The Miracle in My Miscarriage

A god who is only good
when good things are happening
is no God at all.

A good God pitches His tent in my pain.
He camps beside my calloused heart
and softens it through the storm.

Light is seen best at night,
not in the daytime.

The fragrance of moonflowers
rises not under the sun,
but beneath a pitch-black sky.

You lift my head with Your love.
You hide me in Your pavilion.
You reveal Your Beloved to me.

His heart is like wax,
melted within Him.
He bears the wounds of the world.

He invites me to reach with my finger
and feel His hands,
and to place my hand in His side.

Spoiler alert: the miracle in my miscarriage was the presence of God Himself—so palpable that I could almost taste it. It is mysterious, yet beautiful, that the Lord seems to reserve certain intimate parts of Himself and reveal them only to those who invite Him into their pain.

Before this experience, I wasn’t convinced that knowing those parts of God was worth the price of suffering. I silently told the Lord, I’m good on that. I’d rather understand those parts of You on the other side.

But the Lord, in His wisdom, did not withhold the pain from me.
And in doing so, He revealed something I never would have discovered otherwise.

Through my miscarriage, I was given an experiential knowledge of a different dimension of God. I write these words now with tears in my eyes and hope in my heart. What makes God good is not what He gives. It is who He is. And because of that, His presence in my pain was the miracle.

An Unexpected Gift

I was walking into my bathroom one night when a thought tiptoed into my mind and stopped me in my tracks: I think I’m pregnant.

The thought felt irrational. It was December 2025—exactly one year since the Lord blessed us with our baby girl, Eden. Drew and I had committed to waiting several more months before trying again for a second child. I had little reason to believe I was expecting.

Still, I couldn’t shake the nudge. I grabbed a test. Sure enough, it was positive. I was overwhelmed, surprised, confused, and deeply grateful all at once. I whispered, “Thank you, Lord.” What a perfect Christmas gift.

The next day, I rushed to Walmart for a few essentials: a “big sister” sweater for Eden to help surprise Drew and a Clearblue test for full confirmation. Drew was just as shocked as I was. We told our families and captured the disbelief and joy on their faces.

Despite how everything unfolded, I’m so glad we shared those moments. Of all the emotions I carried through this process, shame was never one of them. Walking through this experience in community was a gift from God—one I would never want to forfeit.

When the Music Stopped

The gift didn’t stay, but the Giver did.

Light bleeding turned heavier and we cleared our calendars for a visit to the emergency room. After several long hours, an ultrasound revealed that the gestational sac was still intact. A fragile sense of relief settled in.

But the next morning, on a bright sunny Sunday, I woke up with unusual fatigue, cramping, and more bleeding. This time I passed a clot the size of my palm. I cleaned Eden’s nursery like a woman on a mission, trying to distract myself before my OB appointment. Tiny washcloths and onesies were scattered around me when another thought tiptoed through my mind:

I don’t feel pregnant anymore.

The second ultrasound confirmed it. There was no gestational sac. I had passed it the day before.

Confusion flooded me. Drew and I had received a gift we weren’t yet trying to receive, only for it to be gone within weeks. I didn’t know what to do with that. My time with the Lord became dull, to say the least.

The first day, I didn’t even attempt to speak with the Lord about it. The second, I sat there in silence before tuning into a morning devotion from my church, New Life Decatur. The message was titled “The God Who Sits With Us.”

It opened with these words:

There are some pains in life that you do not walk through quickly. You don’t “get over” them, you don’t “bounce back,” and you don’t just “move on.” You sit in them. They sit in you.

Some pain cannot be rushed, reasoned away, or resolved on command. You simply breathe through it, one hour at a time.

During the devotion, my pastor likened processing pain to a child running to his father after scraping his knee. The child doesn’t offer theology. He simply points and says, “Right here, Daddy! It hurts right here!”

He encouraged us to approach God the same way.

I didn’t want to, but I finally decided to try.

My good friend Ayanna encouraged me to sit in the Lord’s presence and play my favorite worship song. It felt disingenuous at first, almost forced. But it created a small opening for the love of Jesus and the comfort of His Spirit to meet me in my miscarriage.

The God Who Sits With Us

What came next wasn’t poetic prayer or tear-soaked worship. I blurted out my blunt, raw, and unfiltered thoughts:

• I feel like You did this to me on purpose.

• I feel like You hyped me up to believe You would do something You didn’t do.

• I feel like You left my heart on the operating table—open and exposed with no protection.

• I feel like You are trying to induct me into Your suffering cult—the group of people who think their trials make them holier than thou.

As crass as I was, the mercy of Jesus met me in my honesty.

I sat in silence, frustrated, but still expecting the Lord to speak. And then I sensed it: a prompting surfaced in my spirit. Clearly and distinctly, I heard a whisper:

Via Dolorosa.

I knew it was the path Jesus took to the cross, but I didn’t yet understand why the Lord would point me there.

I went back to sitting in silence. Another nudge surfaced:

Psalm 22.

I had no recollection of what Psalm 22 was about, but in desperation for answers, I grabbed my Bible. The rustling of thin pages became the only sound in the room as I searched for it. My heart was pounding with a strange mixture of skepticism and hope.

When I found the page, my eyes fell on the first line.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

I froze.

These were the very words Jesus cried out while hanging on the Cross.

I had just told the Lord that I felt misled, exposed, and abandoned. Instead of correcting my feelings or dismissing my pain, He led me to the prayer of His Son… the most anguished cry recorded in all of Scripture.

Then I read verses 14-16:

I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint;
my heart is like wax;
it is melted within me.

My strength is dried up like a piece of pottery,
and my tongue clings to my jaws;
You lay me in the dust of death.

For dogs have surrounded me;
a band of evildoers has encompassed me;
they pierced my hands and my feet.

As I pored over these words, something became clear: God was not offended by my lament. He was familiar with it. In countless passages of Scripture, He provides holy language for grief.

Psalm 22 didn’t fix my grief. It gave it a voice.

This Psalm is the language of a heart that cannot reconcile its suffering with what it knows about God. It is raw, messy, and real. It is honest. And yet, it is still a prayer.

Instead of answering my questions with explanations, the Lord answered me with something deeper: His own wounds.

It begins in anguish, but it does not stay there.

Eventually, the Psalm turns.

I emphasize that word eventually because, in my experience, the Lord is never in a hurry when it comes to healing. He makes space for grief to breathe. The deeper the wound, the more patiently He seems to make room for restoration.

His willingness to slow down and give a wound the time it needs to heal is not a reprimand. It is a form of respect for the weight of what was lost.

Grief, I’ve come to realize, is a lot like the pause in a masterpiece symphony.

Time seems to stretch. The room holds its breath. The conductor holds the moment in stillness, and the audience waits, suspended between what has already been played and what is yet to come.

Grief can feel like the music of life has stopped mid-movement. But the Composer has placed this pause there on purpose.

That pause becomes the space where healing begins… where the notes that came before are allowed to settle into the soul.

Without it, the music would lose its power. It would feel rushed, unfinished.

Grief can feel like an interruption in the story of our lives.

But in the hands of a wise Composer, even the silence has meaning.

The God I once thought I only wanted to know in the light revealed Himself most clearly in the dark.

Psalm 22 helped me understand that lament is not a detour from God, but often the path that leads us deeper into His presence.

And in that space of honest lament, the presence of God became my miracle. If you are walking through sorrow of your own, bring it to the Lord just as it is, and ask Him to let His presence settle over your heart like a healing balm.

The music has not stopped. He is simply holding the pause, and the next chord will come.