One Sunday morning in May, our family did not show up to church. That’s not normal, considering my husband, Jarod, is the pastor. It just so happens that weekend I had taken our family on a surprise getaway for Jarod’s birthday. As such, I had already secured pulpit supply. Even so, we were back in town and had planned to attend.
I had started spotting just before our trip began. I was in my first trimester and was hoping and praying and worrying all weekend. Early Sunday morning I got so uncomfortable I moved to the living room. It wasn’t long after that I felt a POP and the gushing blood affirmed my worst fears. I was in labor and would not raise this baby on this side of heaven.
I woke Jarod and told him to call our friend to watch the kids so he could take me to the hospital. In the meantime I attempted to shower and clean up, but the bloody mess just kept replacing itself. My friend arrived and Jarod rushed me to the nearest town with a hospital. As we drove, I began to realize the danger as I felt my body get weaker the more blood I lost. We called my dad to ask for prayer. And we prayed. But the church was left in the dark.
I walked into the ER and they quickly got me into a room and began working on me just before I passed out. I followed Jarod’s voice out of the tunnel. And then, I prayed in my mind. “God? Am I going to die today?” I actually felt a peace about that possibility, because —what else can you do? It wasn’t my call and seeing Jesus face-to-face is a beautiful, peaceful endeavor. However, I was not ready to leave my family motherless nor Jarod, wifeless, leaving him to do the hard part all by himself. A continual string of prayer asking God to preserve me for my family was running through my brain like a digital marque. I had to work really hard at not passing out, because if I lost consciousness again, I didn’t believe I would ever regain it.
Eventually, the doctor was able to get me accepted into a larger hospital and I was transferred by ambulance to a hospital in the bigger city. They gave me morphine, three units of blood transfusion and an emergency D&C surgery. All the while, my husband sat in the lonely waiting room, hoping and praying he wouldn’t have to go home alone to deliver bad news to our children. Which raises the question, “Who pastors the pastor?”
Thanks be to God, we were able to both return to our children later that night. But, we still had bad news to deliver them. We brought the kids together the next morning to inform them that baby Iris had gone to heaven. Some were sad. Some didn’t understand. Some were at an age where they responded with humor. That was hard to hear, accepting and giving space for them to cope in their own age-appropriate and unique and personal ways. It was hard to see some of them not grieving outwardly and not really know how to guide them through that, all while grieving and recovering myself. It was hard to accept hugs that they and I so desperately needed, when my skin physically hurt from the trauma of near-death. It was hard to keep living life and raising my kids, feeding and caring for them while my heart was hurting so much. That May day was even harder on Jarod than me. On top of grieving loss, he was traumatized by almost losing his wife and feeling helpless in the matter. It was hard watching him hold his own emotions in to care for me, or pastor others, and not really take time for grieving. Did you know people often don’t acknowledge the dad’s loss when the child is unborn, or the siblings either for that matter? In a culture that undervalues the humanity of unborn babies, many do not even expect Mom to grieve much or for very long.
It was really hard getting out of the house and being around people for a while. Sundays were the hardest. I don’t know if it was because it happened on a Sunday or if it was the nature of the church family and pressures of the pastor’s wife: trying to be friendly and encouraging when I just felt numb. It was hard, but good, to sing songs about heaven when they just made me cry. Sundays were hard for a really long time, even when the other days started to feel more normal. A year or two later a woman in our church lost her unborn children too. Around that time I’d been reading 2 Corinthians. The first few verses talk about the God of all comfort who comforts us so that we may comfort others. I was able to be there for her and understand her need for space to grieve. It was a blessing to see some of my hurt redeemed in being able to empathize with and comfort someone else.
Our perfect rainbow baby showed up a year to the date from when we lost Iris. God lined out so many details throughout that year from the theme of hope and rainbows at an annual event we attend, to using gestational diabetes both for walks to help me process and pray and lining up the anniversary birth date, to God showing up in the delivery room even when the doctor didn’t. His name is Isaiah (God is my salvation) Daijon (God’s gift of hope). And he is the one God chose to walk this earth, whereas Iris is the one He took home early.
It was that same child, “God’s gift of hope”, who, as a four-year-old, pointed to a wall hanging in our home that happened to hold the words, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him” from Romans 15:13. After that, Jarod and I hung on to that verse when struggling through the grief and uncertain process of another baby lost to a miscarriage. In the midst of a really tough situation, we were able to hold onto the joy and peace that comes from the hope of heaven through our Savior. God helped me remember that this life is short. The next will be long. Even though I grieve now, I am so grateful to have been a part of creating two forever-beings who will be part of my forever family.
I often feel led to share our rainbow story with people. Sometimes I’m told, “That gave me goosebumps” or “God knew I needed to hear that today”. It’s a story that God wrote and His hand is so very evident in all of the details of the story. It is an opportunity to share the encouragement of God’s faithfulness with believers and unbelievers alike. Even when life doesn’t feel like His “good” we can trust in His faithfulness and know His hope which brings us joy and peace.
Taking it Further:
Are there some ways you can value unborn life by reaching out to support families who have lost? Or do you need to take some time to grieve and process your own family’s loss that you have not previously felt freedom in our culture to grieve?
Have you seen God redeem some difficult situations in your life? Can you take some time to be thankful for God’s goodness and faithfulness in the storms of life and maybe even share your story with someone to encourage them and show glory to God?