope today. If something in this post resonated or encouraged you, please comment and/or share.

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Bible passages taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

1. Apparently, this is what’s known as a ‘missed miscarriage’.

2. I’m conscious that my theology of death is incomplete—my understanding is that his or her spirit is ‘sleeping’ until the day we are all caught up with Jesus in the clouds. But from their perspective, death is separated from eternity by the merest blink of an eye, and so it’s as if he or she is in Heaven already. Regardless of whether I have these details right, I trust that this little one was created by God, loved by him, and remains safe in his care.

3. I whispered their names aloud, honouring the little babies lost by friends and acquaintances in utero or shortly after birth.