My best friend gave birth to her stillborn baby boy, Max, on May 8, after suffering the loss of 7 miscarriages. Getting the news of his death was obviously devastating, and like usual, I processed my grief with words and sent this to her the day she found out. I have watched my friend grieve over the last 6 weeks for the loss of her son, and as his would-be due date draws closer, I ask that you join me in praying for her family.

Dear Baby Max,

I wrote a letter to your sister 3 years ago.

Your mom sent me a text and I had just heard her heartbeat for the first time.

The reality of her life started to sink in.

The baby I had prayed and fasted for and hoped for desperately for your mom and dad was strong.

Our prayers were answered and your sister’s life was a testament to all of us that God hears our prayers and answers the desires of our hearts. That we can hope and trust and rest assured that He is in control and He gives good gifts.

So what does it mean then, baby, that your heart stopped beating this week?

How can anyone make sense of your loss, just weeks after your mom bought her double stroller?

What do we say about the little clothes folded up ready to be worn on a warm, late summer day?

What do we do with this pain?

After months of tentative, cautious hope, terrified of exactly this reality, we find ourselves here, mourning you.

Where do your parents turn in the midst of their deepest grief – losing their son before they felt him wiggle in their arms?

Can we still trust Him in the midst of pain and confusion? When reality feels more like a nightmare?

If God was good then, with your sister’s strong heartbeat, is God still good now that we’ve lost yours?

I’m left with a lot of questions, sweet one.

But, if God was good then, He is good now- even when we don’t understand and when the pain overwhelms.

When it doesn’t make sense.

In the midst of deep grief.

He is still good and through the tears we trust and we hope and we wait and we pray.

Though we don’t understand it, we don’t lose faith..

Little Max, I won’t be able to kiss your cheeks or take you on walks like I do with your sister.

I won’t be at your first or second or third birthday party to watch you be totally overwhelmed by the people and the sugar.

But as the tears pour for all we will miss, I remember this for your life and I smile:

You will be held in the arms of Jesus on those days and every day after.

You will never feel pain, or hurt or rejection.

You will never experience anger or shame or misery.

You will never feel embarrassed or scared.

While we mourn for the life you didn’t  live on this Earth, we rest our weary souls on your present reality.

While ours is broken as we wait, yours is perfect now.

You are whole. You are loved and you will never be forgotten.

I love you.

 

 

On July 6, there is a 5k walk/run called the “Angel Dash.”  Funds raised from this will go towards supporting grieving families and stillborn research and education. If you follow this link and search “Sami DuVal” or “Jenna Maxwell” you can donate for either of our teams. Sami will be walking the race with her closest friends and family, and I am hoping to run the race if we are in town!

Follow this link: Angel Dash Information