God knew.
He knew how tired I was. He heard my cries when I didn’t feel like I could do it anymore- when I begged Him to give me the grace I so desperately needed moment by moment. He knew my mama’s heart; and he gave me all that I needed, even when it didn’t always feel that way. Because He is kind, even when the world is cruel.
The final few weeks before Sam’s birth were admittedly brutal. I had preterm labor for weeks, to the point that basic house chores would send me into hours of painful contractions. I had Braxton Hicks (“false labor”) with my daughter, so this was not an entirely new experience. But the stress of not knowing, fearing his delivery, trying to decide what level of intervention was helpful verses cruel… It turned many days into emotional and physical torture.
We made it through Thanksgiving, and the following weekend was Chris’ 30th birthday. I had begun to plan a surprise party in November, but had to stop because the false labor caused me to worry that I wouldn’t be able to physically handle it. But the Thursday before, I had a sudden burst of energy and optimism, deciding to push ahead and see if we could still pull it off. In a big fat display of love and generosity, our friends rallied around me last minute and we did it. I’ll never forget the look of surprise and happiness when we walked into Chris’ favorite pizza place, our friends gathered around a table with balloons. The entire restaurant sang “Happy Birthday” loudly and off key as we laughed and proceeded to eat an embarrassing amount of food. Afterwards, we drove over to an escape room and worked together to prove what brilliant (& slightly dysfunctional) detectives we are. Sophie went to Grandma’s for a sleepover, so we headed back to a quiet house for a movie and popcorn. In the morning we slept in, leisurely drank our coffee & enjoyed Sam’s kicks and wiggles before heading to church and grabbing our sweet girl back from Grandma’s. The whole weekend was a bright spot of sunshine and probably one of the best memories of our year.
When Monday came around, I crashed. The optimism of the weekend was quickly replaced with raw grief. I had an unexplained feeling of dread – a foreboding that my time with Sam was coming to an end. I spent the next few days just resting, feeling every kick and telling him how much we loved him. I looked at pictures, took videos of Sophie and my pregnant belly, sang to him, and felt the heaviness of the last few months crash down on me.
God knew.
Then early Thursday morning, just having entered week 29 of pregnancy, I woke up with labor pains. I tossed and turned until Chris woke up, and told him quietly that he needed to call into work. We headed to the hospital with a single blanket made for us by a sweet friend. My labor was more difficult that Sophie’s, but still only lasted about 6 hours. I listened to quiet music, paced and breathed my way through contractions. I tried to focus on the task at hand instead of worrying about the future, and the pain made that somewhat easier. However, as labor progressed, the intensity of the pain and fear began to take a toll. They ended up giving me some pain medication in my IV towards the end, thinking it might help me relax. It actually did the opposite; I had a horrific reaction – within seconds of the nurse giving me the medication through my IV, I began to retch and panic . I remember looking terrified at my helpless husband as he tried to calm me. As horrible as it sounds, that rush of adrenaline gave me the strength to forget about everything else and finally push.
So on December 6th, in the middle of a snow storm, at 10:08 am, Sam was born. He was 2 lbs, 9oz and 14 inches of perfection with fine, curly dark hair all over his head.
He came so fast and unexpectedly, the doctor wasn’t even in the room. He didn’t cry, and I immediately began to ask if he was alive. They said he was, and that he was beautiful. I can’t tell you the relief that flooded my soul at those words. My previous fear and panic was replaced with immediate peace and clarity. Chris cut the cord, and they placed him on my chest. And there we stayed; I sang to him, told him how much we loved him, how perfect he was… and that it was okay for him to go. He breathed every few seconds, curled into my chest, lightly holding my finger, for about 15 minutes.
And then, he was gone.
We held him the rest of the day, memorizing every detail of his face; his tiny eyes, crooked nose and perfect fingers and toes. Some dear soul had donated knitted diapers and hats to the hospital, so we got to wrap him in softness. His grandmothers both held him, and sweet friends came to meet him and bring us food and laughter even in the midst of our pain.
At at the end of the day, after the sun had set, I gave him away. It was the hardest moment of my life, giving him to the funeral director. With tears streaming down my face, my body still bleeding and broken from his birth, I had to hand my tiny son to God.
It wasn’t easy. It hurt. A lot.
And still, God knew.
The following week, we had a memorial service for Sam. Sweet friends and family turned what started as a few simple instructions scribbled in pink marker onto a tear stained piece of paper into a ceremony of healing and praise. The service consisted of one of Chris’ favorite hymns, “Til He Comes”, a message from our pastor, and concluded with “Wonderful, Merciful Savior”; a song that we sing to Sophie as a lullaby as we put her down for sleep. If I had written my son’s story, it would have been sung to him every night. Instead, that night it became a song of worship and pain in the midst of grief.
Gripping my husband’s hand & surrounded by family and friends, we sang a final lullaby to our sweet Sam.
God knew. He saw. And He heard.
“How?” – so many have asked. How could we give up our son? How do we keep on living, laughing, loving after this past year? How do we sing praise despite the fear of repeated loss?
Because He first loved us.
Because when God asked me to give back my son, He wasn’t asking for anything more than He already gave for me. He gave His only Son, Jesus Christ, as a sacrifice for my sins. Because of that incredible gift so long ago, I know I will see my son one day. That my sins are forgiven, and Sam has healing, and that one day, I will see beauty from these ashes.
And so we live and we hope and we keep on breathing. Some days it sucks. Some days I don’t want to be a testimony or give God glory or praise Him continuously. Honestly, some days I just want my son back in my arms, healthy and whole.
But God knows. And He keeps on loving me.
I want to thank you all for following Sam’s story. For praying for us, crying with us, and loving us through the thick of it. We covet your continued prayers as we heal. Pray for us as we make decisions for the future; as we seek to love each other more and lean into this grief. You should also know that God has used your love to change my heart. It has convicted me to love more, to be more open about my life and my failings, and to be more bold in declaring that He is good, He is big enough, and He is worthy of our praise and adoration. That because of him, the final lullaby is but a prelude to a glorious reuniting. We enter into Christmas this year with renewed hope, a bigger view of God and his glory, and a overwhelming appreciation for the baby in a manger, God’s gift to the world.
God knew. He saw. He loved. And He was faithful.
That is Sam’s legacy; a summary of his life and death on this earth and our hope one day as his parents. I pray it will be yours as well.
Love,
Kelsey
Miracles Enough 