On Losing a Child.

In January, I attended my final session of the Alleluia School of Spiritual Direction. The topic of the two-week session was spiritual healing, and after Mass the first day, I ran into a friend who had already graduated from the school. When he heard the subject matter, he said, “Oh man. Get ready to be crushed. This is a hard one.” I laughed it off.

“Call me when you can.” The text message seemed mild, but I knew something was wrong. My wife was at an OB appointment to get the first ultrasound of the new baby, our sixth.

When we finally connected after several attempts back and forth, her first words broke my heart. “The baby died.” Tears flooded as she explained how the sonar tech had found the baby, but then Mary noticed it wasn’t moving. The technician gravely told her, “I can’t find a heartbeat. I’m so sorry.”

By God’s providence, I was already at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Augusta, where the school is hosted. I told her to meet me at the church so we could pray together.

We sat in the back of the church and cried. I held her hand as she told me the details of her doctor visit. She laughed a little through her tears when I suggested that we could take the opportunity to name the baby after one of my favorite Polish saints, St. Jadwiga. She preferred the name Chiara, after Chiara Petronelli, who endured cancer so that her child might live. She left to take care of our two younger children, while I planned to pick up the older three after school.

I went back into the School of Spiritual Direction, where the students and teachers were about to spend several minutes voicing prayer intentions. I took the microphone. “My heart is broken. Mary had a miscarriage.” Gasps of surprise and sorrow were followed by a movement to surround me. The teachers and students embraced me and prayed for me in my loss.

Before leaving to pick up my older kids, I had time alone in the church. Tears running down my face, I prayed, “Jesus, Mary lost the baby.”  In the quiet of my heart, I heard the Lord respond, “The baby is not lost. I know exactly where she is.”

When I picked up my kids, they knew something was wrong because I was supposed to be in class until 8:00 PM. Their questions were too much for me, so I pulled over to the side of the road and broke the news. They had only known about the baby for a few weeks. We had announced her as their biggest Christmas present. Tears flowed all the way home. When we got home, the three of them encircled Mary, cried, and held her for several minutes.

I asked a close friend with a laser cutter to make a small wooden box with a cross on the top so we could bury the remains. The result was simple but beautiful.

A few days later, a heavy snow paralyzed the region, the second in as many weeks. Two days after the snow, Mary went into labor in the middle of the night and delivered the baby’s remains. I could hold her in the palm of my hand. Mary bled so badly that I called my neighbor at 5:00 AM to stay with the kids while I rushed her to the hospital.

Fluids helped Mary recover, and an ultrasound showed that the miscarriage was complete. They sent us home. That afternoon, I went with my father-in-law to the Alleluia Community Cemetery and dug a grave – a tiny hole, but deep.

I brought my family and in-laws to the cemetery, and we had a little ceremony. We said a prayer and I read from John 11:17-26, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” Then we put the little box into the ground, and everyone took turns with shovels, filling in the grave. There were lots of tears. I’ve never experienced anything like burying my child.

Supernatural and Natural Comfort

In the Beatitudes, Jesus reveals a mystery. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” I cannot find words that express the depths of my mourning, but I have discovered a profound truth in Jesus’ words.

In the great mystery of God’s kingdom, the comfort that we have received does not mean that the pain has gone away. There are still storms of tears at random times, but I’ve found that sorrow and peace can coexist. I can hope in the mercy of God that my child is not lost, and will await me at the gates of Heaven.

We received comfort from two sources. The first is God Himself, the Holy Spirit, the Comforter. Even as I grieved Chiara, I felt God’s presence so closely. I continued the School of Spiritual Direction, which includes three hours of daily silent prayer. In that silence, I wrestled with God. He did not let go. Neither did I.

The second source of comfort was our brothers and sisters in Christ. When a body is wounded, the rest of the body pours resources into the wound to bring healing and restoration. So it is with the Body of Christ. Our family received countless prayers, hugs, words of comfort, meals, and a forest of flowers. We took so much comfort from the love we experienced from those who mourned with us.

Praise in the Valley

On the last day of the School, the grace that we were supposed to pray for during our three-hour prayer time was “the ability to take joy in God with thanksgiving and praise.” After burying my child, I looked at this instruction and said, “Jesus, you’re going to have to do this. I’ve nothing.” As the prayer time started, the retreat master played the song Gratitude by Brandon Lake to set the tone. The refrain says, “So I throw up my hands and praise again and again, cause all that I have is a hallelujah.” The image that this brought to mind was me walking through a dark valley, praising God with my hands held high. 

I wandered into the church and sat quietly before the Lord for a long time. At some point, the Lord told me to read the journal entries that I’d written during my two weeks of prayer time.

I’d written two prayers in the days before I learned about the miscarriage. The first prayer was inspired by the story of Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael (often called by their Babylonian names, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego). Before they were cast into the fiery furnace, they told Nebuchadnezzar, “Our God can save us from the fire, but even if He doesn’t, we still will not bow down and worship your false god.” (Daniel 3:17-18) I told Jesus, “I want faith like that! Give me the faith that will say, You can throw me in the fire, and even if I burn to death, I will serve the One True God.” I remember feeling quite bold and fervent when I wrote that prayer. 

The day that I learned about the miscarriage, there was a different grace to pray for: “to remember how God has answered my prayers.” The scripture given to pray with was the story of Jairus’ daughter. If you haven’t read it in a while, Jesus is called to the home of Jairus, whose daughter had died. Jesus entered her bedroom and raised her from the dead. (Luke 8:40-56) Reading that, reflecting on my loss, I wrote in my journal, “Jesus, I know that You can raise my daughter from the dead, but even if You don’t, I will not forsake Your service. I am Yours.”

The second prayer assignment had been to pray for the grace to say yes to God’s desire to stretch my heart however He wants. I wrote in my journal, “Rend my heart so that Your mercy can pour forth. I want more people to encounter Your mercy through me. Make me a more perfect vessel for the outpouring of Your Mercy.” I now see in that prayer a divine inspiration to ask for a gift that He wanted to give, but could only give through heartbreak.

Our faith is not some shallow promise that, if we are nice enough, nothing bad will ever happen. To love is to suffer, and the greater our love, the deeper our capacity for suffering. 

As I meditated on my prayers and God’s answers, I felt joy mingle with my sorrow. God heard me. He answered my prayers more deeply than I ever could have imagined. And with the hope of heaven in eternity, my daughter is only lost to me for a time. As Saint Paul says, “For this momentary light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to what is seen but to what is unseen; for what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:17-18)

Suddenly, my heart filled with praise. If I can lift up my hands and sing hallelujah in the valley of the shadow of death, what shall I fear? Christ has triumphed. Death is swallowed up in victory. 

Post Script

Nine months have passed since the miscarriage. The Lord has brought a new comfort. Mary is now four months pregnant. Not a replacement, but someone new. The impending joy is a great balm to our hearts. Our God reigns.