I held the phone receiver tightly as the nurse on the other end of the line said, “Congratulations! You’re pregnant.”
When I didn’t respond, she asked, “Is this not good news?”
Taking a deep breath, I said, “Well, I’ve been bleeding for about three weeks, and the doctor said that if I was pregnant, I was probably already miscarrying.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
And so began one of the hardest experiences I’d ever gone through. As it turned out, I was miscarrying, and soon I was in my Fort Worth Ob/Gyn’s office for more blood work, sitting in the waiting room with several very pregnant women. Talk about pouring salt on a wound! It seemed that my body didn’t want to get rid of the baby quickly, so I was forced to visit the office weekly for what seemed like months. (I’m sure it was just a few times.)
It was 1996, and I was a young newlywed and seminary student who had longed to be a mom since before I could remember. Miscarriage wasn’t something I ever pictured going through—and I was devastated.
Friends and family members tried to comfort me, but most of them said the wrong things: “You’re young; you can try again,” or “It’s just nature’s way of taking care of things.” Their ignorance of what I was going through only made me feel worse. My hubby, Carey, also felt the loss deeply—and shared my frustration at the hurtful comments we received.
The weekend after I lost our baby, Carey and I drove to an amphitheater a couple of towns over in Glen Rose, Texas. We were cast members in a life of Christ production, and Carey had a lead role. After the cast-wide prayer meeting which preceded the show—in which I tearfully asked for prayer—I received permission to sit out of the performance and watch the show. As the overture began, I took my seat in the audience.
During the first scene, a grandfather and his two grandchildren explore the Texas hill country and make a campfire. The grandfather tells his grandchildren about the life of Jesus as singers, actors and dancers re-enact the story around them.
With a heavy heart—and feeling very alone—I watched as the grandchildren explored an abandoned cemetery. “This one was just a baby,” said one of the children.
“I think it’s sad when babies die,” said the other child. I sat up straighter. I had never paid attention to those lines before. Tears began to fall as I sensed God showing me, in a very specific way, that He saw my pain. He knew what I was going through—and He knew exactly what to say.
“It is sad,” said the actor playing the grandfather. “But every baby is special to God…and one baby was so special, he was promised by prophets.” The production continued as actors portraying prophets began to sing on stage…but I wasn’t paying attention anymore.
Instead, I was thanking God and shaking my head in amazement at the comfort from a very sweet, thoughtful Heavenly Father.
My baby was special to Him--and I was, too.
Dena Dyer is a wife, mom, and author who lives in Amarillo, Texas. She loves cuddling with her kids, date nights with her hubby, and speaking to women (it's about the only girl time she gets!). To learn more, visit her blog (Mother Inferior) at www.denadyer.com.