The First Wave

Wednesday, January 14, 2026- 4:34AM

2-4AM is when I miss Maggie the most. All my defenses are down. I wake up and forget for a moment what we have lost- that she isn’t kicking and moving inside of me anymore.

This is the first morning I haven’t woken up wailing. This morning, just for this time, I feel a welcomed gratitude and even a little joy. I welcome these emotions and ask them to stay for a while.

I feel gratitude that I got to grow life inside of me again. That I got to feel her kicks and see her perfect little form in pictures. I feel grateful for her life and how it changed mine.

Bracing for impact for another wave of another emotion to come, but for now I rest here.

I have spent so much time thinking about grief, loss, and Heaven these past few years through other family losses, and I am grateful for what I know now because I do not think I would have had the strength of faith to endure this in Jesus’ arms like I do now. It is all by His grace.

I don’t question His goodness. I am not angry with God. I am sitting in this cocoon of a hospital room, reflecting on the first cries of a newborn baby JB and I heard next door yesterday, thinking of the immediate worship of God and the marveling of His giving of life and the miracle of birth that burst out of me in that moment. I felt joy for that mother and her family, while also experiencing deep grief that led me and my husband to hold one another in aching tears.

It is all Him. It is life as a believer- to be able to hold joy and pain in the same heart, in the same moment.

I could not get through this without knowing our dear Maggie is in Heaven. As my brain and body process this trauma- this unexpected, unusual loss- that is what I cling to so deeply. The first thing she saw was the glory and beauty of a place where there is no more pain. JB and I envision her in her grandpa’s arms, his shining blue eyes sparkling with his big, full-of-life laugh lighting up his form as he plays with her and cuddles her. She is with Jesus; there is truly no better place to be.

I want to be selfish, though. I want her to be here with us. I want to watch her grow inside of me, to keep all those appointments on my calendar, to celebrate those milestones. To set up the nursery. To not cancel the registry. To show Emma and Ethan the wonder of feeling a baby kick in Mommy’s tummy. To get the carseat ready and anticipate the joyous occasion of siblings meeting for the first time.

I have not brought myself to think very much yet of all the moments lost. I know that is what people say about the unique nature of miscarriage and infant loss- you grieve what could have been more than anything. You grieve the memories that were never made. I have such a creative imagination and have had Maggie there in my arms on our back deck this summer, nursing in the sun as her siblings play with their Daddy on the trampoline. She has said her first word, spit up everywhere, learned to crawl, and giggled with her older siblings so many times in my mind.

I hurt for our kids. I hurt that at ages 5 and 7, they have experienced more loss and grief than I did until I was 29. I also see their strength of faith. 

There are those pinnacle moments held in our minds- and one of those for me is the moment we had to shatter our kids’ reality. It happened on our couch, with knit blankets and held hands, shaking, tear-filled voices. One moment they are eating pizza and applesauce, and the next they are learning that they were going to have a sister but that she has died.

Their questions and statements were profound. To see our sweet, emotionally in-tune daughter ask such deep questions was beautiful. To hear our son’s logical, intelligent mind work through this was a wonder. When I told the kids they could say goodbye to Maggie, as she was still in my tummy until tomorrow, they just looked at me with confusion and said, “But Mommy, she is already in Heaven. It is just her body in your tummy.”

They know and they understand. These bodies are just temporary. Her body isn’t needed anymore; Maggie is very much alive.

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I am listening to the clock ticking in this cocoon of a room where nothing has to change or be expected of me yet. This room has been filled with tears. It has had some laughs. It has had so many hugs and held hands. It has brought me stale bread and yummy snacks. I have stared at the beautiful bouquet of flowers and portrait of Jesus holding the little children countless times. It will be a core memory with this room.

In this room, I labored. In this room, I met my daughter. I have held Maggie, kissed her goodbye, and held my husband. In this room, I have felt the physical reminders of labor and loss every day. This room has allowed me to face the entrance to the path of grief with a rawness and gentleness I praise God for so much. In the trauma and pain, I have not once felt belittled or misunderstood. I have only felt compassion, kindness, and overflowing love through each person and experience here. I am so grateful for this room- one that acquainted me with death and life in a whole new way.

I hold the treasures of the messages, the prayers, and the Scriptures that have been poured out onto me and JB. My mind cannot process all the words, all the Truths, but my heart feels it. In this time of what feels like impossible mental gymnastics, I feel grounded because of my faith. And I feel held by God because of everyone around me.

What has caused just as many tears as the grief and mourning is the overwhelming gratitude for the love and generosity of so many around us. God has shown up through His people, and every meal, donation, kind word, or gift has turned my tears into a fountain overflowing. I am blown away, experiencing the wonder of living in the reality of God’s design for His people- to come together in harmony to hold one another up in good times and hard times. To be His hands and feet. I feel His love so deeply through everyone.

I also feel the answered prayers with my delivery experience. God answered all of them. I am blown away.

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It is still too hard to face, though. The “why.” Not the Big Why…the practical, human “why.” What changed where we saw our baby girl healthy and moving, heart beating on a Thursday evening, and by Saturday, she was gone? Our doctor is just as confused as we are. 16 weeks along with no indication of what happened. If I didn’t know with my whole being that God is the Author of our days and has them all written in His book, I would lose myself in this confusion, circling down a drain of madness, guilt, and anger. But He knew the plans He had for her, and He is good. Two simple but profound truths that change everything.

God promises suffering for all of us while we are in this world. He also promises His presence. I came into this pregnancy with eyes wide open to this, knowing that loss happens to so many parents. I saw God transform my fears to peace, my waiting to patience. These are not things I could have mustered up from within myself; I am an anxious pregnant mom- the lack of control over any part of it has always been staggering.

These moments of deep peace and trust were gracious gifts from Him as I spent time in His Word and in His presence. He and I will have to wrestle through this together for months and years to come, but I don’t fear that or even begrudge it. I know He welcomes my questions and hurts. I know He is well acquainted with our sorrows; He gave His life to redeem them. To redeem me and set me right.

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I know people sometimes say they don’t want time to pass because it feels like the canyon between their loved one who is gone and today’s present reality grows more vast every day, taking with it the memories and moments that they do not want forgotten. And while I do not want to forget any of the special moments- finding out we were pregnant, sharing the news with our kids and loved ones, picking out nursery themes and watching my belly start to grow- I also want more distance between this week and the rest of my life.

It hurts to know that 6 days ago, I saw Margaret alive and well on a screen. I felt her move. And if my weary brain while in its processing gets a bit stuck, I can tell myself that if I just stay closer to that last time I saw her and felt her alive, then maybe it did not happen. Maybe these twinges I feel even now as my body adjusts to its new state of being are actually her kicks. And while it would be nice to live in that dream state, it is too painful to then come out of. 

I have spent time agonizing over wondering when the moment was when we lost her. Was it when I was playing the recorder for my little students? Was it while I was sleeping? At my daughter’s basketball practice? Was that why I felt so off last weekend and so very tired? So many questions.

Where was I when it happened? I don’t know. But I know where she was the moment it happened- from my comforting womb of love to an eternity of joy, light, and the care of the One who created her and loves her more than I can even imagine.

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There are moments where grief hits you unexpectedly. I don’t really see the need to wear makeup for quite a while because I know this. But we are still in the pocket of everything being painful. Today, we will pick out an urn for our daughter. Today, we need to call our insurance benefits to try to get our hospital stay covered and to try to get some time off from work partially paid for so this is not as catastrophic financially. Today, I will weep in front of strangers and make decisions I never thought I would and do not feel prepared for. And that is okay.

Today, we come home to our house without our baby in a car seat. With tears and a flat stomach. But we also get to hug our kids and come together as a family to heal.

Today will be a hard day, as each day has been since Sunday.

Every “today” will be hard for a while, and I know that is okay.