Grief in Two Parts

I love this season.

My Ella, a kindred spirit of mine in all things, including her mutual love of this season, told me recently that one of her friends said, "Why do people even like Fall?  Everything is dying.  It's just dead leaves everywhere.  It signifies death."

Later, when I was alone and I recalled that conversation, I realized that this season has signified death for our family.


It was late summer when I found out, to my great joy, that I was expecting another baby.  I whispered the news to Mark and we were cautiously optimistic (cautious, because our last two pregnancies have ended in miscarriage.  Optimistic, because what were the chances of that happening AGAIN?  We have been content in this place, surrendered to the idea that I would likely not get pregnant again.  So unexpected news felt like a great gift.)  We decided to keep the news to ourselves for awhile (and not even tell the kids) because we wanted so much to protect their hearts.  Some of the most heart-wrenching moments in my life are those that followed the telling to our children of our first loss: that the little baby brother or sister they were so eagerly anticipating had died within me.

And so we waited, and God gave us the strength to hope and He quieted my fears and I was really sick and we were counting down the days to the first ultrasound after which we would then get to reveal this amazing news to our kids.

The day for the ultrasound arrived, the appointment time came and I eagerly put on the gown and settled in to hear and see our baby.  Except as the technician moved her wand over my tummy, the room was silent; the screen was still.  My mind rushed to explain this: Maybe she just doesn't have the right angle yet.  Maybe she still needs to zoom in.

I looked at Mark in the dim room with questions in my eyes-- he'll know if we should be worried right now-- and he was focused, searching himself.

Still I hoped.  Until the truth was spoken aloud, I hoped.  And then I was crushed.  I can't even think of that day without the tears falling.  I was so stunned.  I had so hoped.  Why, when we were so content, would God offer this sweet gift to us, allow us the joy of hoping and dreaming about this little life to join our family, and then retrieve that gift?  For the third time?

We walked quietly out of the room, down the hall, through the office where minutes before I had  filled out paperwork and cheerfully anticipated good news, opened the main door and stepped outside. We hesitated then, just outside the door.  I sucked in air and said something to the effect of, "I can't believe we are here in this place again."  And then we walked the rest of the way to our vehicle.  It was only within the quiet of that space that I felt the freedom to cry.

Mark drove to his work to wrap things up for the day and come home with me early, and I had about half-hour in the car by myself.  I remembered then Ellie Holcomb talking about the story behind her song Find You Here.  She said that when her dad found out he had cancer, her parents invited all their friends and family over for a night of worship.  Right there in the thick of the dark news.  And that it was a beautiful night of proclaiming Jesus in the midst of the hurt.

It's not the news that any of us hoped that we would hear
It's not the road we would have chosen, no
The only thing that we can see is darkness up ahead
But You're asking us to lay our worry down and sing a song instead

You say that I should come to You with everything I need
You're asking me to thank You even when the pain is deep
You promise that You'll come and meet us on the road ahead
And no matter what the fear says, You give me a reason to be glad
Find You Here, Ellie Holcomb (first two verses)

So as I sat in our vehicle and waited for Mark to join me, I sang.  I sang and sobbed right there when my pain was raw.  I certainly didn't feel like singing, but I forced myself to.  That song, and Praise the Lord (the Imperials).

And then we drove home to tell our kids the news I never wanted to have to tell them again.


  1. Oh Stacy, my heart breaks for you. So, so hard. I wish we could go out to breakfast (again) and talk, cry and remember together. The longer I live the more I long for heaven. No more pain or loss, tears or grief. We will be reunited with the ones we love and miss. Though I know this is not my home this ole world can be difficult to understand and walk through. ((((hugs))) and lots of love sweet friend.

    1. Sandi,
      Thank you, kind friend. I have been longing for heaven, too. Thank you for your love and care.

  2. I am so sorry for your loss and pain. Praying for you and Mark.

  3. Oh, Stacy! How very sad I am to read of your loss, my friend. My prayer is for your healing and comfort and for your family as they grieve along with you.

  4. Oh, Stacy, I am so very sorry you have had to walk this road again! You and your family are in my prayers.

  5. I am crying for you. I know that pain. Not 3 times...but, I understand the hurt. I am so sorry. We have to cling to the understanding that there is a reason for everything. He knows what's best for us. What we need to grow in the way he has intended for us to grow. Its hard to see that in the moment. We love you guys so much.

  6. Sweet friend, I have had you in prayers and I although each of us grieve differently, I know a pain ever so similar in my child bearing journey. I have wounds on my heart that empathy allows them to bleed for others suffering this pain similarly. Continuing the prayers & sending ((hugs)) across the miles. I do hope that you will find the words to keep your sharing your heart on your blog. I am finally back to blogging and it's a strange familiar that I am holding onto -- I find comfort in writing and reading blogs.
    {formerly BeautyfullSlow} now Olive & Plaid at
    Blessings this new year and may it be filled with new mercies every morning.

  7. I'm just seeing this now Stacy and Mark, and I'm so sorry. As I am closing up for the evening, I will say a prayer tonight for God's tenderness to be near to you.

  8. I'm still thinking of you and holding you up in my prayers. Missing your posts.


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