Time and Space.

If you've ever suffered a miscarriage, you understand that it is unspeakable. I cannot overstate the physical and emotional pain. The details are traumatic and gruesome. If you've never suffered a miscarriage, there is no way you can really understand, no matter how much I divulge, and I genuinely hope you never have to.

I'm just not ready to talk. Everything is too fresh. I haven't found words adequate for any of it. I don't want to have to pretend like I can think about anything else, either. Though it feels like we've been to hell and back in these last three days, somehow there's still nothing to discuss.

Eventually, I'll probably need to talk through things, but not yet. I need time and space to process the shock, to run through questions, to sort through emotions, to find words, and to come to terms with where and how we will go on from here.

The last few days have proved what an incredible support system we have in our friends and family. Thank you for reaching out to us. We have read and appreciated each message. I'm sorry if we've seemed unresponsive. Thank you for your sensitivity. Thanks to the friends who have left dinner and gifts on our porch. Thanks for the things you've sent. You are so great at loving us.

I've been on the other side of grief many times, and I know what it's like to want to "do something." Right now, you can pray for us. We are thankful for all of you, and we need and appreciate your continued prayers.

Lost.

Sweet Baby,

12 weeks is all we had with you. Today we found out that we've lost you.



We are still in shock. Other than being exhausted, I've felt so good these last few months. Everything seemed to be on track, and just last week we shared our sweet news with the world. Things changed suddenly yesterday and somehow, even when there were still questions, I knew.

Today was long and traumatic for both Daddy and me. After hours of testing and prodding and waiting, a doctor we don't even know came in to tell us you were gone. They couldn't find your heartbeat. You weren't measuring right. Close to half of all pregnancies end this way, and there's nothing we did wrong or could have done differently. Even if I'd carried you to term, you likely wouldn't have survived birth. He started using words like "tissue" and "viable" and I stopped listening. And then he left us to cry and gather our things and head home and re-frame the picture of the family we've been painting for the last twelve weeks.

Now the hard part begins. How do we say "goodbye" when we never really got our "hello?" How do we find closure in something that barely begun?

We miss you already, little one. My mind races with unanswered questions. Why? How? What could I have done differently? God knows I would have done anything. Thousands and thousands of things about you will remain undiscovered- the color of your eyes, the shape of your face, the sound of your laugh. How will I remember a baby I knew so little about? I don't even know your name.

But I will remember. I will remember the joy on Daddy's face when I told him you were coming. I will remember the excitement of our family and friends. I will remember how tired and nauseous (but in a good way) you made me. I will remember the way we hoped and dreamed and planned for you these last few months. I will frame your sonogram, the only picture I have of you. You've been part of our family for twelve weeks, and you always will be. I will remember. You weren't with us for long, but you brought us incredible happiness. There was so much hope packed into those weeks. I'll try not to let the sadness overshadow that.



We believe that God is sovereign, that He gives and takes away. We might never understand why, but it doesn't change the truth. We will meet you someday, though not as soon as we'd hoped. We know that Jesus is holding you now, and as of today, Heaven is just a little sweeter.

Loving and missing you now and always,

Mommy