This week, we are sharing about saying a precious goodbye to our sweet babies and experiencing the memorial service or funeral, if applicable. You may visit previous posts by clicking on the Walking With You tag below.

Sharing the Journey

Jesus said to her, I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this? ~ John 11:25-26 I have shared before that I do not visit the cemetery often. This week’s topic is a rather difficult place to re-visit, and one I generally avoid. I would much rather focus on the hope of heaven than on the seeming finality of the grave. Knowing that our eyes should be fixed not on the seen (physical world) but on the unseen (eternal, heavenly world). But, I do feel it is important to share the pieces of our journey because there is a reassurance in knowing that we are not alone on this walk. There is a healing in the telling of the story. And every piece of our journey is another part of the tapestry that God is weaving into our lives. And all of it has value and beauty…even if it’s the kind that comes from ashes. 

Faith and Grace 

The first time I heard the word funeral in regard to my children, I was in the delivery room. I remember thinking that it seemed cruel. I hadn’t thought past the delivering of my babies, still shocked that there would be a labor and delivery. I hadn’t decided if I would hold my girls. It all seemed so strange and foreign – so surreal. I didn’t know how one faced the death of a baby in a place where new life should exist. Now, they were saying that we needed to plan a funeral. I did hold my babies, as you know if you’ve been here before. And slowly the reality of what was happening sunk in. I realized that these were my children, and a funeral would indeed be necessary.

Still too weak and overwhelmed, too shocked and overcome with grief to plan a funeral, I left the planning to my mother. I asked that she find identical pink lace dresses with ribbons for the girls. She picked out the casket, met with the funeral home and shopped for the dresses (which has its own story, but I’ll share it another time.) I cried in my hospital bed. I asked our pastor to perform the graveside service.

We were very protective of Faith and Grace and of ourselves. We did not want anyone around us who may judge us or make an inappropriate comment about our girls. They were bruised and broken, although quite beautiful.

Our extended family is large and not always supportive of one another. Our parents are divorced and re-married. There was a lot of brokenness and tension. We just couldn’t accommodate all of that in the midst of our grief. Our mothers and stepfathers were there for a brief viewing the night before the funeral. We held each other and cried. My mother thought to take pictures. If those pictures would have turned out, they would be the only ones I would ever share with others (not because I am ashamed, but because we are protective parents)…but, sadly they did not turn out.

Faith and Grace looked beautiful, laying side by side in the white casket with pale pink lining in their pink lace dresses, and their dainty faces side-by-side. They had bonnets on their heads that were too big, but just made them even more precious. It was a dark gray day in early November. The chill in the air matched the chill in my heart. I can’t remember anything that was said by the pastor at our graveside service. I can only remember standing by the side of their grave…and the emptiness I felt. I stood with tears streaming down my face – frozen, unable to move away from the place where my daughters lay. Tim stood beside me in silence for a few moments.

“It’s time to go,” he said.

“I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t leave my babies here in this cold place. I don’t know how to do this.”

I felt his arms around me as he said, “They aren’t here. They are in heaven, and they will always be in our hearts.” Slowly, he led me away as I leaned on him for the strength to take each step.

Thomas 

With Thomas, we were given the gift of time. We knew in advance that we should prepare for a funeral (even as we prayed for a miracle). I wish that I knew more than I did, but I certainly was more prepared than I was when we lost Faith and Grace. This time, I knew babies could die. I knew more than I wanted to know about what that was like. I chose the scriptures that I wanted read, the songs I wanted sung, the outfit he would wear, and the people who could attend.

Still protective of our grief and one another, I respected Tim’s desire that we keep the funeral private, inviting only a few people. I now wish we would have been able to have more people meet our Thomas. I think they would have a better understanding of our grief and the significance of this sweet life that was lost. And, I think they would have been blessed to know him – to meet our precious son. I also wish that we would have allowed Timothy (our son, who was 4 at the time) to be more involved. I wish I would have brought him to the hospital and included him in the entire funeral. I did bring him to the viewing and allow him to meet Thomas there.

Our friends Dan and Dinah were there. Our mothers and stepfathers, our brothers, and Ginny (the one who walked with me). Thomas was beautiful, taking our breath away. He was wearing a baby blue soft outfit I had chosen for him, and his casket was white, lined in blue. He was covered in a white blanket my mother made with her own hands, a cross with a little boy praying, and a little teddy bear dressed in blue. The day was beautiful…a blue sky with fluffy, billowing white clouds. A picture identical to the one we had chosen for the cover of Thomas’ program and thank you notes.

Our friend, Dan, gave a beautiful message, shared comforting scripture, and prayed. We all sang Amazing Grace. I had wanted to sing a song myself and was unsure if I would be able to. But, I stood and smiled as the breezed swept past my cheek and the sun shone on my face. When I opened my mouth to sing, the words poured out.

When this journey is finally over, And life’s sun sets at last, Will I find your hand in my hand? Oh and all life’s sorrows past. Just to stand in Thy fair city, With the multitudes unknown, Is the goal of my heart only, Just to sit before Your throne. Just to sit before Your throne. (Unsure of the name of the song or the author?) That’s all I can remember. The beauty of the day, the song on my lips, the peace in my heart, and the undeniable presence of the One who put it there.

…And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. ~Revelation 7:17b 

Resources

If you are waiting for the birth of your baby, and facing the possibility of a funeral, there are some resources that may be helpful in the planning. Please just do what seems best for your family. Don’t worry about how others may view your decisions. They are not walking this path. It is yours to walk, and you are free to do it your way.

Walking With You was created to help support those who have lost a child. Together we share our stories, helpful information, scriptures, encouraging words, prayer requests, and more. Thank you to those of you who have joined us, for courageously sharing your stories. Join our support group to share your story here, or feel free to share your story in the comments.

Thank you for joining us on Walking With You Blog series. This week, we will be sharing about meeting our babies – the birth and loss of our babies and the moments we spent with our children after they were born. I have been so touched to read each of your journeys and to pray for you on this walk over the years. If you are just joining us, we are mothers who have lost a baby and who are walking in different places on that path. We have joined together, that grieving moms may know that they do not walk alone. We will be meeting in our Walking With You Pregnancy, Infant, and Child Loss Facebook Support Group to pray for and encourage one another each other, sharing pieces of our journey, scriptures, resources, prayer requests, and more.

Sharing the Journey

Faith and Grace 

After spending a couple weeks in the hospital with various complications stemming from twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome, I was home recovering. I hadn’t felt active movement from the girls in a few hours. It was late in the evening and something didn’t seem quite right. I called my mom, and then Dr. C. and told Tim my concerns. Everyone was on alert in case we needed to go to the hospital. For some reason, that I have wondered since that day, I decided to go to bed and see how I felt in the morning.

In the morning, I was not feeling any movement. Tim was at work. So, my mother drove me to the hospital. We were not rushing. Not feeling a sense of urgency. We stopped to get gas. On the drive, I felt the sense of a slight flutter. Was it movement? It was hard to tell. Movements were hard to discern with all the excess fluid surrounding Faith and Grace.

They admitted me to the triage area and began to search for a heartbeat with the Doppler. I smiled and reassured the nurse that it was often hard to get a heartbeat on the Doppler because there was so much fluid. “They’re in there,” I said confidently. She went to get an ultrasound machine to make sure. This is where everything gets blurry. I wish my mother was here for me to ask about the details, so that I could share them more clearly. But, maybe they aren’t meant to be clear.

I think the nurse may have begun with the words, “I’m sorry…”. I don’t know what else came out. Maybe that “there is no heartbeat.” Maybe that they were gone. I don’t know, because at that moment her words were drowned out with a choking sob, a twisted, agonized, primal cry that was coming out my mouth in a voice that I didn’t recognize. The family on the other side of the curtain was being escorted away, so that my cries did not disturb the pregnant patient. The agony ripped through me with swift devastation. I heard that unrecognizable voice screaming, “No! My babies…”

Through the fog, I heard my mother talking to the nurse. Arguing. She was saying I could go home and wait or induce labor. My mother said I would not be sent home. Labor. The word cut through the fog. And slowly understanding permeated. I don’t know what I thought would happen…but labor was not on the list. It had never occurred to my twenty-one-year-old mind that I would have to endure labor and deliver babies that would never cry, nurse, or fill our house with life.

I guess I thought they would just put me to sleep and perform a C-section. But labor? How would I do that? Phone calls were made that I can’t remember. I called Tim and cried that they were gone. Our babies were gone. He sped to the hospital even though there was no need to hurry.

I was taken to a private room that would have been lovely under different circumstances. I showered and prepared to be induced. How, Lord? How will I have the strength to go through labor, knowing that I will not be rewarded with the glorious sounds of new life…but silence? How? Nurses spoke foreign words that had no place in the delivery room…words like stillborn and funeral. Burial. What were they talking about? It was more than I could process.

At some point in the early hours of labor, I looked out the window. There were giant, beautiful snowflakes – so perfect and beautiful – just like my Faith and Grace. Each one unique and created by God. They fell silently, peacefully, such a contrast to the turmoil in my heart. The peace washed over me, and I turned to face the next thing.

The labor. It was long, lasting through the night and the better part of the next day. Mom and Tim were there. On November 3, 1996, Faith was born first and minutes later Grace came. Silence. I held them in my arms, one in each. And although they were bruised and broken, I saw them as they were meant to be – beautiful. They looked like their brother, except a daintier more delicate version.

Tim leaned beside me as I held them and we cried together, allowing the brokenness to wash over us…forever changing our once young and invincible hearts. I sang Amazing Grace and prayed over them. My mother also held the girls and said hello and good-bye. Physically, there was relief, after all the struggles of carrying Faith and Grace. Emotionally, we were heartbroken, lost without our girls. We were expecting the unique honor of parenting identical twin daughters. And we were leaving the hospital with nothing, except a little care package with a tiny baby gown, some mementos, and a couple polaroids. The emptiness smothered me, and my arms ached with longing, as I was wheeled out of the hospital past the nursery where new babies cried.

Thomas

My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in your weakness. 2 Corinthians 12:9 

I had wondered from the time we heard the words “incompatible with life” how we would face another labor that ended without the sounds of a newborn baby cry. I had wondered if carrying Thomas was causing him harm. Wondered what we would be faced with the day we met our sweet boy. And my answers would come soon.

I was admitted to the hospital to induce labor at about 38 weeks gestation. My labor was long and intense. Contractions came fast and hard but were not effective. I dilated slowly, as I labored throughout the night. I read scripture and prayed, reciting scripture when I could no longer read. The waves of pain were like nothing I had experienced before.

I called the nurse telling her that I was going to throw up and needed a bucket. She gave me one of those tiny kidney shaped things that would hold a teaspoon, and said, “You’re fine. You’re not going to throw up.” No compassion. I felt the waves of nausea with the waves of pain, escalating as one. In a tangle of cords, I forced myself out of bed and drug the IV bag with me as I lunged toward the toilet, screaming in pain, I made it to the bathroom just in time. Tim had fallen asleep…and the nurse certainly wasn’t going to help. But I wasn’t alone.

I clung to the Lord, like never in my life. And He carried me through. He was my focal point. In the wee hours of the morning on July 14, 1998, an epidural brought sweet relief and a little rest. I opened my eyes to see the compassionate face of Dr. M, and I was wheeled into a special delivery room with an adjoining room where they could work on sick babies. I prayed throughout the pushing, and then – weighing in at more than four pounds- he was born. Alive.

“He has red hair!” Dr. M proclaimed as my boy was whisked away by the capable team. Praying, as tears streamed down my face, I was still asking for the miracle of Thomas’ life. I had wondered all those months what would meet me in the moments of Thomas’ birth, and the answer washed over me. The answer to the ugly question on that first day of the bad news, “Where is your God now?” The answer filled me with peace.

I knew the sufficient grace spoken of in scripture, as it surrounded and carried me. And the answer to that ugly question: “Where was my God”…He was right here. He met me here in this place. His grace was waiting. He sustained us. And His presence filled the room.

I was taken to a room to rest while they still worked to stabilize Thomas. With prayers still on my lips, I fell asleep, exhausted. Someone came to tell me that Thomas was stable and we could go see him. I needed some help getting eagerly into the wheelchair. I was about to meet my baby. And, when I did, he took my breath away. His beauty was astounding. I was afraid for so long and what I may see when I laid eyes on him. And, I had nothing to fear. He was breath-taking. Perfect. One of the most beautiful babies I have ever seen.

I leaned down and stroked his cheek, whispering that he wasn’t alone, that Jesus was with him, and his mommy was here. I held his hand and touched his head, kissing him softly (although, I sadly cannot remember that anymore. But my friend Ginny assures me I did). His lung collapsed and the machines that he was hooked up to, the ones sustaining his life, beeped and blinked. Alarms went off. The nurse rapidly informed me that they would have to work on Thomas, and I would need to go back to my room. They would get me when he was stable again.

I didn’t know about comfort care or birth plans. I knew I wanted time with my son, alive, if possible. I knew that I wanted them to make sure that there was nothing that could be done, before we let him go. Potter’s Syndrome is fatal, but I wanted them to make sure that he didn’t have kidneys, that there really was no way to sustain his life. Because if there was a way, I wanted them to save him.

They came to get me after some time went by, and I held my Thomas for the first time. The machines made his little body shudder as they breathed life into him. I asked if it hurt him. The nurse assured me that they were making him comfortable. As I held him in my arms, a sweet nurse snapped photos with a disposable camera. At just the right moment, he opened his eyes and looked up at me, just as she snapped the picture!

I talked to him and prayed over him with Tim beside me. I sang to him. After all the tests concluded that indeed Thomas did not have kidneys, and his lungs could in no way sustain his life, we handed him back to the nurses. They took me to a room to wait as they removed the machines sustaining his life on this earth. The nurse laid him in my arms, and I began rocking him and singing praise songs, and the most glorious peace and joy filled the room. “His grace is sufficient for me”. His presence was so evident, so real. It occurred to me that I had been given a great privilege. I had been chosen to sing to this beautiful baby as he went straight from my arms to the arms of Jesus. I will never forget the gift of those moments. I was blessed among women that day, blessed among mothers. There was so much healing in the meeting of my Thomas. An unspeakable gift.

There are many things that I wish I knew to do or felt more confident to do during my short time with my sweet babies on this earth. So, I want to share a little with you, here. Please contact a remembrance photographer. You may not think you will want pictures. You may feel shocked or think it will be too painful. Please just get the pictures anyway. Because you cannot get these moments back once they are gone. Also, I would suggest a birth plan stating your wishes before going in to deliver your baby. Plan for memories. We have several memory-making materials that are helpful for this and there are other places to go as well. Get as much as you can. Do as much as you can to cherish the time you are given.

Don’t let anyone talk you out of it or make you feel uncomfortable for your choices. I wanted to give my sweet Thomas a bath and a nurse said, “We don’t usually have our parents do that.” So, I didn’t. I immediately felt squished and like my request was strange. And I missed out because I let that nurse’s opinion rob my confidence.

Thanks so much for joining us again, and for allowing us the privilege of walking with you. Next post, we will be sharing about planning a funeral/memorial service, along with our memories of that day.

Originally posted June 15, 2009:

For this first Walking With You, I thought we would begin at the beginning. If you are joining us as a bereaved mother, then it is certain that there was a day, a moment when your world changed. There was a loss of innocence that day – the innocence we have before we know that the unthinkable can actually happen. A complete change in perspective.

It may have taken place as you laid on the examining table and heard the words, “there is no heartbeat.” Or maybe you have heard the words “incompatible with life.” Perhaps it happened in a blink of an eye when you were expecting to meet your baby and had to say good-bye before you even said hello. However the news was presented, that moment has been woven into the tapestry of your life, etched in your mind and your heart. The news that something is wrong with your baby or that your baby has died is life-changing. There are a myriad of emotions and reactions.

Today, I’m going to share some pieces of my own journey…my memories from the days that changed my life. The moments when I heard those words, moments that have shaped who I am today, and who we are as a family. Moments that have brought me here to walk this path with you. As moms who have walked this path, we share those moments, and I hope you are willing to share them with us as we walk this path.

The stories we have are the stories God has given us to tell, in order that we may comfort and encourage one another. For now, I will just focus on hearing that bad news and our initial reactions. As we continue, we will cover other pieces of the journey. This week…we remember our first steps. 

Sharing the Journey 

We were twenty-one years old and expecting twins. I was about mid-way through the pregnancy – maybe a little further. I was admitted to the hospital for pre-term labor and endured the lovely effects of magnesium sulfate for about a week. The time came for our scheduled ultrasound. The nurses wheeled me down the hallway and into a yellow room. As I lay on the table, I could sense a change in demeanor from the ultrasound technician. Her face paled and grew stony. She would not look me in the eye as I started to question her. I could tell something was terribly wrong.

The events that followed are blurry to me. I see them in flashes only…can hear the words in short bursts.

“Too much amniotic fluid.”

“One baby is bigger than the other.”

“A possible problem with the heart.”

The room is spinning. I feel like I’m choking, fighting for air. I can see the concern on their faces, hear the somber tone in their voices. They are sending me to a high-risk specialist in the morning. I don’t sleep all night. I pray as I’ve prayed for weeks for the health of my babies. The next morning, in one fell swoop we find out that we are expecting identical twin daughters instead of just twin babies and that our sweet girls had a condition known as twin-to-twin-transfusion syndrome.

The journey continued…but that is how it began.

Less than two years later, midway through my third pregnancy, I heard the words on the telephone.

“There were some concerns on the ultrasound.”

“Not enough amniotic fluid.”

“We will be sending you to a maternal-fetal medicine specialist.”

“We are so sorry.”

I went to the appointment. As I laid on another examining table, I heard the words “absence of kidneys”, “Potter’s Syndrome”, and “incompatible with life .” Never had the darkness seemed so dark and mocking than on that day. As my husband and I processed the words, the life seeped out of us. I stood in the hallway frozen and unable to move forward, unable to take one step into the life that held the hopelessness of the words we had just heard. The tears streamed down my face in unison with the raindrops dripping down the window.

One word sums up what I felt in that moment. One lonely, dark word. Forsaken. In that heartbreaking moment, I felt forsaken. I felt mocked, destroyed, and without hope. All the way home a voice in my head mocked me, asking “Where is Your God Now?” I didn’t have an answer in that moment. I felt defeated. But, that night, as the relentless mocking continued, I reached in my helplessness for my bible. I opened it and let my tears drip on the words – the words that would be my soothing balm, my weapon against the mocking attacks, the truth that would squelch every lie that threatened my hope.

As the storm raged on with all of its fury, I collapsed into His arms, wet from the rain…tired…bedraggled…barely even able to reach up and take His hand. It was okay…my weakness, my inability to put one foot in front of the other. The Lifter of my head was there. He met me there. He met me there as I read the familiar words that quieted that mocking voice. 

For He Himself has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you. ~ Hebrews 13:5 Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, For your sake we are killed all day long; We are accounted as sheep for the slaughter. Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which in in Christ Jesus our Lord. ~ Romans 8:35-39 

He will never leave me…even if I feel deserted, He is there. In the thick fog of the unknown, in the darkness of the greatest sorrow, in the depth of the lowest pit, He will never leave me. He is there. And I do not walk alone. How do I know? Because I walked there. And, He walked with me. And His love – nothing can separate us from it. No trial. No sorrow. No loss. No imperfect faith. No inability to measure up. Nothing… can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing. Whether you can feel it or not, His love is so powerful – His relentless amazing love for you and for me. And, if you cannot feel it right now…just hold on. You will again, one day. You will. He won’t stop until you know how dearly loved you are.

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Prayer Request: Please pray for me as I seek to reach out through this ministry…that the Lord would be leading and guiding and that we would follow His plan. Please pray that we would be able to reach out in comfort and love to those who are grieving. And as we do, I ask for prayer for balance in my life…that I would not do things in the wrong order of priorities, but keep the right order: God, family, ministry, work. And for strength. Thank you so much…and I hope you will share your current prayer needs with us as well! ————————————————————————————-

Whether you are walking this path now, facing the loss of your child, a newly bereaved mother, or whether it has been many years since your loss…we hope you will join us, so that we may take this walk together. The subject this week is sharing the initial news and how you were affected by that moment – the beginning of your journey. Then, if you have some resources to share that helped you with that part of your journey or some wisdom, please share. If you are in that place now and have a need or question, you can share that as well, and maybe we can help fill that need. Also, please close with a prayer request if you wish…we would love to be able to pray for you where you are right now on this journey. You can also email me directly at: [email protected]. Or, you can just read along and glean comfort, grace, and wisdom for your journey. In whatever way you choose, I hope you will join us and as always…thank you for the privilege of allowing us to walk with you.

Join us here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/WWYBereavementSupport/

Originally posted on June 12, 2009…

Tonight my friend, Dawn Marshall from Marshall Photography met with my other friend, Toni (and me) to do a photo shoot for our Walking With You Pregnancy, Infant, and Child Loss Support Group blog button. It had been a gray drizzly day, raining lightly off and on. When the time came for our little shoot, it started to pour buckets of rain.

Of course it did. At first I thought, what is going on? What a disappointment that the rain would increase in strength as we met to take pictures. I heard thunder rumbling as we huddled under our umbrellas (which incidentally each had their own unique imperfections: mine had pokey things sticking out, Dawn’s had a big hole in it, and Toni’s was lopsided. And, yes, I’m sure there are metaphors in that observation.), while I apologized profusely. The children of these two sweet mamas huddled together in their vehicles as the ran splattered down the sides and into the waiting mud puddles.

The rain poured. The thunder rumbled. And we walked in our cute shoes through the mud puddles into a dark alley that said Do Not Enter, while we huddled and shivered under our umbrella, gingerly navigating our steps to avoid more serious potholes. And, it struck me. The beauty of it. The realization that our God was still in control even as the rain poured. It was no accident that the skies darkened and the rains came down. The mud puddles, the foreboding alley that Dawn had suggested as our location. No accident. My original idea was two friends walking down a lovely tree and flower-laden path. How inappropriate that would have been. How unlike the message that we really meant to send. How not representative of walking together through the stormy paths…through the dark sorrow of grief. Through the valleys. The point of what God has laid on our hearts is that we are willing to walk with you through those dark painful places…and not so much that we are willing as that our God is willing. He is willing to walk with us…and places that desire in our hearts to do the same.

And that walk, it’s no flower-laden path. It is a dark alley with old jagged concrete, filled with mud puddles and Do Not Enter Signs. Dark and foreboding…if we look with our human eyes. That walk is not for the faint of heart. It is the nitty gritty stuff of life and death, loss and hope, pain and healing, sorrow and joy. It is a bitter cup that one day becomes a soothing sweetness to your soul, but for a time breaks you into pieces. And, on that walk, it’s unpredictable. The rain pours. The tears flow. The mud rises. That’s what we see, at least.

Internally, the Lord is working. In the place we cannot see with our eyes, the heart is being shaped and mended, formed into a more beautiful instrument of love and grace than it was before we took that walk. Inside, our soul is being healed and filled up, even as the rains fall…even as we feel poured out and empty. When all we see are ashes, He sees the beauty that will come from them. When we behold the darkness before us, surrounding us, smothering us…He sees the light that He will shine in those dark places.

There are moments on that walk when we feel we cannot go on. Moments when a friend comes alongside us to point us again to the One who sustains us. A friend to lift us in prayer. A friend to allow us to lean on her as she leans on Him. A friend, who is not afraid to walk through the valley in the rain, with a storm mounting. She is not afraid, because the Lord is her strength and her shield. She is not afraid because she doesn’t walk alone.

And because He has walked with her through the valleys and the storms, He has sent her to walk with you. And He will carry you both through the rain, through the storm, through the unknown dark alleys to secure, dry ground.

Whether you are a newly bereaved mother or a seasoned mom who has watched the Lord make beauty from ashes in her life. Whether you need someone to lean on or you are the shoulder that can bear the burden, we hope you will walk with us as we are walking with Him. We hope you will join us with our broken umbrellas, with all our little quirks and imperfections in our various stages on this walk, as His grace washes over us in the pouring rain.

Find us here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/WWYBereavementSupport/