What God knows...

15-20% of all recognized pregnancies will end in miscarriage. Most women of childbearing age will have 2 miscarriages, though depending on her regularity and how early it comes, she may not notice. Most miscarriages happen because of abnormal cell division that results in chromosomal abnormalities, 80% of them occurring during the first three months of pregnancy.

I know this. I thought I was ready for this. I expected to be sad, but not so sad. I expected to grieve, but not so much.

A few days ago I was 10 weeks, 6 days pregnant. Today I am not. 


When I first wondered if something was wrong, it could have been normal. By the next day, though, it didn't seem normal anymore. I called the midwife. Unfortunately, there's still a 50% chance that it's fine, and an equal chance that it's not... I elected to have an untrasound. I wanted to know. We are so glad that we did this, my husband and I sitting in a room together, our guts both preparing us to grieve, but not willing to say the words until we had some proof. I have had ultrasounds before. In my previous pregnancy, at six weeks we got to see the little heart,  a little pocket of skin -- open close open close open close open close. So now, we watched for it. The outline of the baby became clear; early, but clearly there. But no movement, no heart beat, no life.

The strips flowed across the screen, one for placental blood flow -- fluid. One for fetal heart tones -- nothing.

It became real. This was a little baby; I saw its picture. This little baby within me was already dead.

The midwife confirmed what we had already seen. "This baby, this pregnancy didn't make it. I'm so sorry." The next day, she called me with the report. The baby measured at 6 weeks, 5 days. What?! The baby measured at not quite 7 weeks; I knew for sure I was nearly 11 weeks pregnant. My body held onto this child for almost 4 weeks after it was no longer longer growing, no longer viable. My body held onto this baby for a month, and I didn't know anything was wrong. I didn't sense, didn't imagine, didn't fear. It took four weeks for my body finally to begin letting go.

So now, we work on our own letting go. We grieve the loss of this child, of the way we imagined our family to be. A friend led a service of blessing for us, our little family gathered together. We ask questions, we cry, we wonder. In my grief, I ask deep questions. Why, God? What did I do wrong? Are you telling me not to have more children? What does this mean? My husband's questions are a bit different. Could the baby think yet? Could it know anything? Our friend told our daughter that the baby is in heaven, with God; is that true?

As a pastor, I felt I should have had an answer to that one... but I had to walk into it. Heaven is our mythical way of talking about and understanding what happens after we die. We can't possibly know what it will look like or be like, but we need some language to talk about it. We also can't possibly know whether we will know or recognize each other, and once we die, it won't matter. But if I've been married for 60 years and my husband dies, I need to be able to imagine that when I die, we will be reunited. We believe that God will give us that gift. So, talking about heaven is making a theological claim about who God is.

We repeat Jeremiah 1:5, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you." We repeat Psalm 139, "You created my inmost being. You knit me together in my mother's womb." We believe this. We believe this is who God is. So, God knew me before I was born, and God knows me now, and God certainly will not turn away once I die. God knew this little child before it came to be. God knew this baby as its heart stopped beating. God knew this baby as it passed. And God certainly will not now turn away. So yes, this child, this little baby with whom we had so little time... God cradles it in his strong father's arms. God holds it close to her own mothering breast. This baby that we love, God loves, too.

And so,

Child of God, we entrust you to the arms of God's mercy.
Almighty God, who formed us all out of the dust of the earth, receive you in peace.
Christ, the Good Shepherd, enfold you with his tender care.
God the Holy Spirit, our Comforter, bear you to life in God's new creation. 
May you dwell forever in the paradise of God.
Amen.

(from Evangelical Lutheran Worship Pastoral Care: Occasional Services, Readings, and Prayers)