Light in the Darkness — Carol McLeod Ministries
I sit here as October stretches out before me, fully aware that this month is set aside in our nation and around the world as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. For many hearts, this month is raw with memory, grief, and unspoken sorrow. For me? It is sacred. It is a timeline of scars and stitches, tears and whispers, heartbreak and hope.
If you have walked—or are walking—this path of loss, miscarriage, or infertility, I want you to know: I have been there. I have held an empty womb, gripped at grief’s darkness, asked God the unanswerable question: “Why?” And I want to share with you what the Lord taught me, what Scripture became to me, and how you and I can cling to Him through the ache.
My Story — A Whispered Loss
Craig and I had always dreamed of a large family. Even though we already had two little boys, our hearts longed for more. But this journey was not easy. My first pregnancy ended in miscarriage at twelve weeks. I knew it wasn’t uncommon—many women lose a baby in the first trimester—but it still hit me with a quiet, piercing ache.
I became pregnant again, only to lose that baby at fifteen weeks. That felt like cold water splashing across my face, shocking and relentless.
Then came the third pregnancy. I carried to sixteen weeks—felt that tiny life stir inside me—and then they were gone. That night, I looked at Craig and said, “God has my attention now. I want to learn what I need to be taught.”
I believe God did not cause those miscarriages, but He allowed them. And in His mysterious ways, He used them to shape me, to grow me, to make me a stronger Christian.
Before these losses, I could be what some might call a “spoiled Christian,” someone who thought she could give God instructions and call the shots. But grief strips away pretense. In the hard, raw moments, I discovered who God really is—and who I am in Him.
One of the elders’ wives at church gently said, “Now you know it’s not God’s will for you to have any more children.”
I smiled politely, but inside, I thought, “I don’t know that. And neither do you. Only God knows.” Something stirred deep within me, a quiet refusal to accept defeat.
Craig and I went to a fertility clinic, and I became pregnant again. But that fourth pregnancy ended at nineteen-and-a-half weeks. I remember the delivery room—the interns, nurses, and doctors—hanging heavy with silence. Some of the nurses were crying because they knew our story.
And then Craig began to sing over me, softly at first:
"I love You, Lord, and I lift my voice…"
I joined him, and together, we lifted our hands and worshiped God in the middle of our heartbreak. Even in that moment, worship became a refuge, a lifeline.
We hoped again. I became pregnant for a fifth time. And I lost that baby at sixteen weeks. That’s when the bubble burst.
Every day, depression sat with me at the edge of the bed, whispering lies. Every morning I woke, grief washed over me again: I had lost five babies. Four of them I had held in my hands. Four tiny lives gone, leaving questions and emptiness I could not yet name.
Loss is messy. It doesn’t follow rules, offer closure, or come with timelines. It seeped into every part of me—emotionally, physically, spiritually. I wrestled with questions: What did I do wrong? Is God really good? Does He see me? Does He love me?
And yet, in the blackest moments, something astonishing happened. The Bible—once a book on my shelf—became my oxygen. I couldn’t let it go. Even when I wanted to, even when I felt numb and broken, I held onto it.
In that sorrow, I developed what I now call a holy addiction: an addiction to the Word of God. Day after day, Scripture whispered truth when depression screamed lies. Long before my circumstances changed, the Word of God changed me.
October, Loss, and the Silent Singsong of Hearts
This month, as the world glows amber with remembrance, I feel again the invisible hymns of empty arms and unseen children. There are women reading this blog who mourn a loss no one else knows. There are husbands whose silence is heavier than stone. There are mothers yearning, fathers aching, grandparents longing.
To you: your grief is valid. Your tears count. Your story matters. The world around you may tiptoe through this month in gentle silence, but your name, your child’s name, your sorrow—none of it is silent to Jesus.
I want to share four truths Scripture pressed into me during those years—truths I cling to still.
1. God Sees You — Even in the Hidden Places
“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)
When you feel invisible, when those closest to you may not know how to walk beside you, God is near. He leans in. He whispers your name.
I remember days of utter solitude—where nobody called, nobody asked, nobody saw. But I would whisper, “Lord, do You see this? Do You know how this hurts?” And I’d feel the gentle nudge of His Spirit: “I see. I hold. I heal.”
2. You Are Not Defined by the Child You Did or Didn’t Bear
One of the cruelest lies grief whispers is: “You failed.”
But God’s love is not performance-based. His grace is free. His identity for you is not “woman who miscarried” but “beloved child of God.” His plan for you is never abandoned because one dream was dashed.
Romans 8:38–39 declares that nothing—nothing—can separate us from His love. Not sorrow. Not shame. Not loss.
3. Jesus Himself Carried Our Sorrow
In Scripture, we see a Savior who didn’t stand at a distance. He walked through tears, pain, and grief. He is the Man of Sorrows who knows loss intimately. (Isaiah 53:3)
In the Gospels, He wept at Lazarus’s tomb (even though He would raise him). He felt compassion for the crowds who were like sheep without a shepherd. He touched broken, diseased bodies. He understood the weight of human suffering.
You are never alone because Christ is walking this road with you.
4. Hope Is Not in the Womb—But in the Resurrection
I used to long for successful pregnancy, as though that was the highest end. But Scripture reorients us: hope is in the resurrection. In eternity. In the garden of God’s everlasting kingdom.
Let this text rest on your soul: “Eye has not seen, nor ear heard … what God has prepared for those who love Him.” (1 Corinthians 2:9) If He can resurrect bodies, He can certainly weave beauty from your ashes.
Jesus Himself said, in the crucible of loss, “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25). Hold that. Cling to that.
A Word to Others: Walk Tenderly with the Griever
If you are reading this and you’re walking beside someone experiencing this loss, please allow me to speak a word to you, too:
Don’t hurry their grief. There is no calendar on sorrow.
Be present. Sit. Hold hands. Cry with them.
Don’t offer empty answers. Jesus didn’t always explain. But He offered Himself.
Speak the name of their child. Acknowledge them.
Invite them into Scripture and prayer—but don’t force it. The Word is a gift, not a push.
My Prayer for You (and for Me)
Lord Jesus, in our weakness we come. In our tears, You carry us. In our unanswered questions, You stand firm. Let our sorrow lead us deeper into You, not farther from You. May we see Your beauty in brokenness, Your strength in our weakness, Your resurrection in our despair. Let the children we did not hold in our arms be held in Your eternal arms, and one day may there be no sorrow, no dashed dreams—only fullness in You. Amen.
If you find yourself reading this with trembling hands and weary heart, I pray you will pick up your Bible. Go slow. Linger in the Psalms. Let the Gospels breathe hope into you again. Draw near to Christ. Let Him hold your grief. Let His Word be your lifeline.
Thanks for listening to my heart this week. As you know by now, my heart is truly not a perfect heart, but it is a heart that is filled to overflowing with gratitude for the life I have been given and for the people who walk with me. And, it continues to be a heart that is relentlessly chasing after God and all that He is!
