Heather's Refinement Blog

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“The LORD blessed the latter part of Job’s life more than the first.”

(My whole story of Grace starts here, at The Beginning)

When I came home from the hospital and began my mourning process after losing Grace, one of the first things I did was open my Bible. I wasn’t really looking for answers – I was looking for a familiar friend.

God was there, and I needed him more than ever before in my life. I immediately went to the place I had left off the day before Grace died – Job 38.

I cannot tell you how powerful it was to realize God had put me there, in that chapter, enduring sadness I’d never experienced before in my life. Because up until that chapter in the story, God had allowed Satan to take away everything Job had -- his source of income, his home, his health, but more importantly – he’d lost his 10 children. Satan had killed every last one of them. I connected with Job on a level I wish I didn’t.

Up until that chapter in the story, God hadn’t shown up. And still, Job never rejected God. But in chapter 38, God spoke.

I shivered.

And it’s funny, when He finally spoke, God didn’t explain himself. He didn’t tell Job that Satan was the one causing him all of this pain. He didn’t tell Job that He was merely allowing Satan control in the situation. No, he just poetically tells Job about the details of his creation on earth – down to the goats and ostriches -- that He loves and cares for.

And that love humbled poor Job. After everything he’d been through, Job realized that God was still a loving God.

And Job asked for forgiveness. Wow.

And you know what came next? It’s so good it brings tears to my eyes, especially now. It says that after Job prayed, “the Lord made him prosperous again and gave him twice as much as he had before.” It gets better. “The Lord blessed the latter part of Job’s life more than the first. … And he also had seven sons and three daughters.”

In my own utter despair, I gained a flicker of hope.

He’d given me hope that He’d bless me again.

I had hope in Him, even though I hated what God had allowed to occur. And much later, I would go on to cry out to him in anger. The year after Grace died got progressively worse over time, as shock wore off and I truly began to mourn. But hope remained…

Grace's memorial service one week after she was born

Jeff praying.

Our dear Grace was buried at my parents' farm.

Surviving

The first six weeks after Grace’s birth were a daze. My body and mind were in such a state of shock that I didn’t really know what was happening. My brain turned off and my emotions didn’t kick in. I was blank. Coffee, my life’s one luxury for which I’d longed for nine long months, didn’t taste like anything. I couldn’t cook, exercise, talk, or go to the store. My breast milk came in and I didn’t have a baby to feed – my body was so confused. Between adrenaline from the shock of tragic loss, and the crazy rollercoaster ride of postpartum hormones, I was most certainly not myself. When Jeff went back to work, I would cry all day and then suffer migraines from all the crying.

But God was there even still.

He was present through people, friends, acquaintances, even strangers. From the moment we got home from the hospital (actually, before we even left!), flower arrangements, personalized jewelry, books, and heart-felt cards started flowing in. With cards and Facebook messages and emails, we literally got hundreds of each. A lot of times, I couldn’t even process what they said. I also didn’t really notice who sent the cards, but I felt comforted by their presence. Some days, going to the mailbox was the only thing keeping me going. People in different churches, in different states, friends of friends, all were sending us encouragement. Several others sent money and gift cards, some offered to do our shopping for us, and our small group from church made us meals.

We allowed people to pour into us when we needed their support to stay standing. And in December, only days before Christmas, we needed that support more than ever.

Another Attack

I think that by Christmastime, many had assumed the worst of my mourning would be over. After all, it had been six weeks. But as you know, I’d been in shock, and hadn’t even started the process of sorting out my emotions. All I’d done for six weeks was breathe all day long, and then cry myself to sleep every night. Well, on December 20, I began what I thought was my first postpartum menstrual period. I was slightly and oddly glad at what seemed to be the return of my fertility. But within hours, gladness moved to fear, as the bleeding became scarily excessive.

I called the doctor’s office, only to hear them tell me it was only a heavy period. I called again the next day, clearly worried, and still, they were not. The fourth day, I felt so weak and lightheaded from ever increasing blood loss that I couldn’t even sit up. I was on the floor, curled up in the fetal position, when the doctors called back finally convinced that I needed to get an ultrasound … fast.

The smell of ultrasound gel, and the cold dark room drummed up terrible memories of November 3, and I became feverishly gripped by fear. I was so terrified and crying that I couldn’t even tell the ultrasound technician what was going on – Jeff had to explain the situation. And unfortunately, the ultrasound showed something terrible. When I’d delivered the placenta after delivering Grace, somehow large pieces of it had remained inside of me. Clearly, my body thought it needed to get rid of them, and had been basically bleeding me to near death. Had I continued to bleed at that rate, I don’t doubt that I eventually would have died.

I would need an immediate D&C, a surgical procedure where they scrape the inside of your uterus.

If I had wanted to begin to heal emotionally, this was quite the setback. For one, retained placenta can cause horrible uterine infection, and infection can cause scarring. And a D&C on an infected uterus can cause even worse scarring. Your uterus can be ruined; the ability to get pregnant can be taken away.

We were well aware of this and it was my last thought as I was put under general anesthesia. “How, Oh God, can you continue to allow more and more heartache?”

When I awoke and was puking, my doctor told me that there was no infection. We had to wait several weeks, though, for the biopsy for what was in there. It could be cancer, it could be anything.

I then moved into a state of panic. I had thought we were over the worst of the tragedy, but then the new fear for my health had taken me by surprise. I spent much of my time just praying that God would stop me from allowing myself to slip into such a dark depression that I couldn’t come out. (Thankfully, when the biopsy came back, it had not been cancer. It was indeed placenta. But our fears about what that D&C had done to my uterus remained for many months.)

But there was always that teeny tiny hint of hope. We knew God would bless us again. We simply knew it down deep in our souls. God had placed this UNQUENCHABLE desire to be parents to living children.

Stepping Forward

And so only two months after Grace went on to be with the Lord, we started trying again for her little brother or sister. We knew things would be easier to endure if we had another baby to nurture. And in March, we got pregnant again. In utter weakness, I didn’t allow myself to get excited. This baby would be due in November like Grace had been. It was eerie.

But this one went home to be with the Lord too. I didn’t think God would allow me to go through more pain after losing Grace. I didn’t think more pain was even POSSIBLE. But it was, and it caught me completely off guard. It was the death of yet another one of my children.

I can honestly say I was walking in misery for the next few months. I was in so much pain that any little thing that anyone said had the potential to deeply wound me. I didn’t want to see people, especially mothers with newborn babies. We even stopped going to our small group bible study that we had loved. Everything reminded me of Grace, everything reminded me of what we’d lost. And I was always prepared and waiting for another dose of pain, a new tragedy. My body and mind were living in anxiety, always expecting the worst.

Honestly, when we bought our house and began the building process in May, I wasn’t even thrilled about this momentous occasion. I just wanted to be a mom. We found out the builder accepted our offer the day I learned I wasn’t pregnant that month.

But in June, we got pregnant again. This pregnancy -- which I was trying desperately to keep with progesterone supplements and bed rest (I even missed Jeff’s brother’s wedding because of it)-- was even more difficult than the other when it, too, was lost. I knew my purpose on earth is to bring God glory, and I knew God had planted this desire in my heart to bring Him glory THROUGH being a mother. But I told God that if I didn’t get to be a mom to a living child, I really didn’t know if I wanted to live at all.

After that second miscarriage in July, we wondered if we had a serious problem -- that maybe there was something new causing these losses. While I was still in the process of miscarrying, I made our first appointment with a fertility specialist. We had already done genetic testing on Grace (even though we knew the cause of her death had been the cord entanglement), and as we expected, the results had shown that she’d been perfectly healthy in every way. They’d done every blood test in the world on me too. Thyroid was good, no blood clotting issues, no hormonal imbalances, no nutritional deficiencies, nothing. So the doctor suggested – much to our horror – that there could be something physically wrong with my uterus, that maybe when I had the surgery to remove the retained placenta in December, perhaps the surgeon had been too rough in there and caused scarring. I already had symptoms that hinted at scarring, making it all the more likely.

This, to me, was the worst-case scenario. If scarring was covering much of the surface of the uterus, a baby could never implant deeply enough to live past the first trimester. I might never be able to have kids again.

Something within me told me this wasn’t right. But I wanted to be sure. So we agreed to move forward with semi-invasive testing to see if there was something going on in there. I knew God was going to show us a miracle. Should I allow doctors to dampen my faith?

After some serious prayer, I cancelled the procedure the day before it was scheduled.

But the next month, I was disheartened once again, and I went through with it. And praise be to the God of all, the procedure showed that there was nothing wrong with my uterus.

All the while, through every one of these trials, God was building my faith in Him.

A few days after that miscarriage, my dad called and told us he was taking us out to a nice restaurant. He said he we were declaring in Jesus' name that this spirit of death was gone. We all prayed together and agreed. Have you ever noticed how God shows up when your hope in anything else has gone? When he's all you have left? He waits for that moment to display His power. THIS is when it starts to get GOOD.

• But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

Believing God

With the loss of Grace and my miscarriages, I realized that God doesn’t cause death. As a matter of fact, he sent His Son to conquer death once and for all. He is a LOVING GOD. But sometimes God allows Satan (see the story of Job!) and the powers of darkness in this world to attack us and attack our tiny unborn babies. The thing was, I never realized before how much power we have in Jesus’ name to overcome the enemy and defeat his plots against us! But my faith had to be strengthened.

It was first strengthened through prayer. Throughout much of my life I had sort of figured that we were supposed to pray, but that it didn’t make much of a difference because God was going to do what he was going to do anyway. Of course, that was until I started to read and think about what God actually says about prayer.

For one, he says in James that the “prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well.” I must have read that verse a million times before, and it never dawned on me that the power in the verse was the “in faith” part. I had spent so much time just begging and pleading for God to give us a healthy pregnancy and a living child at the end, but I didn’t truly believe God would definitely answer my prayer. It’s funny how as Christians, we’re called believers, but so often we are filled with disbelief. We needed to pray in faith that God would remove whatever was causing the death of our unborn children. We needed to actually believe God is all-powerful.

I could go on and on with verses that say the same thing about faith and prayer. From His word, we knew He was going to heal us. Psalms 103:2-3 “Praise the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits — who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases.”

There were a lot of people who asked me, in one way or another, how I could still love or trust a God who had allowed me so much hurt, so much death and loss. Some went so far as to mention that children may not be God’s will for some people. (By the way, to attempt to tell anyone God’s will for his or her life is a pretty bold move – don’t do it unless it’s scripturally founded!)

Thankfully, I had found in God’s word some exciting stuff regarding our offspring – that having kids is indeed His will. We know that in the very beginning of the Bible in Genesis 1, He commands us to “be fruitful and increase in number.” Children were his beautiful idea, and He didn’t just allow us to have them – He commanded us to!

The Bible is FULL of verses in which God calls children a “blessing,” a “reward,” and our “inheritance.” Having children is clearly God’s desire for us, his will. I began reading these verses daily, writing them out and taping them to every surface of our house, memorizing them, speaking them aloud.

“He settles the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children.” Psalm 113: 9 “Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.” Psalm 127:3-5 “Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your sons will be like olive shoots around your table.” Psalm 128:3

(there are LOTS more)

And you know what else I found in his word? I found that every single barren woman in the Bible conceived and gave birth to a living baby. You just don’t see sustained barrenness and miscarriage in the Bible – they are not His will.

With scripture, faith and constant prayer under my belt, I was ready to believe without doubt that God had healed us of anything that could cause miscarriage, and that He was about to bless us with a generation of Godly offspring. I’d begun praying like I’d never prayed before. I began believing in God’s power like I’d never believed before. I continued worshiping God for being the awesome loving creator that He was and had always been in my life.

A Year Complete

It was by October that I had truly turned a corner. We were nearing Grace’s birthday, and instead of being depressed and perpetually teary (as I had expected to be), I was actually feeling joy from time to time. I was able to thank God for blessing us with our nine precious months with Grace, and was genuinely thankful for the life He’d given me – a husband who was perfect for me, a new home, a freelancing job I loved, an overwhelming peace and confidence in Him. My soul longed and cried out to God for a baby, but I had faith that a baby was coming.

In mid-October, Jeff was supposed to be a groomsman in a wedding in Minnesota, and the day before we were to fly out, I had a breakdown. I’d thought my emotional wounds had healed, but a year of mourning had worn me down, and it all came flooding in. And I was bitter than an entire year had passed since we lost Grace, and all I seemed to have accomplished that year was to get through the worst of my mourning. I felt like I'd just been forced to waste a full year of my life. I feared that the happiness of a wedding would cause me to be jealous of the newlyweds’ innocence – they’d probably get pregnant on their first try, never lose a baby, never experience this kind of pain. But Jeff, being the loving husband he is, prayed with me, let me sob, patiently listened to me express my pain. (He’s such a good listener!)

And that was the last time I was deeply sad.

We went on to the wedding, and I felt genuinely happy for the couple. And I felt healthy and energetic for the first time in a year – I’d lost all of my pregnancy weight plus some, we’d been eating even healthier, exercising. I’d also quit caffeine cold turkey the month before, and felt somehow very alive despite my lack of coffee. I was able to truly enjoy the wedding.

Genuinely happy at the rehearsal dinner

When we got back, our time and thoughts were filled with moving out of our rented townhome and into our newly built long-awaited first HOUSE. I wept as I packed up Grace’s room, folding the tiny pink dresses, taking down her soft floral crib bedding, opening the memory box that held a lock of her blonde hair and her footprints and death certificate. But I was beyond ready to move out of the place that brought us so much pain, and move onto a new home that I was confident would see many blessings! Before the floors had been installed in the new house, we had written verses of God’s many promises on the floors, as we declared His welcome presence there, and dedicated the home to His glory. We were thrilled to move into a place that was associated only with JOY.

"your sons..." -- prophetic, huh?!

This one is in the living room

On October 31, we moved our stuff out of that townhouse and into our new home. We then slept each night at Jeff’s parents’ as we waited anxiously for our loan to go through so we could sign the papers, become official homeowners, and finally be allowed to “live” in our grand new home.

Grace’s birthday came when we were still waiting to close on our house. It was a gorgeously sunny fall day, and we couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that we’d made it through the worst year of our lives. We were blessed, even though our little girl wasn’t with us, even though we weren’t celebrating her birthday with her.

We visited our new house that evening, and… little did I know, (okay, I actually knew) I was ovulating. Technically we were trespassing, since we didn’t own it yet, but heck, our bed was there.

And so, on the very last day of a very long year that had been filled with the stifling pain of death, God blessed us with new life.

YES

Somewhere in the blur of happy days to follow, we closed on our house (YAY) and Jeff carried me over the threshold -- it seemed very much like a fairy tale or an old Kodak commercial. Now, I can’t say that pregnancy wasn’t on my mind, or that I wasn’t the hormonal obsessive woman that I always was in that post ovulation two-week-wait, because I was -- for goodness sakes -- trying to get pregnant. But I pushed the thought to the back of my mind, determined not to let my joy be stolen from me by worry.

One evening, 1.5 weeks after Grace’s birthday, I picked up a box of two pregnancy tests from Target. To have waited so long to buy them was amazing for me, because usually I would stock up on tests and start testing days before I could sensibly get a positive result. This time, I was going to be stress free – one test would be enough to tell me yes or no.

I slept soundly all night, and even woke up late that cheerfully sunny Sunday morning. Jeff started breakfast downstairs as I walked to the bathroom, ripped open that test and took it. Waiting patiently, I repeated scriptures against fear, and couldn’t help but just praise Jesus and say his name over and over.

It took less than the time limit for a beautiful pink (you KNOW it’s my favorite color, for good reason) line to pop up in the test window. No sooner than my eyes sent the good news to my brain, I yelled to Jeff, “this is really positive.”

It wasn’t a questionable line like it had been in previous cycles, it didn’t show up late, and I wasn’t using the most sensitive test on the market. The line was more clear and perfect than it had ever been before – we were pregnant, and this baby was going to stick. And wow, how crazy that we’d conceived on November 4?!

Jeff and I praised the Lord; I took the other test in the box just to see the pretty line get darker, and we began a new journey of faith, now believing that God could bring this baby to our arms, full term, healthy, ALIVE.

***

And our prayer was answered in Lochlan, on July 22, 2010!

***It's pretty difficult for me to go back and re-feel all this despair. But God IS good and it's important to know that, even in the really bad times.

Photos of Grace are at the end. Prepare yourself or don't look if you don't think you can.***

Psalm 139:13-16

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

Grace’s last weekend

I don’t usually write about the weather. I feel like that’s a tactic only used by fourth graders. But when my daughter was last living, it was the most beautiful late autumn Jeff and I had ever seen. We’d had our wedding in the fall only three years before, and back then I would have paid thousands for trees this colorful. The vibrant fall seemed to sum up a perfect pregnancy, and seemed to signal the start of a new season of our lives, one of sheer excitement! (Now, with all the feelings of loss associated with it, I wonder now if I’ll even like the season ever again.)

Our third wedding anniversary was October 29, and we didn’t do much to celebrate – besides, what gift can you give one another that is better than the gift of new life, a child?! We were GIDDY!

Saturday, I ventured out to a brunch with my mommies group of all pregnant women, and held the first tiny baby born to the group. Soon, I thought, I would be holding my very own baby in my arms! Everyone reminded me that it was November 1, my due date month!

Sunday, we went to church, and Grace jammed out to the worship music! She always seemed to have a lot of fun in my belly! I felt extra special that day, and had worn a black dress with four-inch black heels. I was enormous, and it seemed like every stranger I passed congratulated me. Our drive home, we passed the hospital where I would give birth, and I got all excited thinking about how in two weeks this same drive home would be the most happy drive of my life—with a baby in my arms!

That evening, we went to the last session of our Bradley natural childbirth class. And Grace kicked all the while. Jeff said how excited he was about labor (ha! I was like, of course YOU’RE excited! I’m the one pushing this thing out!) —we were ready for this! (I was prepared to give birth without pain medications or interventions, and felt very confident in the technique—I’d told everyone about it so I’d keep accountable!) Then we went home and Jeff videotaped actors for a project. And Grace kept right on kicking, as she always did. Later, Jeff gave me my nightly back massage—he’s the best husband ever—and we watched Grace move around in my belly (for what we didn’t know then would be the last time ever).

We headed to bed and I reached over and put my hand in the bassinet attached to our mattress, as I had gotten into the habit of doing, and imagined how in a few short weeks I would be stroking my peacefully sleeping baby there, admiring her, my offspring, the greatest blessing I’d ever received.

I prayed thanks, and fell asleep.

November 3, 2008

It was a dark day out, starting to drizzle, but my first thought was how something great was about to happen. I said aloud to Jeff, “For some reason, it feels like Christmas morning!” I cannot get over how weird that feeling was. Maybe God was trying to bless me with a calm before the storm…

…because the rest of that day can only be described as the worst of my life.

Jeff left for work, and I went downstairs to make Grace and I breakfast. I sipped my OJ, but Grace didn’t kick like she usually did with that jolt of fructose. Odd, I thought, but I wasn’t overwhelmingly alarmed, and went on talking to her, telling her I loved her as I always did. I was awake a little earlier than usual, anyway. I showered, but Grace didn’t move like normal with the water’s warmth. I poked the spot where I knew her butt was, but she was obviously sleeping. Still, I thought, it was early. Yet, when I got out, I really started to worry.

I went to the nursery and lay down on the floor next to her crib (like Jeff had been doing each morning as he prayed for her, for almost nine months) and gulped cold water, hoping it would wake her up. My heart started to race when she didn’t wake. My doctor’s appointment was scheduled for 9:30 that morning, and I left the house as quick as I could, speeding down the road and arriving ridiculously early. At the stoplight before the doctor’s building, the word started flashing through my head, stillbirth stillbirth stillbirth. Everything was a blur, as they weighed me, took my blood pressure, and Jeff arrived. All I could think or say was “I haven’t felt her kick this morning.”

The fluorescent lights in the room made it look so cold and horrible in there, increasing my panic. I could hear heartbeats from Dopplers thumping loudly through the thin walls of the rooms on either side of me. But when they tried to listen to my child’s heartbeat, it wasn’t there. “No,” Jeff said to me, and grabbed my hand tightly as the doctor rushed off to find the ultrasound machine. “She’s fine; it isn’t what you think; they’ll find it; please God.” (How would I have ever survived if Jeff hadn’t come to the appointment that day?)

The doctor rolled in the ancient-looking machine and fumbled the cord, clearly flustered, and got another doctor to help her. When they finally got it to work—my stomach is in knots as I type this—the ultrasound machine showed a lifeless little girl, a beautiful heart, but one that had stopped beating forevermore.

"I’m so sorry," was all the doctor said. I put my hands on my face, where they remained for the next several hours, and whispered, "Oh my God. Oh my God." This is when shock set in—the body’s gift to its emotional state—to help me survive the blow. I had become numb, and would stay that way for the next 24 hours. I thought back to my childhood, about the night when my friend’s dad had passed away in a tragic car accident, and about how we had gone to the hospital that night and saw the family. I remembered how I had hugged my friend and sobbed uncontrollably, but that she was strong and wasn’t crying. I finally understood it. That’s how I felt now. Crushed, flattened, beaten down to silence, to numbness. I couldn’t even cry.

Suddenly, I had to get this baby out. She seemed heavier than ever before. I hated how stiff her body felt, preventing me from even being able to expand my lungs and get a full breath, and then I hated myself for disliking anything about my poor child. But I couldn’t handle having this dead baby inside me. I needed her out NOW – it was URGENT! I repeated it to each of the doctors, but didn’t watch to see if they responded or not. Everything was so blurry.

Walking out of the office, I noticed that my hands were still on my face. I wondered what everyone in the waiting room thought of me – what did they think was wrong? Were they panicked about their own babies? I thought about all of those people on the news all the time, those women in Iraq or Israel after a bomb exploded and killed their families, and how they would always be running around, screaming and crying. I wondered when or if I would get to that point. Right now, I pretty much felt dead.

In the car, I saw our new pink baby carseat all strapped in and ready to go. Overcome with too much emotion, I’m pretty sure I almost passed out. We rushed to the hospital, where the marathon of labor and delivery—that grueling emotional and physical journey—began.

The Hospital

We walked in and although we’d already taken a tour of the hospital, were absolutely clueless where to go and wandered around blindly. Jeff asked someone at a desk where labor & delivery was, and with major attitude, she pointed down the hall, and said, “Um, In labor and delivery.” So strange, I thought, how people have so much anger. I had just lost my daughter and I wasn’t as angry as her.

It was dark and empty in there that day. The nurses were all huddled around the nurses’ station, probably talking about who they were going to vote for, as it was the day before the presidential elections, and they all turned around when they saw us coming. Immediately, we told them who we were, and silence fell.

I felt ill. This was not how it was supposed to go at all. I was supposed to walk in here in labor, already six centimeters dilated, and near ready to push, with everyone in awe at my strength and supernatural pain tolerance. And I would breastfeed my baby girl right away, and dress her in her beautiful pink lacy outfit (that was sitting inside the suitcase in our bedroom, already clean and ironed) and bring her home in that pink carseat to a house all set up just for her. But this? Nurses feeling sorry for me? I wanted to turn around and walk right back out.

A nurse brought us to a room on the quiet, empty side of the maternity ward, probably so we wouldn’t have to hear other people giving birth to living, crying babies. I wondered how they assigned a nurse to us. Did they draw straws? Did she owe someone something? I can’t imagine anyone volunteering for such a horrible event.

I think we must have been there over an hour before we even thought to call someone. How do you tell your parents, who have been looking forward to meeting their first grandbaby for nine months, that they will never get to? I hated that we would have to make one of these kinds of calls, the kind nobody ever wants to get, the kind that you think are only made in later life when your grandparents are in their 90s. That we would have to make one of those calls now, as healthy happy people in our twenties, it was too much to bear. I told Jeff he could call, but he didn’t have to if he didn’t want, and I sure wasn’t doing it.

He was so strong that day. He made the calls to our parents, one by one, out in the hallway. I’m so glad I didn’t have to see his face as he spoke those words. And he called his boss to tell him that he wouldn’t be back in for a very long time. Months later, we learned that his boss actually called our church that day to let them know about the situation, and thus we had our church praying for us from the very beginning.

On the phone, my dad didn’t believe the words that Jeff told him, saying that He knew our God was a miracle worker, and that Jesus could raise our baby from death. Until the next day when we left the hospital hours after Grace had been born, Dad didn’t believe that she was really gone. In my shock and numbness, I didn’t have the faith to believe that kind of miracle could happen. I loved my dad for it though—I loved his faith, and I loved his deep love for his granddaughter. If only I could go back, with the faith that I now have, and experience that day, I wonder if that miracle could happen? Could I have believed God and allowed him to work in such a big way? Maybe I wasn’t giving Him an “in.”

But God was there, beckoning me to him. Whether I wanted Him or not. All those years of my asking him to “be with me” to “comfort me” to “strengthen me” to “guide me” were coming to fruition. He was answering those prayers when I needed them most.

A song started playing in my head, one that I didn’t know I knew, but the words kept playing… “You spread out the skies, over empty space, said let there be light, in a dark and formless world…”

“Ugh,” I thought, “Go away music. Go away feelings. Go away everything.” I didn’t want to think, or pray, and I definitely didn’t want music. But the song kept right on playing in my head. “Gosh, where is that song from?”

Our nurse sat down on a stool in our room and asked me a gazillion questions. The doctors did too. Had I fallen recently? They all seemed to ask that question. Because, there has to be someone to blame. Had the baby been kicking regularly the last few days? Car accident?

Everything had been so normal, the whole pregnancy! I felt not an ounce of guilt. Boy was I thankful at how perfectly I had treated Grace in there all nine months. There wasn’t anything I did that I wouldn’t do again. I wracked my brain, but no, there was nothing. This was as random and tragic as you could get.

Before beginning the induction, the doctor came in and prayed with us. One of the great things about our doctors’ office is that it was a Catholic organization, and they were very open about the fact that they prayed for their patients. I don’t remember much about the prayer, except how I thought it was odd that she opened it by calling God “Daddy.” Maybe she did it on purpose, or maybe God just wanted us to hear it, but, He was a daddy too, and He too lost His only child.

Because it was so cloudy and gross outside that afternoon, you couldn’t tell if it was day or night, but it seemed like we’d already been there an eternity when 1:15 rolled around and it was time to get things started.

As it was still two weeks before my due date, my body wasn’t even slightly ready to give birth. My belly hadn’t dropped, there was zero dilation, no effacement, zip. It looked like Grace hadn’t planned on making her grand entrance for quite a while; she would have probably come quite late. We were well aware that because my body wasn’t ready, this induction may not work, and we could potentially end up having to go home and try this again on a different date or have a c-section—both which sounded like ways to somehow make my worst nightmare even worse.

In a small way, though, we felt like that part of things was already taken care of. People were praying for this delivery to go smoothly, and we could already feel God working through those prayers. This induction was going to work. And I was going to deliver a baby—who was no longer living. I’ve never been more scared in my life, or dreaded anything as much as I dreaded what was ahead of me.

Labor

The doctor inserted the cervadil, which simply makes your cervix thin out so a baby can come through it. For some people, this alone can trigger labor, although it certainly isn’t the most common outcome. We didn’t think I’d be in that outlier group, and fully expected to be in that hospital for a good long while—at least a day or more—before anything began to happen.

But once again, I was the exception to the rule, and labor kick-started almost immediately! I began to have huge contractions every two minutes, sometimes even closer, but the pain was manageable in my typical “go big or go home” mentality. Because of all the hard work I’d put into the natural childbirth classes, I stubbornly insisted on bearing this pain without medications. I was in labor-mode, not allowing myself to think about the reality of this situation or how emotional it was. By that point, I was still in such a state of shock that I had almost forgotten why we were here. So we marched through the halls, pretending like we were every other happy couple about to have a baby, stopping and hunching over when the contractions came.

Somewhere in all of that pain, my family and Jeff’s mom showed up at the hospital. It was surreal seeing them there under these circumstances. I was very convinced this was a bad dream. I sat down in my bed, and my dad sat in a chair next to me and began to pray for miracles. Nobody knew what else to say or do. For such a normally chatty group, everyone was quiet.

Totally numb, all I could think to say was, “I’m going to become a very bitter and angry person when this is all over.” My mom very quietly but firmly replied that I would not.

But I couldn’t even imagine how I would live past this day. I couldn’t imagine how I would feel when the loss of my daughter finally entirely hit me. I couldn’t imagine how I would ever smile again. I knew I would be forever changed.

Needing to feel useful, my family asked what they could go out and get us—they felt a need to help in some way! I hadn’t felt the urge to cry until that moment, when I replied that I would need my suitcase--because it had Grace’s coming-home outfit in it. Because, she would still need an outfit—to be buried in.

In the evening, the contractions became horrendous, and the nurses begged me to get an epidural. But, I had wanted to keep this one goal of going med-free, this one tiny part of my plan intact, and refused the epidural again and again.

But eventually, it dawned on me that there was no real reason to avoid pain meds. There would be no reward at the end of this journey, no living healthy baby who would benefit by having no drugs in her innocent little body. When I had conversations with other mothers later, nobody was going to ask me to share my birth story, and I’d never get to tell about the experience of going epidural-free—nobody would want to know about the birth of a dead baby.

And I realized that my fear of epidurals’ risks—becoming paralyzed or even dying because of misplacement of the needle in the spine—were no longer an issue for me. If I died today, I thought, it would be better than having to live the rest of my life without Grace.

“Oh God, why her? Why couldn’t you have taken me? I would have gladly given my life for her! I would have done anything for her! A child should not die before her mother, “my soul cried out to Him. I felt so empty, so worthless.

I finally took the nurse’s suggestion to “stop being a martyr” and got the epidural. And compared to my emotional pain, I couldn’t even feel the pain of the needle going in. The whole time, though, tears were flowing down my mom’s face and the anesthesiologist asked, “Why are you crying?! You should be excited!” I guess he hadn't been debriefed.

Chaos

Unfortunately, instead of making this nightmarish journey more bearable, the epidural only made things worse. What control I had felt with managing my own pain and having something to work through to distract me from this horror, was taken away from me. Not only did I become confined to lying down in a bed because of the epidural and Foley catheter, but I also had more side effects from the epidural than I had ever heard of anyone experiencing before!

First, I began to shake uncontrollably. The shaking was so bad that I had to have my mom and mother-in-law hold down each of my legs because it was using all my energy to try to keep them still. I felt completely out of control of my body and mind– I felt like a mental patient! Then I started to swell. I hadn’t swollen at all during pregnancy, so this was shocking. My feet blew up and turned purple. My face was huge and puffy. My fingers looked and felt like they would burst.

Then I got a fever of 101, so I had to get antibiotics. From there, the drugs continued to multiply. I started to itch—all over—it was unbearable. Everyone kept telling me to sleep, but the itching (on top of having everyone in the room staring at me) made it impossible. I felt like I had bug-bites on literally every millimeter of skin and I was scratching ferociously. So, I got an anti-itch drug in my IV. That didn’t work, so they tried a different one. Now, I had been lying down for some time, not able to sit up because of the epidural, so I got heartburn. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the stomach acid was eating me alive. So, I got heartburn meds.

As everything became more and more chaotic, nurses were telling me to get some sleep so I could have energy for pushing. They had no idea. In their world, things were moving along smoothly. In my world, everything was crashing down. When I closed my eyes, I kept feeling like my soul was being lifted out of my body. In my mind, I could look down and vividly see my lifeless body lying on the bed below—it was as if I was willing myself to die.

It was then that a song started playing in my head again. It was the same one as earlier, but this time it grew louder. “You made the world and saw that it was good, You sent your only son, for you are good, What a wonderful maker, What a wonderful savior, How majestic your whispers, And how humble your love…” I still didn’t know where it came from. I didn’t know who sang it, and I was shocked that my brain was reciting the words to a song that I thought I didn’t know. And it didn’t stop until we left the hospital. “With a strength like no other, And the heart of a father, How majestic your whispers, What a wonderful God.”

Midway through the night, the nurses decided to speed up the labor even more, so they gave me pitocin. Around that same time, my epidural began to not work. I could feel contractions all through the right side of my body, especially in my leg.

This, of course, is when my body decided to begin its “transition”(the most painful) stage of labor. Each contraction lasted two full minutes, with no real breaks in between. I was dilating quickly, so the anesthesiologist had to run in, and take out the epidural and completely re-place it.

In all of that pain, I hadn’t even noticed that my water had broken. I looked down to see the soaking wet bed, then stared up at Jeff. I wanted to communicate to him all the disappointment I felt, knowing that instead of having some exciting TV-drama sort of water-breaking moment—out shopping or at church or at dinner with friends—my water had to break like this, under these sad circumstances. This just wasn’t fair.

The nurses told me that I was progressing unusually fast, and that in the future I should prepare myself for speedy labors with my next babies. Minutes later, they checked me and with surprised faces, said I was completely dilated and I could push when I felt ready.

Delivery

Well, you can never feel “ready” to push out a dead baby. Dread and horror flooded my entire being. So I told myself I’d just hold her in. I simply would not be pushing her out. I couldn’t. I would just hope to wake up from this nightmare, in my own bed at home, and find that my baby was peacefully sleeping and kicking away inside me.

When I felt contractions, I would try to ignore them. Of course, only about seven minutes went by before I could feel the baby coming down, whether I was ready or not. The doctor and nurse came in, Jeff held my left leg and my mom and mother-in-law held the right, and it took only 10 quick pushes to get the baby completely out.

And when she came out, Grace didn’t cry. (I’m so deeply envious of anyone who has ever heard their baby cry.)

This is when the doctor saw the cord wound tightly multiple times around her long, beautiful little leg. Her source of life—the umbilical cord —had become her cause of death. The doctor handed me Grace, and I began to wail.

I can’t even remember the depth of the pain well enough to describe it here, for I’d never experienced anything like it before, and I haven’t even experienced it since. It was by far the saddest moment of my entire life.

Beauty

I cradled her lifeless body gently in my arms.

Her skin was torn in places and her lips were a dark crimson red, because she’d been in my womb too long without oxygen. It is unbearable for a mother to see her child like that—to think that any part of her child is imperfect, to imagine that Grace had gone through any pain. I wanted to bandage her skin, I wanted to hug her tight enough to warm her up, I wanted to breathe life into her limp body!

But those thoughts are too heavy for any human to bear.

And that’s why God blessed me with a hint of joy. For, she was my BABY and I was a proud MOTHER! I got to hold her! It was something I’d waited my entire life to do! She was a precious, gorgeous, perfect gift and I got to ADMIRE her!

At seven pounds, she was a chubby little girl for being born two weeks before her due date. She didn’t look tiny or fragile—she didn’t even have that “wrinkly old man” face that so many newborns have—she was completely beautifully feminine, with a soft, full face. Even with the feminine features, we could tell she had more Jeff-genes in her appearance than Heather-genes. Like Jeff, her lips were full, her nose was rounded, her earlobes were meaty, and her eyes turned down at the corners. She inherited the look that drew me to Jeff when we were teenagers! She would have gotten away with so much naughtiness with an innocent, adorable face like that!

But her body looked more like me. She was measured at 21 inches long, but we both noticed that when the nurse was measuring her, her little knees were bent, so we’re almost sure she was actually over 22 inches. She would have been tall! Her toes and feet looked exactly like a miniature version of mine, so the ultrasound had been correct in indicating she was going to get the Heather Glasgow bigfoot-ness. Her legs were lanky too, and so were her arms. When everyone held her, we all remarked how heavy and big she felt.

Her coloring—porcelain pale with light blonde hair—was like the both of us. Her eyes were most assuredly blue (since we both have blue eyes), but we weren’t able to see them. I tried opening her eyelids, but her eyes had darkened with death—they didn’t look like eyes. And not being able to look into your little girl’s eyes is torture.

I can’t even imagine how wonderful it feels to have your baby look up at you. It almost seems too good an experience for any human being to deserve. That type of blessing isn’t even of this world. It is most certainly a piece of heaven itself.

When I saw Jeffrey hold her, I fell in love with him a million times over. He looked more handsome than ever before, holding his daughter. He was a natural, completely meant for the role of father. He was so loving and gentle, powerful and strong; he looked like he could carry her every burden. He too would have sacrificed anything for her. It tore me apart to think that I couldn’t watch him hold her or parent her ever again.

The Remainder of November 4

Somewhere in the whirlwind of everything going on, the doctor stitched me up (I’d torn from such a fast delivery and big-boned baby) and did all the doctorly things. I let the nurse take Grace to be cleaned, measured and dressed in her beautiful pink coming-home outfit. She cut a lock of Grace’s blonde hair for us to keep, and did her footprints. Meanwhile, I threw up several times (from the drugs, anxiety and sheer shock of the situation), and had to get some anti-nausea meds. The placenta was looked at —it was perfect, Grace’s blood and skin sample were taken for genetic testing—all of which turned out perfectly healthy as well; everything about her was ideal. I couldn’t stop thinking what a healthy little baby she had been. I’d given her the perfect life; her entire existence was such a blissful, happy one.

Everyone there got to hold our precious gift. She was passed around the room, and my tears flowed as I watched my mom, dad, Jeff’s mom, and each of my sisters (except Jennifer, who was regrettably in CA) admire their long-awaited newest family member. At times, I worried that they might be scared or uncomfortable touching a dead person, but they lovingly assured me that they wanted to keep on holding her.

Time stood still as we enjoyed and loved on our little girl.

I wanted to hold her forever. I wanted to cuddle her and sing to her and talk to her. But, we didn’t get enough time. She faded so quickly. Within an hour, she no longer looked like the baby I had just birthed. She turned blue, cold, stiff. We didn’t have time to argue which side of the family she looked more like. We couldn’t stare and look at her from every angle. And pictures just don’t capture it all. I didn’t get to experience the little baby “head smell” that everyone says is so sweet. I didn’t even get to see that cute little pudgy butt that had poked out the top of my belly for the last three weeks of her life.

I was desperate to be able to nurture her and breastfeed that little open mouth. I wanted to be mommy to my baby. I wanted to bond with her. There were millions of moments that I didn’t get to share with my baby. Millions. I could sit with you and list forever everything I wanted to experience with her.

Goodbye My Baby

I know that some people will continue to hold their stillborn babies for hours in the hospital, because they can’t bear to part with them, regardless of how quickly the baby’s body fades. With us, though, we knew we would see Grace again. And in Heaven, she would look healthy and beautiful. Boy, I can’t wait!

The nurses knew there was no reason for us to remain in the maternity ward with all the happy new mothers, so they allowed us to check out, little more than 24 hours after arriving.

Our parents and my sisters left the hospital, allowing us time alone in the dimly-lit room to have our final moments with Grace as a family of three. No words were spoken, except for “I love you so much, Grace” again and again, and of course our silent prayers to God, pleading for as much strength as He could give us, for we simply could not do this on our own.

We placed her on the baby bed, and I made sure she was tightly bundled in that warm blanket, so her body wouldn’t get hurt when she was moved to the morgue. I knew it didn’t matter now, but as a mom, I still felt the strong instinct to protect her.

My hopes and dreams were all wrapped up in that bundle of blankets, and I would have to leave them all behind at the hospital that day.

We told her goodbye, and held hands as I was wheeled out. We silently left the hospital with empty arms.

But in Heaven, Grace’s soul was already in the presence of our Almighty God, experiencing peace and joy beyond human description. She was already among angels, worshiping our Father, her hands raised to Him who knew that it was best to allow her to be taken out of our imperfect world. Together with all the souls in Heaven, she now sings out, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.”

I can’t wait to hold you again, Grace.

There's more to the story, at My journey to a living baby.

*****I wrote this about nine months after we lost Grace, when I was miscarrying a baby once again. It's pretty cool to see how God has redeemed our story now -- four healthy living babies later!*****

"I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of Him... My heart rejoices in the Lord." - 1 Samuel 1:27 & 2:1

First Trimester

From day one, I was blessed with the perfect pregnancy. I got an enormous thrill watching as the lines on those pregnancy tests to which I’d become so addicted got darker and darker each day. I often carried around the latest one in my purse so I could look at it whenever I wanted to smile. Of course, after we got to see an ultrasound of our baby and watch its heartbeat on the monitor for the first time at just six weeks into the pregnancy, I pretty much had a constant smile on my face from then on.

I never got any morning sickness, or tiredness, or mood swings, or problems. For the first 12 weeks, I honestly prayed to get nausea, just to have some sign that I was really pregnant! Because of the lack of physical symptoms, we were certain we were having a boy, and picked out a boy name and bedding!

Even without symptoms, though, I felt an incredible bond with this baby. I would take long walks outside and pray for it while holding my hand on my belly. At nine weeks, I rented a Doppler, and would listen to the baby’s heartbeat every couple of days, just to reassure me that it was healthy. And I would cry every single time, praising God. That heartbeat was the best sound I had ever heard. I’m sure it can only be topped by the sound of one’s own healthy, living newborn’s cry— a sound I’d gladly give my right arm to hear.

Second Trimester

My belly grew quicker than most—it was pretty obvious even to strangers that I was pregnant at three months. On Mother’s Day I walked into the Sunday school at my church where I volunteered, and one of the four-year-olds came up to me and put her hand on my belly and asked, "Are you having a baby?" I was SHOCKED! I thought it must be some sixth sense kids have, but later that week, a cashier at Whole Foods asked me if I was pregnant too (the same woman later asked me in my third trimester if I was having twins, so clearly she thought I was extra-large the entire time).

15 weeks! We took belly pictures every Sunday. I lived up every little thing about being pregnant!

Besides my rapidly expanding abdomen, my first physical sign of pregnancy was a rambunctious flutter of kicks at only 16 weeks. They felt like little q-tips poking me from the inside—it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I fell completely in love with this little one so utterly dependent on me.

I researched everything about how to have a healthy pregnancy and went all-in. Instead of buying pretty maternity clothes, we put our funds into making a more healthy life for our growing baby—we had come so far that we were determined to do this right. I ate 100% organic food, free-range meat, wild-caught seafood. I quit coffee cold-turkey as soon as I found out I was pregnant, and didn’t have even one caffeinated coffee my entire pregnancy. (And if you know me, you know that is a MAJOR sacrifice.) I used only natural cleaners, detergents, and even beauty products. Any possible risk of chemical contact was cut out— I never pumped gas in the car (VOCs), we threw away any plastic we could, and switched from a vinyl shower curtain to a cloth one. We planned for baby’s life outside the womb to be clean too —organic cloth diapers, organic crib mattress, and organic bassinet. We wanted our baby to start out life with a clean slate.

A Scare

One Saturday morning, at only 17 weeks, I was surprised to wake up to a rock-hard belly. Poking it, I realized it was doing this at regular intervals every few minutes: hard, soft, hard, soft. Freaked out, I did what any mother would do—went online and searched my symptoms. And of course, I saw only the worst stories, and suddenly feared I was having pre-term labor. We called my doctor for instructions. She informed us that we were probably going to lose the baby (!!!), and that I would have to wait it out. She told us not go to the ER because there would be nothing they could do to save a baby at such an early stage!

Horrible thoughts went through my mind—what if I can’t ever carry a baby to term? What if this is the only time I get to experience the joy of pregnancy? What if something is wrong with me? How on earth will I go on without this baby? I turned pale, became dizzy, and began to shake uncontrollably.

Jeff knew that such a mental state wasn’t good for me, so we sped to the ER—despite the doctor’s advice. Upon hearing about the emergency, my mom dropped everything and drove all the way from her house to the hospital, and while we were waiting, she put her hand on my belly and felt the baby give a firm kick! God was reassuring us that the baby was healthy in there, although probably a little annoyed at the contracting uterus tightening around her.

Three hours of worry later, we found that nothing at all was wrong! What I’d been having were “practice” (Braxton Hicks) contractions, which are totally normal. Just for reassurance, we were offered an ultrasound, and it was then that we were surprised to learn our little baby was a beautifully healthy girl.

I praised God with every part of my being, and didn’t stop. I’ve never been happier in my entire life as I was when I was pregnant with Grace. Life was PERFECT.

When we first saw her, she was kicking and punching in there, and then she leaned back, put her hands behind her head and crossed her legs like she was relaxing in a hammock. Not only did we get to see that she was healthy (10 fingers, 10 toes, everything in place and working) but we got to see her big personality. :)

Who Grace Was

Grace developed a distinctive personality from early on. We had felt led to pray – since before conception – that she would become a leader, and would bring God praise.

And from the way Grace acted in the womb, it seemed that she was already headed towards becoming that leader-type personality! Her kicks were strong, right from the beginning. When she moved, it was decisive, never sluggish. Sometimes she’d push so hard that I could distinctly make out a hand (right at my hip bone), or foot (in my side) and butt (way up near my ribs). She’d just hold it there, sometimes for a whole 30 seconds, as if she was testing the strength of her muscles. The last three months, she would kick so forcefully while I was working, that I would be forced to relax my abs and lean back in my desk chair to give her some room to play. It seemed like she was already bossing me around. We prepared ourselves for a headstrong child!

She was so beautiful, even on ultrasound. What a tiny, feminine nose and face. What a perfect beating heart.

And she loved music. Every day, I played her worship songs, and her body moved miraculously to the rhythm. She loved songs loud, with strong beats, and with powerful crescendos! She would have a dance party and I would sing along! She really liked “Agnus Dei” by Darlene Zschech, “Hosanna” by Hillsong United, and “Your Name” by Phillips, Craig and Dean, all which, interestingly, sung praise directly to God. Her life was full of praise, cheer, excitement!

Her name, Grace Evangeline, was a direct reference to what God had laid on our hearts about her purpose. The word “grace” itself means to give something to someone without the intent to receive anything in return. Jesus himself offered all of humanity the ultimate gift of grace – he sacrificed his own life for our sins – so that we could live eternally with Him. The gratefulness we felt to God, and for Him blessing us with this precious daughter, led us to name her “Grace.” She was to reflect Him, and His forgiving, unending love! And she was to spread that exciting story of grace, thus the name “Evangeline,” which means “bearer of good news.”

We didn’t know at the time how soon she would live up to her name, or how her purpose would be fulfilled without ever having cried life’s first cry.

Third Trimester

Just think, for nine months of pregnancy, every minute you’re alive is about the baby. Eating, breathing, sleeping, living – it was all for Grace. The idea of doing something solely for myself had become some distant memory. Budget? It was overhauled to include baby furniture, baby clothes, and extra food. To-do list? It was cleared for things like “buy breast pump, paint nursery, register at the hospital.” Spare time? It was filled with birthing classes, doctors visits, researching cloth diapers and vaccinations and baby sleep theories.

In August, we moved into a bigger rental townhouse just for Grace. And I gave up my beloved VW Beetle and bought a bigger SUV, with room for a car seat, just for Grace.

And it was heavenly. I loved having someone physically around all the time to communicate with. Working from home, I never felt lonely – Grace was always with me! Food I ate or movements I made or noises around me all got responses from Grace. I felt like she was giving me her opinion on things. I took videos of my belly as she shimmied and kicked and hiccuped in there. We were already the best of friends – I couldn’t wait to be her best friend throughout her childhood, as my mom was with me.

In late pregnancy, everything happened as it should: my hip bones softened as they were supposed to, I passed my glucose test with flying colors, I never got any stretch marks, I slept a solid nine hours of sleep every night, I took outside walks daily, and Grace’s heart would beat clear and strong every time we Dopplered it. Grace’s size always measured ahead—our little overachiever! I loved being huge and pregnant, it was something I’d waited my whole life to experience. While some people hate being told they look big when pregnant, I was thrilled to hear it!

Her pink nursery. In my ninth month, I would vacuum in here every day!

Me & God

With every passing day, I had this increasing peace. Nothing could bother me (except maybe that one pregnancy side effect of being hot all the time), not even the debates about the upcoming elections, which would have made non-pregnant me get a little argumentative. Part of it, I’m sure, was the nicely balanced hormone levels. But mostly, it was that I had been blessed with everything I could possibly want. I was living my dream life. I remembered the desperation I had felt just one year before, and realized that God had finally delivered me. I was living out his grand plan for me: I was the mother of Grace Evangeline Young.

The whole pregnancy, God had walked alongside me. I’d felt his undeniable presence and purpose every second of my day. From the beginning to the very end of my pregnancy, He had guided me to read through the Old Testament, to learn about His character. As I read, I had cheered on Moses, Joshua, Elijah, and David, and learned more about God than I had in my entire lifetime. I wondered why I had never before realized how exciting the first half of the Bible was! God was working amazing miracles back then, and I marveled at how He was creating a current-day miracle inside me!

Weirdly, by the end of October, I had made it to the book of Job, the gut-wrenching story in which God allows Satan to kill all of Job’s children and steal his worldly possessions in one fell swoop. I felt so uneasy about reading that book during pregnancy, and I tried to speed-read through multiple chapters a day, hoping to finish it without dwelling too much on its sadness. I wanted to be reading Psalms by the time Grace was born, praising and rejoicing! But as God would have it, I only made it to the chapter right before God begins to speak to Job, the day before November 3.
 

Just two weeks before Grace was born

As I reached the finish line of the pregnancy, we readied the house for Grace’s arrival. We had our three baby showers, had the nursery painted, furniture ordered, and hospital bags packed. When I visited the doctors, I learned that Grace was head-down, ready to go at any time! I was giddy when Jeff installed the baby’s carseat in the car and set up the bassinet in our room – it was all real now; this was really happening!

I was so blissfully unaware.

Next up, Part 3: Her earthly end, and heavenly homecoming.