broken pieces

Twelve years after our last loss. Ten years after receiving the incredible answer to prayer in the adoption of our son. Two years after seeing Jesus holding a baby and not expecting one, we were delighting in the gift of a miracle. That gift grew even sweeter as we told our son that he would be a big brother, that his secret prayers for a sibling were answered, and we rejoiced in the baby girl that would make us an unexpected family of four. 

As we delighted in the goodness of this gift, life kept moving on in the most unexpected ways. We found out we were being reappointed, moving to a new community to pastor a new church, and would find ourselves loading trucks and moving boxes just weeks before our baby would be born. Delighted, surprised, and a little overwhelmed, we began our preparations, and I enjoyed every minute of feeling wonderfully pregnant. I felt her move and rejoiced in the beauty of something I had never let myself imagine feeling.

It wasn’t long before we found ourselves navigating uncertainty in our great joy and trusting God with the gift he had given us. A few months into the pregnancy, we learned our daughter might have Down’s Syndrome. And after more testing, we confirmed that fear and began to embrace an uncertain journey - but one we absolutely believed God would reveal himself in. Her diagnosis would shift our doctor's attention, and we would be placed under significant monitoring to watch her grow. Scan after scan, we were told that though she would be born with Downs, she didn’t carry many of the typical markers and looked very healthy. Until one afternoon when one (now very routine scan) took much longer than usual, one nurse called in another for a second opinion, and eventually, a pediatric cardiologist would tell us that our girl would be born with a significant heart defect; one that would require open heart surgery sometime after her birth. Experts reassured us that she was perfectly safe in the womb and that one surgery would completely resolve her problem after she was born. With nervousness, but peace, we began to tell people our news so we could prepare and they could pray. It sounds strange, even typing these words, but though her diagnosis was unwanted and unexpected, we had navigated so many hard things before, we had a quiet certainty that we would navigate this hard thing too. 

So in the late spring of 2021, we packed boxes, planned, prepared our son to leave the home he had known, said goodbye to the churches that had shared the gift of our miracle so joyfully, and prepared to embrace a new community eager to welcome us. My pregnancy grew beautifully. I felt wonderful. We saw her face on ultrasounds almost every week as we monitored her growth. And the ultrasound techs pointed out her long hair and ability to twist her feet up over her head every time we saw her. We planned to move, start ministry at our new church, say our hellos, and start maternity leave almost immediately after the move as we welcomed our daughter. 

Every day was a delight as she turned summersaults inside me and reminded me of the gift of life. And Gabe and I began to count down toward one goal. Get our family and our belongings into the new house, physically move; then the baby could come. 

With incredible support, we said our goodbyes, loaded the truck, and headed north. We crossed the finish line and unloaded boxes one hot June day. The movers wouldn’t let me lift a finger, and I pointed boxes in different directions as our son explored his new home. It was a flurry of busyness for the next 48 hours, taking our son to the last of his baseball games, cleaning up the last pieces of the home we were leaving, and finishing a semester of my doctoral work. Just as we finished our list and began heading to our new home for good, I noticed our sweet girl was quiet. We debated what it might be, and brushed it off as her exhaustion from the busyness, and my anxiety from our previous losses. I told myself I’d get a good night's rest and wake up without worry. 

But morning didn’t bring the relief I hoped for. I had a good breakfast, hoping to wake her up a bit, wondering if she was just running out of room. But as I tried to reassure myself that my worry was just that, worry, I had a more profound sense that something else was wrong. With a sense of hopeful uncertainty, I went to lie down for a while, but as I closed my eyes, I found myself in prayer again. This time, in total desperation, asking God to heal her heart, wake her up, and give her fullness of life. I confidently asked the Lord to fully heal her and reassure me now, knowing he had already worked a miracle in me. Though I couldn’t verbalize it in prayer, I had a sense she was gone, and I was asking the Lord to show up with the same miraculous power by which he had given her to me, with the same power he had revealed himself to me before, and to give life to the gift he had chosen to give me. 

And in a way I can’t possibly explain, the Lord was profoundly silent but powerfully present. I could feel him, almost see him. As I lay there, weeping and praying, I sensed his eyes downcast, like he couldn’t look at me. And I knew exactly what he was saying. His silence was everything as if, in his great compassion, he couldn’t bring himself to tell me she was gone. Three weeks before she was supposed to come home, we lost her. I lay quietly weeping in my bed while my son nervously tried to embrace his grief from moving and entertained himself in the living room among piles of boxes. I gathered myself, told Gabe what was wrong, and planned to leave for the emergency room. 

In our unfolding darkness, the Lord was present arranging our care. I was swept right back into labor and delivery emergency care. A sweet nurse tried to find her heartbeat, and with nervous uncertainty, we both imagined she was just being stubborn and hard to find. Eventually, nurse after nurse gave their attempt, and the doctor arrived. They searched for her heartbeat forever, watching her chest for any sign of life. But as soon as he laid the ultrasound wand on my stomach, and her body appeared on the screen, I knew she was truly gone. Her little body was no longer twisting upside down in somersaults or playfully sleeping with her feet over her head; she was lifeless. They left me alone for a moment as I called Gabe and told him the news, as we talked through our options for delivering her, who could care for our son while we awaited her stillbirth, and if we should tell him now or wait. I called my mother, who cried and said, “We were so close.” And the nurses wheeled me into a private room where we would begin the process of bringing her body into the world. For two days, the doctors cared for me, helped my body with the process of stillbirth, and on June 16th, we held her beautiful, perfect body in our arms, without reason or explanation for her death. We had the gift of seeing our beautiful daughter, rocking her for a few hours as we grieved, admiring her features and weeping at the gift that seemed to slip through our grasp. 

In just a few hours, we would hand our girl over to a dear friend as we prepared to bury her. I would leave the hospital, and we would run to receive our son and break his heart with the news. We sat on the grass. And all I had to say was, “we have something really hard to tell you.” With those few words, he knew. We joined him in weeping as the broken-hearted and took him to the funeral home where we could hold her together. Two days later, we would bury her near my Father and lay her body to rest in complete devastation and absolute disbelief. Our maternity leave turned into grief leave. Our world had crumbled beneath us, and all we could do was lie in the ashes of its destruction. 

I write this nearly a year and a half after holding her in my arms. I’ve never attempted to put words to the story of her death, in part because they are a precious treasure, one that may be misunderstood as I share it. But I’ve struggled to document the story of her beautiful life and death because we’re still walking through the mystery of unfulfilled healing. We have unanswered questions about the miracle of my physical healing against a healing she didn’t receive. We continue to hold in tension the gift of life we received in my pregnancy against her death and the lifeless body we held. We struggle to understand how God has the power to give her to us but allowed her to die. And we’re learning to walk in the mystery, leaning into the reality that God knows what may never be understood to us in this life and trusting him through the mystery of it. 

I’m learning to reconcile the mystery of the pain with the promise I know to be true; that he has been so very near in every heartbreak, he has heard every cry of my heart, he has revealed himself in my uncertainty to remind me of his incredible presence, he has given us strength for moving through the evil of darkness and death, and worked to miraculously answer prayer in spite of it. The reality is he’s given me everything I’ve asked for, just not in the way I expected. I have my beautiful one. That one, my incredible son, returned joy to my life in ways beyond my imagination. God healed my heart. He made me physically pregnant. I knew the gift of life growing in me, feeling her move in a way I didn’t know with our son. He fulfilled his vision in the gift of a girl that looked just like me. I have the family I longed for now, and I will have the gift of a coming reunion with the babies lost in this life. 

But the mystery of those answered prayers came over twelve long years, in ways and times I least expected, while the answers to prayer came alongside incredible pain. Though he didn’t author that pain, his power worked through it toward redemption anyway. He used our darkness to provide compassion and care for others walking through theirs. He’s using our story to remind the church that he still speaks in visions and revelation. He’s allowed our story to point to his power to physically heal. And he’s using us at every turn to reveal in very real ways that life and death, joy and pain, uncertainty and trust live in tension - and he’s in it all - redeeming heartbreak he didn’t bring, and revealing goodness we didn’t know we wanted. 

We still don’t know how the story of her life and death will be redeemed, but we trust it will. I stand over her gravestone and worry that I will forget the miracle of her short life. I look at our incredible son and wonder why God would go beyond himself to bless us with such a magnificent gift. I wonder how God will use his life to point to his miraculous work in the world. And I stand in the mystery of the unknown - knowing more than ever that God has heard our every cry, been so very near, will redeem the pain of unanswered prayers, and will somehow be glorified in the mystery. 

beauty from ashes

I’m not entirely sure where this story begins. 
It could have its origins this Christmas, or 12 years ago….or 2 years ago in Tennessee.
My guess is, this story began long before I was ever aware. 
I simply became aware of the unfolding story on December 21, 2020 - days before a long and weary year would come to an end, the day the Bethlehem Star appeared in the sky, and moments before the world began to celebrate the arrival of a Savior and King. 

The morning of December 21st, as our son lay asleep in our bed, I would see a sign I never thought I’d see again….the double lines of a positive pregnancy test. In disbelief, and with a bit of distrust, I told Gabe to go look at what I saw. It was as clear as day. We were pregnant.  As we rushed Hudson off to school, we began to process what seemed impossible, and I called the doctor who had seen us through so much loss, anxious to be seen. 

The administrator who answered the phone heard my request to be seen by the Doctor, and all the medical history that made this seem impossible. In 30 seconds I relived our 8 years of struggle through infertility, the loss of three precious pregnancies, the unresolved issues in my immune system, our move to adoption - and the 10 years that had passed since with the unknowing receptionist. 12 years since our last positive pregnancy test. 12 years since our last loss. 12 years since we closed the door on having biological children. And 12 years since we stepped through the door of adoption to heal so much hurt. 

And God did just that.
I experienced my first miracle, and healing, in the gift of our son through adoption. 
I have no doubt that God worked together the fragile pieces of our hurting hearts with the fear and uncertainty of others, to place the perfect child in our arms, and to answer my prayer for joy again. Our son has given us joy unimaginable, blessing upon blessing. As our son generously loved us he healed my heart from any previous pain. So much so, that we never questioned our place as a family of three. Over my years of infertility and loss, I simply asked God for one child. One was all I needed. And God gave us the most wonderful answer to that prayer in the most unexpected way, in the miracle of adoption. 

My issues of infertility and loss were never resolved. 
As I grappled with issues of healing and unanswered prayer, it became clear to me that God had done the healing work in my life that he promises, not in a physical way, but maybe in a more important one. He had healed my heart and soul. Eventually, the loss of our babies didn’t sting so badly as I embraced the promise of a coming reunion. I desired nothing more than what I already had. And I could joyfully share my struggle with others to help them find hope and healing themselves. 
My body was broken, but I was whole. 

God continued to unfold healing in my life as I discovered and pursued the Holy Spirit in new ways. In the fall of 2017, I attended the New Room Conference in Franklin, Tennessee. With the gentle guidance of Bishop Sandy Millar, I began to see the Holy Spirit with new eyes. I opened my eyes to see the Holy Spirit work around me with a fresh perspective, and began to actively participate in his desire to work in my life in everyday circumstances. I surrendered to the Holy Spirit in ways I had held tightly before. I experienced the indwelling of the Holy Spirit with new, tangible experiences. And I participated in vulnerable, trusting prayer that stretched me to see God differently. 

One evening at the conference, Bishop Millar invited people to pray for healing. In one specific call, he asked for people to come forward who were experiencing infertility or struggling to have a family. Gabe and I happily stayed in our seats, long past the pain of infertility, until Sandy asked for those who had found healing through adoption to join him too. In an act of trust, and with a good dose of indifference, we approached the altar for prayer. In the most calm and straightforward manner, Sandy and his wife prayed for the healing of my womb. We returned to our seats thankful for the experience, but fairly certain our course was set as a family of three. 

God wasn’t done stretching my experience with the Holy Spirit, learning to lean in, trust, ask, and imagine God’s desire to do more in me than I could anticipate. At the same conference, one year later, I continued to press into the work of the Holy Spirit, test it, and aim to listen more than I had before. As the conference explored healing again, we were encouraged to ask for things we had never asked for before. As an act of trust and surrender, we were invited to believe that God deeply cared about our desire and our willingness to ask. 

I had never asked for healing before, because healing feels complicated, not just for me, but for the many people I know and love who haven’t experienced the physical healing they’ve prayed for. I’ve asked for healing for others that still succumbed to their disease. I know the pain of people I love begging for healing still living with their pain. So asking - asking doesn’t mean getting. If I don’t ask, I don’t have to be disappointed, or wonder why God chose not to answer my prayer when he answers the prayer of others. I began to recognize at that New Room Conference that I had been afraid to ask for healing all those years ago. I asked for God’s presence. I asked for joy. I asked for a child. But I never asked for my body to be healed. That felt like too much. But I had a new longing to obey the work of the Holy Spirit and respond where he was moving. As I listened to the Spirit in me, I felt called to ask in spite of my jaded uncertainty.  Gabe and I approached an old friend and mentor, Dr. Steve Seamands for prayer. And I asked for my physical healing without expectation. 

It was so very vulnerable. It felt like so much - asking for something that seemed impossible, and that I had closed my heart to as a possibility years before. But in trust I asked, they prayed, and I cried as I leaned into God’s loving care. They prayed calmly yet intentionally for the healing of my womb. As they finished their prayers, I remember leaning into Dr. Seamands to ask…. "If God were to choose to give me life, what do I do about the many complex medical issues that contributed to my losses. Do I resume treatments and medicines if I became pregnant to try to prevent miscarriage? Or do I pretend I didn’t have any issues?” He calmly paused, thought for a moment, and responded by saying, “If God can do the bigger thing of making and giving you life - he can do the smaller thing of making your body work to sustain that life. I believe you can trust Him with that.” 

I returned to my seat as worship swirled around me. I was emotional, not from the prayer, but from the vulnerability of asking God for something knowing I may not receive it. The act of vulnerability and trust with my places of unbelief was overwhelming. I stood at my seat, trying to compose myself as I fell into worship when suddenly, and clearly, I saw Jesus. He wasn’t clear and vivid like a projection or picture. He was transparent, hazy even, but I was clearly aware of who it was - that Jesus was standing right in front of me. As he stood there, calmly and sweetly, I saw that he was holding a baby in his arms. I felt kind of lost in his gaze….at peace and aware of the strangeness of the moment when he looked down at the baby he was holding and said, “She’s beautiful. She looks just like you.” And I wept. 

I kept this strange and precious thing to myself for a moment, like Mary “quietly pondered these things in her heart.” (Luke 2:19), trying to absorb them and take them in. Eventually that night, I would tell Gabe what I saw, and he joyfully embraced the wonder with me, even as I told myself that maybe it didn’t mean what I thought it meant. After so much trauma and loss, you learn to protect yourself, protect your heart, from the pain of disappointment. I began to tell myself that maybe Jesus didn’t mean there was a new baby. Maybe he was holding one of our babies waiting for us in heaven. Maybe he was telling me that he saw all we endured and wanted to give us hope that he would heal and redeem all things. 

As our days of worship and retreat came to a close, we began the transition home, processing with those who came with us what we had seen and experienced. We shared what we thought God had been saying to us, where he was pushing us, and places he was working in us. I hesitated to share my experience at first. It seemed too big….too strange….maybe it would make them question my sanity or capacity for ministry. But I kept feeling a push - as if sharing what I experienced of the Holy Spirit was for me, not them. In verbalizing what I had experienced, I was expressing trust and belief in the God who loved me. Keeping it to myself felt like shame. So I told them. The prayer, the vision, the baby, all of it. With support and care, we chalked it up as an awesome experience, wondering what God would do. 

In the two years since that moment, the memory of what God had done sort of drifted into the background - not forgotten, just put away. I began to tell myself that I must have misunderstood God. The prayer and pressing in to ask God for healing was still an incredible exercise in trust, but my healing must have come differently. I wasn’t angry with God or even disappointed. I just sort of recognized that God knows something I don’t - and my attempts to understand him will always be shrouded by my lack of understanding. But the work of transformation, of pressing into the Holy Spirit, participating in what he was doing in and around me….that was worth every vulnerability, and only added to my wholeness. 

And now, two years later, I stand in awe that God was indeed unfolding something that I couldn’t see, and certainly wouldn’t expect in this sudden pregnancy and healing of my body.
I wish I could say why God chose this healing for now - why this was the time for physical healing. Or why he chose this physical healing for me when so many others are still hurting - and I didn’t need the healing. I can’t pretend to know the heart and mind of God. But I do know that this gift was only possible because of the gracious choice of a loving God…..who simply wanted to delight in giving his daughter a good gift. 

Admittedly, I’m not free from the worry that past trauma brings. 
On my way back to our first ultrasound, when the tech said “Let’s go see that baby.” I swiftly said, “We’ll see.” I can’t say that I’m confident that this gift will come to fullness in the life of a child, the scars of my miscarriages still haunt me from time to time. What I can say is this, that the moments of surprise and delight in seeing a beautiful heartbeat on a screen, and watching this baby grow between appointments, has been a miracle in and of itself - reminding me that God is still capable of accomplishing whatever he wants. Each day of this pregnancy is an act of trust and hope that we’re watching beauty rise from the ashes of places closed off to possibility for far too long. For the Lord to look in on my life, the places of pain, the work of healing, the desire to know him more, and then - to want to give something beyond my expectations simply as a gift of love; it just makes him so much sweeter to me. 

For his goodness, and desire to bless me, for the revelation of his power, and the reminder that he is still working and more than capable - I am in awe.

big little things

I used to think that life was about running for the big moments, the truly exceptional things that mark the movement of a lifetime. Graduations, weddings, achievements, and milestones. Like a great book, we move through life aiming for the next milestone as if it were a threshold to cross into a new chapter.

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I mean….that’s not wrong.

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If we don’t pursue life with some sense of urgency and intention, we may miss the opportunity to squeeze every ounce of possibility out of this one life we’ve been given. (hello fomo.)

But ironically, pushing too hard, living life looking a little too forward can make us to miss the little things that hold weight and meaning now, things that don’t come in milestones but in moments.

And I know you’re thinking “yeah Sarah…..nothing new here.”

We often know that truth, but don’t do anything about it.
Do you dream and push, working toward goals and making a difference with what you have?
And in the process do you also work in rest? Do you stop what you’re doing when your kids walk in the room?
Do you make memories while you make dinner and then plan steps to achieving your goals when everyone’s asleep?
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See, life is so much more than slowing down or speeding up….it’s both.
It’s hitting the gas and enjoying the view.

Some call that balance. But that doesn’t work for me. For me, it’s more like driving fast with the sunroof open and all the windows down.
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I get one shot, you know? One shot to live this life I’ve been given in a way that soaks it all up and pours it all out. I don’t want to leave for eternity with one ounce of missed opportunity. I want to have run the race with perseverance. But I also want to have soaked up the sun, smelled the roses, and breathed it all in.

Sounds impossible, and overwhelming…….….and totally exhilarating.

broken & beautiful

Have you ever considered aiming for broken?

Hoping for it?

Most of the time we strive for “together”. “with it”. “whole”. or “healed”.

But beauty may be found in falling apart.

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I hope to use this space to share my own brokenness - and the moments of beauty in them. Not with weakness, but with great confidence in who God has been, the voice He has given me, and an absolute focus on the way He redeems.

I’m sharing my story, so you can find beauty in yours.

Sarah