By Laura Moorhouse 
I stared at the ceiling in the dark emergency room with as much strength as I could muster. I knew the technician was trained to not convey emotion, but I did my best to read her face. I searched for signs everything was OK, but I knew it wasn’t. She quietly packed up and let me know the doctor would be in. And so we waited in that cold, sterile room.
It was nine months prior when we sat in a doctor’s office and were told we had unexplained infertility and a 2% chance of conceiving naturally. We were presented with options for treatment, yet the Lord called us to wait. It would seem as if the Lord had gone silent until one beautiful morning months later when we were surprised to find I was pregnant with our miracle baby. We were overwhelmed with His kindness, relieved this hard season was ending, and transitioning into a season of joy.
I had no idea our hard season was really just beginning.
In many ways, our years of infertility were to prepare us for this moment in which we would fully lay open our hands and outstretch our arms in worship.
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The Lord had graciously given and now He was lovingly allowing this baby to be taken from us all too soon. I had cried anything but pretty in my car in those few moments before, unsure of what God was doing. Why would He work such a miracle only to take it all away? I begged the Lord to keep that baby knit together in my womb. I reminded Him of His promises to me. I was scared of how I would respond if He allowed the unthinkable to happen. I had trusted Jesus wholeheartedly.
But this?
As we waited, something changed in that hospital room. I could see ways Jesus had prepared us to walk through this. The lessons learned—this posture of gratitude in brokenness. Eyes to see the things unseen—glimpses of eternal perspective to know all this was working for our good and His glory (2 Corinthians 4:17-18).
If I would only let Him work.
Hearts shattered and no words, we beckoned praise music to fill that room. It was what seemed fitting. In our sorrow, we encountered a God who met us at every step. A God who wept with us. A redemptive God who would bring joy out of sorrow. Jesus gave us hearts to accept what we did not understand.
The doctor confirmed our greatest fear.
For a spirit of heaviness, put on a garment of praise (Isaiah 61).
He met us in our praise. We see throughout the Bible praise comes before the victory. Praise is the posture we take before God moves.
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Lest you think it was always easy to praise, it wasn’t. I wrestled through grief hard. My calendar now had scribbles and scratches over hopeful dates. I fought hard for His truth to renew my mind. If I didn’t, I was easily given to despair over all we had lost and all everyone had seemingly gained with a multitude of pregnancy announcements around my due date.
However, it was evident there were two choices: I could praise Him through this or I could allow the bitterness to entangle me.
I could allow him to redeem this hurt or I could give in to envy. I could allow our story to testify to the goodness of God or I could stay angry. I needed Jesus so badly only one option seemed clear.
Miscarriage is such a silent, intangible loss. I grappled for a tangible way to grieve, to celebrate this life. I wrestled through my grief as the Lord revealed this life was intended and ordained. There was no accident in this miracle. Jesus knew my unformed baby (Psalm 139:16). The Lord had allowed the precious gift of stewarding this baby’s legacy–this legacy of praise. We named our baby Yadah, Hebrew meaning “to worship with extended hand, to confess His greatness, to give thanks.”
Our hearts still ache but our baby went straight from my womb to the arms of Jesus. Our baby would know no pain and suffering of this world–only the loving arms of the Father. What a beautiful thing.
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I’m not sure where you are today. If your heart mourns as you read this because you know all too well the grief of miscarriage and infertility. Or perhaps you’ve lost someone dear, or the miracle never came, or life simply looks different than you thought. Perhaps you need to be reminded of God’s goodness in all things. That even in the darkest of moments, there is still hope.
Maybe you need to be reminded that Jesus is in the midst of your hardest days. That your song of joy can be found in the depths of night.
There is purpose in your pain.
When you sit in a season that feels a lot like Saturday (as they awaited the Resurrection), your King lives. Death isn’t the end of the story. When the miracle is lacking and it doesn’t seem how good can come about, maybe you just need to be reminded Jesus redeems.
Throughout my journey, the Lord has whispered over and over to testify to His goodness. So here I am, just a broken girl in need of His grace, testifying to His goodness.
My arms and my womb are empty, but let me tell you He is good.
Sometimes the Lord works miracles in different ways than you hoped. Sometimes, He gives you more of Himself—and I’m convinced that’s the best miracle we could ever dream.
“Those who sow in tears, shall reap with shouts of joy” (Psalm 126:5).
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