This post was originally posted on my publication, Simple Faithful Motherhood, on Substack.

I went into my baby tracker app today to do a little housekeeping. I figured it’s time.

“16 weeks and 1 day,” it said. A cute illustration of a baby with exciting information on this week’s development flashed on the screen.

Except the app was wrong. There’s no 16-week old baby here. So I tapped a button that said to report a loss. Words of comfort and resources for miscarriage mums lined up on the screen. I thought that was a nice touch from the app makers.

But I’m digressing from this photo, which is the reason for this post.

A beautiful day at Gardens By The Bay, with one hand holding my beautiful son and another holding baby M who had me sporting a bump early at 11 weeks.

My husband Lem took this photo on a gloriously beautiful day.

Clear day, blue skies, bright sunbeams. He got the angle right, for once, and somehow also managed to capture my bit of a bump that would not be mistaken for having eaten too much. He forgot to ask my son to smile though, but what more could I have asked for?

We were so pleased with this photo. At that time, we were just days away from our second routine ultrasound. We agreed that this photo would be perfect for our baby announcement, and saved it. We never expected that it would be our last picture memory of our second baby.

I read somewhere that if love was all it took, I’d keep my baby alive forever.

If love was all it took, none of us would know the pain of saying goodbye to someone we love, right? But life’s not like that.

Still, we weep, and we heal, and we courageously carry hope and faith through life. We hold on tighter to God, and ask Him for strength to pass through these waters. So that’s what I’m doing.

I didn’t get angry at God. I just wondered if my faith was starting to buckle beneath a quietly fatalistic view of Him.

“Over the next few weeks, I began a journey of walking through thick fog to try and see God clearly. To wrestle, not so much with Him, but with my faulty theology.”

A view I never stopped long enough to examine and correct. Maybe part of the view I have of God turned out to be a little grim — the part that can’t quite reconcile His sovereignty and His goodness. What if God’s idea of good for me goes directly against what I desire?

So over the next few weeks, I began a journey of walking through thick fog to try and see God clearly. To wrestle, not so much with Him, but with my faulty theology.

If I truly believe in a God whose hand is sovereign in the universe, then I must also believe that He does not exist to grant every human desire.

If He did, this world would descend into confusion and conflict — because our desires are often broken, and so often in opposition to one another.

Therefore, I must accept that God's good plan for me may sometimes run counter to what I long for. Not because He is cruel — but because He is wise, and I am still being made whole on this broken earth.

If even Jesus in Gethsemane wrestled in that in-between space — where desire met surrender — praying “Let this cup pass from me” and yet choosing “Not my will but Yours be done”, then that is my reference point.

This broken world is not my soul’s true home. And any suffering I endure here should bend my heart toward longing for the day of Jesus, when He returns, and all will be restored.

Meanwhile, my heart was still hurting.

The first thing I did was to collect words.

“This broken world is not my soul’s true home. And any suffering I endure here should bend my heart toward longing for the day of Jesus, when He returns, and all will be restored.”

I read books and beautiful pieces of writing from people whose words I trust. I borrowed their words when I couldn’t name my emotions or make sense of my experience. I searched online for other women’s stories on their miscarriage experiences, because we’re told so little about what to expect as we’re going through the process, and how to navigate this horrific situation. While it’s unfortunate that so many women go through this, their stories brought me comfort in real, practical ways.

I cried, and cried some more. In the first few days, I would cry till I fell asleep, and then wake up again, sobbing. And when I stopped crying so much, I cried again that even grief itself was slipping past me. It was all so very convoluted. But eventually, and naturally, the tears tapered off.

The second thing I did was to reach out.

I didn’t let shame stop me from letting people know what happened. I spoke about my miscarriage out loud, to whoever would be so kind to listen — not to draw attention, but to press in to the power of human connection.

When I started posting online about what had happened, and texting friends we had to retract a pregnancy announcement from, so many friends came close. I cherish the ones who were so brave to lean in, when really it’s awkward to ask “how are you doing,” well knowing the obvious answer.

We received flowers, food, gifts, and so many prayers. Because of these ones, I was able to borrow their faith when my own was shipwrecked. Their love was a much needed lifeboat.

Now that I’ve had time to process and heal for a bit, I feel strong enough to share this photo. We saved this photo for a baby announcement, but now it tells a different story. It’s still a beautiful story. It’s still God’s story in our lives. This is the story of our second baby.

We chose a name for our baby after his passing. (He? I just had a feeling.) To keep some privacy, I’ll call him Baby M here.

I felt it was important to name him, because for every day M was alive, he was here, he mattered, and he was wanted. M was already known, already loved, even before he was formed in the womb — the Bible tells me so (Psalm 139).

So, in tender loving memory of Baby M, I dedicate this post.

M, you changed our world forever and left an impact beyond the small number of your days. You made J a big brother, made us second-time parents. You brought smiles to the faces of so many who knew you were here. We will cherish and remember dearly the days you were with us. I’m honoured to have made a home for you in my womb.

Until we meet, not again, but for the very first time in heaven, baby M, you have all our heart and love. Have the very best parties with Jesus in the meantime.

DID YOU FIND THIS HELPFUL?

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