I had seen many dark days. I have stared into the eyes of Depression and Suicide, and I have stood beside the caskets of two grandmothers and one grandfather. But they all pale in comparison to the darkest day. A day so black that midnight would be mistaken for the polar opposite of midday when placed by its side. I never could have imagined that what propelled me into my darkest hour was what it would be. It happened on March 21 of 2018.  

My wife and I were excited. We were not alone as we shared our emotion with our four other children and various other family and friends. She was weary, yet we were ready for our little Abigail to arrive. Joy was ours as the spiffy new sonogram machine displayed a clear picture of a healthy baby girl. She would often give the nurse a fit, wiggling around in her little uterine world. We would watch in anticipation as that little black orb on the screen pulsated life through her veins. All of our children had been late deliveries. We were hoping that Abigail would break the mold and come early. Thirty-eight weeks came. Thirty-nine weeks came. Then forty weeks. She was still stubborn on the ultrasound. The doctor said that it didn’t look like she was coming soon. I imagined that at the next appointment we were going to discuss induction. Then came the forty-one week appointment. It has branded itself into my mind. The ultrasound technician brought Abigail up on the screen. She was still. The black orb was not pulsating. I saw it. My wife saw it. The technician said “I have to go get the doctor”, and she bolted out of the room. No. This cannot be. The look on the doctor’s face said it all. She was gone. 

The forty-five minute drive back home felt like forty-five days. We couldn’t get there fast enough. I just wanted to go home and get into bed, and hope that I would awaken from a bad dream. Through our tears my wife and I discussed how we would tell the children. I remember driving down the interstate, my mind asking, demanding, and screaming “God, where are you?” It seemed like He was so far away. Like a distant memory. I felt as if He had forsaken us. There was no peace. Just pain. As we sat atop the exit ramp, I looked over to the SUV beside me. On the tailgate was a bumper sticker that read “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). I knew then that we were in His hands. 

Our toddler didn’t know what was going on. He was going about his business being two. Our daughter was disappointed. She really wanted a sister to share her room with. Our eleven year old held back his grief, and instead gave an “oh, phooey!” response. Our eight year old, however… I will never forget that cry. He has cried because he got hurt, or because he didn’t get what he wanted. But this was different. This was the sound of a young heart being broken. It hurt so bad to hear him cry like that. We were all hurting so bad. She was forty-one weeks. She should have been here already. We should have been holding her. Playing with her. Changing her diapers. Nursing her. Why God? This should not be happening. 

We used to listen to country music many years ago. All at once a song lyric from Rascal Flatts came to mind. “What hurts the most, was being so close”. Repeating over and over. We were so close to having her. Why God? 

I kept seeing a girl with my mind’s eye. She was about four years of age, wearing a beautiful long pink dress- something that you would see on Easter morning. This girl’s face was obscured and her hair color was never set. She was running and twirling through a field of beautiful spring flowers, laughing and giggling. Was that her? Was that Abigail? I don’t know, but if that is what her heaven is like, then I’ll take it. 

As we arrived at the hospital at 6:30 AM on March 22nd, the Joy of Life was not there to comfort us as it does many other parents. The Specter of Death was awaiting us. We could feel it in the dim lighting of the room. We could feel it in the sunbeam straining to break the horizon and come through the blinds. We knew how the day would end, and so did the nurses. Our door had a sign placed on it. The universal sign for the loss of a child. A reminder to those who walked by that Death was here. Every time I exited and entered the room, my breath was taken from me. It was such a beautiful sign. How could something so tragic look so beautiful? 

Our first nurse did an amazing job at brightening our darkness with humor. She also described to us what to expect with Abigail, which lessened the blow somewhat. My wife’s official doctor was off this day and did not deliver her. However, on his day off, he walked into our room during the middle of the day, completely undone. He cried with us, he hugged us, and he prayed over us. I looked over at our nurse who was sobbing as well. My phone was blowing up from text messages, phone calls, and Facebook. An old friend who I hadn’t spoken with in over a year could barely speak through his tears. People who I don’t even know were offering condolences and praying for us on social media and beyond. The hospital chaplain’s visit overlapped the visit from my mother-in-law’s pastor.  We then met another sweet and soft spoken nurse. She wasn’t ours, but she enjoyed taking pictures of babies for the families after birth. After we had talked for a while, she prayed over us and then left. After the first nurse’s shift had ended, we met our second nurse. It wasn’t even an hour after our introduction that active labor had begun. Abigail was coming and she was coming fast. Our nurse then prayed over us.  

It didn’t take long. No more than fifteen minutes. She was silent. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I just kept my eyes on my wife as I was breaking apart. Then I found courage and looked at her. She was so beautiful. Perfect in every way. I was torn apart like a man with a split personality. On one hand I didn’t want to hold my lifeless daughter. On the other I didn’t want to let go. On one hand I didn’t want to kiss her. On the other hand I couldn’t stop. On one hand I wanted them to go ahead and take her away because it hurt so bad to see her. But on the other hand I didn’t want to say goodbye. How can something so beautiful come from something so tragic? 

Our nurse was an angel in disguise. As she cared for Abigail, she talked to her as if she was full of life. She was gentle with her, kept calling her precious and beautiful. This made the pain more bearable. The sweet and soft spoken nurse came back a few hours after her shift had ended. My in-laws brought our other children up to say goodbye. The pictures are beautiful. All of us surrounding Abigail, looking at her with love. Our children holding her and kissing her cheeks. Pictures that we will cherish until our last breath is taken. After the children left, the nurses left us to be alone with her. I held her little hands and played with her little feet. Then I sang Amazing Grace to her. I began singing this to all of our children when they were young and were first born. It has become our family song. It was so hard this time. Because it would be the first and last time for her. Then my wife and I mutually agreed that it was time to say goodbye and give her away. How can something so beautiful come from something so tragic? 

We were saddened the next morning to say goodbye to our nurse. Her care through the hardest part brought us so much comfort. She certainly will never be forgotten. Moments after the morning nurse took over, my wife’s doctor came in, still upset. I will never forget what he said- that losing Abigail felt like losing his own. He then hugged us, and then released us. The ride home was hard. I rode in the back next to the empty pink car seat. She should’ve been there. 

Finally, on Monday, March 26, we said our final goodbye as we laid our precious baby to rest. The spot was perfect. My wife’s great grandmother had purchased several burial plots many years ago for the family at their church. Abigail took the perfect one, laid to rest at the feet of my wife’s grandparents. My mother-in-law’s pastor delivered a brief message that was sandwiched in between “It Is Well” and “Amazing Grace”. I couldn’t sing it to her this time. I just let our family and friends do the honors. I remember my Dad sitting behind me, singing it in bass. I haven’t heard him sing like that since I was a little boy. It was so comforting to me. How can something so beautiful come from something so tragic? 

There were many bible verses that came to mind during this trial. Some I sought, and some others shared. But the one that stood out to me the most was in 2 Corinthians 12:9, where God told Paul “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” I had always thought well of this passage. I would go as far as to say that I had always taken it for granted. But now I had come to know it intimately. It was grace that poured out on us when our cell phones almost gave up the ghost trying to keep pace with the showering of love and condolences that spanned family, friends, long lost friends, and total strangers. It was grace that poured out on us when God had sent the perfect nurses for each stage of our trial- preparing to meet Abigail, meeting her and saying goodbye, and then going home. It was grace that poured out on us when our doctor wept and prayed with us. It was grace that poured out on us when the nurses wept and prayed with us. It was grace that poured out on us when family and friends wept and prayed with us in person, in phone calls, in text, and on social media. Oddly enough, there is immense comfort in pain when others hurt for you and with you (Romans 12:15; 2 Corinthians 1:4). It was grace that poured out on us when the hospital staff donated several items to us for parents who had lost a child, which included a stuffed bear for our other children and a beautiful white dress for Abigail (which she was buried in). It was grace that poured out on us when the funeral home donated their services and the casket. It was grace that poured out on us when my sister-in-law worked hard behind the scenes to get the funeral set up, including the perfect burial plot location. It was grace that poured out on us when she also set up the meals to be delivered to us. It was grace that poured out on us when those meals came from not just family, but from total strangers. It was grace that poured out on us when gifts and money arrived from both family and total strangers. It was grace that poured out on us when God’s blessings were so numerous that I have only scratched the surface. The words that I have spoken do no justice for His grace. How can something so beautiful come from something so tragic? 

I learned much from our loss. For months, while we were anticipating Abigail’s arrival, my heart was heavy. When our youngest son was born, the first face that graced our presence was that of our pastor. Our church prayed for us, brought meals and their blessings. However, in 2016, our pastor resigned and moved away. Soon after the church closed its doors. I believed that after Abigail was born, there would be no church family. There would be no pastor. Through God’s grace I was silenced. Three pastors visited us between the hospital and our home. Prayers transcended the walls of the local churches as Pentecostals, Methodists, Eastern Orthodox, Catholics, and Mormons reached out to this Baptist family. Old friends called. People who we thought that we would never hear from again, who didn’t even know about our loss, felt the urge to call. It was apparent that the timing of this urge was by the hand of God, who knew that we needed such a surprise. Cards were sent from old church friends that we thought we would never hear from again. Meals came from total strangers, along with cards, gifts, and money. Through God’s grace, what our former church family did for us in the past paled in comparison to what His extended church family can do. How can something so beautiful come from something so tragic? 

A week before Abigail moved for the last time, I had made a promise. A friend had asked me to pray for revival. I didn’t know what to say, because since the death of our church I had also died spiritually. I no longer had the passion or joy for Christ that I once had. I felt far from Him and completely removed from His presence. I felt as if I had fallen from His grace. I questioned whether I was saved. I questioned whether He had abandoned me. On this particular Monday I chased my promise to pray for revival. Only, not for the nation or the church. But for my own revival. It took looking into my daughter’s closed eyes for mine to open. It took the cries of other believers for me to cry “Abba, Father!” It took the breaking of my heart for its stone facade to fall away. It took the death of my daughter for me to live again. My joy was resurrected. My passion came back to life. Simply thinking of Jesus and His precious blood brings a stream down my cheeks. My heart again beats for Him. How can something so beautiful come from something so tragic? 

We can read and memorize God’s Word until time stands still. We can adore and appreciate every letter in both black and red. However, it doesn’t compare to the moment in our lives that we actually live out the scriptures. We were living out 2 Corinthians 12:9, but also Romans 8:28. I realized in the hospital, as well as the moment that I am writing this, that our faith is strong. It is rooted deep like the tree in Psalm 1:3. We never once doubted God. We never once were angry at or questioned Him. We turned our eyes upon Jesus, and looked into His wonderful face. And as the things of this earth seemed so dim, all we could see was His glory and His grace. Our faith was not shaken. Instead it shook the halls of Hell. Even when two weeks later my wife’s father’s house (her childhood home) burned down. Even when the day after the fire I had to rush her to the hospital for an emergency gall bladder removal. Our faith remains and grows. 

Like the prodigal son, we ran broken. Like a wounded child, we ran towards our Father who was awaiting us with open arms. This is what it means to live through the scriptures. This is what it means when He says “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” 

How can something so beautiful come from something so tragic?