Finding Solace: A Story of Pregnancy Loss and Faith

Content Warning: The following essay includes a discussion of pregnancy loss.

When I was standing at the threshold of so many beginnings in my life—newly married, newly the rector of a parish I already loved with my whole heart, and newly pregnant with the child I had prayed for—I had a miscarriage. I went to the doctor for a 12-week appointment where no heartbeat showed up on the ultrasound. I was told my dates must be off and to come back in two weeks for another scan. Two weeks later, the absence was still there, and I understood this longed-for child had died before ever existing, a medical anomaly called, like some biblical plague, a “blighted ovum.”

It’s easy to tell this story now, over a decade later, but at the time I couldn’t say it out loud. I was a faithful priest, a good rector, I thought, in the model of those mythical priests who died at the altar, chalice in hand. So I proceeded to keep the news to myself and led an entire Holy Week’s worth of services without resting until after Easter morning, miscarrying the whole time. 

When I was the mother of the most beautiful baby girl I had ever seen, just before her first birthday, I found that I was pregnant again. I’d made it through a healthy pregnancy, so I entered into this one without any fear or anxiety. Everything went fine. The tests came back just like they were supposed to. Another daughter was on the way.

And then, in the sixth month, I noticed during a parish rummage sale that I hadn’t felt any kicks for a little while. A day later, still with an unnerving quietness in my body, I took myself to the hospital. In an absurd bit of magical thinking, I went alone because I thought that, as long as I went without anyone to support me, it would all be fine. I’d be told I was silly and nervous and should go home and rest.

Instead, I saw the silent blackness on the ultrasound screen, silence where the flutter of the heart should be, alone. A kind nurse put cool cloths on my head and held my hand while we waited for my husband to arrive. There followed a blur of appointments and procedures, but I skated along on the surface of all of it, not quite present in this body that had so betrayed me. Even now, my only clear memory from that day is the feeling as I came home from the hospital, unsteadily getting out of the car, no car seat to lug into the house.

In a way, this loss was easier because I never had the choice of keeping it to myself. One day in my very public life, I was clearly pregnant, and then I was not. I didn’t get the opportunity to try to muscle through with gritted teeth because my entire world of people who loved me couldn’t help but know, thank God. So many meals were delivered. So many notes were dropped through the mail slot. When we made the announcement to my congregation, we directed people to the Maison de Naissance, a maternity hospital and clinic in rural Haiti, in an effort for something good to come out of the grief. My friends, family, and colleagues overwhelmed them with their generosity.

A few things got me through those first dreadful weeks, though I will start with what didn’t help at all, even though I could recognize it for the well-meaning attempt at reassurance it was intended to be: stories of the friend or the cousin or the niece who had experienced countless losses only to finally be rewarded with a healthy child. These were always shared by those who had not experienced pregnancy loss; they couldn’t understand how these stories were a sort of reemphasis of the failure I felt at not being able to bring a healthy baby to term.

Many things did help, however, and those included: 

Collect for Proper 20, Year A
This collect, a fluke of the lectionary, but exactly the words I needed for solace and strength in the midst of things passing away: my hopes of a growing family, the dreams I had for this little girl I would never meet. I still keep it in a note on my phone to this day:

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (The Book of Common Prayer)

“A Litany for Loss”
This Celtic prayer turned into a litany by an author unknown. I prayed it hourly the nights I couldn’t sleep due to the endless cycle of questions in my mind like “How could this happen?” and “Did I miss something important?” and “Did I do something wrong?”

“Do not hurry as you walk with grief; it does not help the journey.

Silence

“Walk slowly, pausing often; do not hurry as you walk with grief.

Silence

“Do not be disturbed by memories that come unbidden. Swiftly forgive and let God speak for you unspoken words. Unfinished conversation will be resolved in God. Do not be disturbed.

Silence

“Be gentle with the one who walks with grief. If it is you, be gentle with yourself. Swiftly forgive; walk slowly, pausing often.

Silence

“Take time, be gentle as you walk with grief.

Silence

“Come now, God, live in us. 

“Help us stay in you, since if we are all in you, we cannot be far from one another,  though some may be in heaven and some upon earth. Amen.”

Writings on Experiences of Stillbirth and Miscarriage
The words of a number of authors from faith traditions different than my own or of none at all, sharing their own experiences of stillbirth and miscarriage. Two of these stay with me these many years later, for their power and humor and truth: Elizabeth McCracken’s memoir An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, and the essay “Heartbreak and loss in the New Year” by Rabbi Dara Frimmer from the Jewish Journal.

The latter included this powerful passage, “And here is the cruel compassion of grief. The first few weeks will not allow for the soul-crushing recognition of how much has been lost. It is only as the heaving cries begin to subside that one begins to realize how life has been irreversibly changed.”

Though the Darkness Gather Round Devotional
A small book of devotions called Though the Darkness Gather Round, edited by Mary Elizabeth Hill Hanchey and Erin McClain, compiled of writings from individuals who had experienced infertility, miscarriage, and infant loss. These instances of personal witness to faithfulness in the midst of grief gave me strength. 

Stories of Women Who Survived Their Grief
The stories shared by so many more women than I could have ever expected, from their early 20s to their 80s, who told me about their own miscarriages and stillbirths, because they were shared as companionship in the depths and served as proof that survival of such a huge grief was possible. 

People Sitting with Me in My Grief
The people who sat with me in my grief, often silent companions, who recognized their presence would provide more support and solace than anything they could say.

What these resources all have in common is that they shared stories, experience, and hope from those who had walked the mourner’s path before me, individual lights along the way to healing and wholeness.

The greatest light of all was the blessing and the gift of my own faith in a God who knows the pain of the death of a beloved child. Throughout those first dreadful days and weeks, I waited for the loss of my faith. It never came. Instead I felt a new, intimate connection to my God, as well as a stronger devotion to Our Lady, never blaming, only thanking for the companionship and courage that gave me strength I never thought I could have.

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Editor’s Note: This essay is a collaboration between Grow Christians and Building Faith, a ministry of Lifelong Learning at Virginia Theological Seminary that publishes “theologically rich, practically oriented articles on Christian formation,” in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month (October) and Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day on October 15.