“I have learned to kiss the waves that batter me against the Rock of Ages.” – Charles Spurgeon

I first heard this quote in college when its meaning was written on my heart during a particularly challenging season. Little did I know at the time, my heart was being prepared for bigger waves that would need this message more than ever.

Suffering is designed to drive us to our knees at the foot of the cross and cause us to cast our cares on Christ, so I welcome any wave that brings me closer to my Lord.

Gentle Note: This post includes tender photos and raw descriptions from our journey of loss. Some images and descriptions may feel heavy for little ones or sensitive hearts.

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My sweet daughter, my Calvary Rose.

You will never know the deep sorrows that my heart has felt, and I praise God that you will never know any sorrow. Since losing you, your mommy and I have been walking through the valley of the shadow of death – literally. But even in that valley, we have not been alone.

When your mommy told me she hadn’t felt you move in her belly for a while, I wasn’t concerned because that had happened with your sister, and a cold bottle of water got her kicking. When that didn’t work with you and your mommy went to the hospital, I started to feel uneasy. When I received a text that the nurse couldn’t find a heartbeat as I was driving to the hospital, I will never forget the overwhelming tidal wave of fear that crashed over me. Not just panic, but deep, all-consuming horror.

Ever since having children, I’ve had nightmares of having to hold one of their dead bodies.

“This isn’t happening…this could never happen…” my mind told me as adrenaline made me fly into the parking lot and sprint into the hospital. It was an out-of-body experience. I ran to the room and sat next to your mommy as two nurses pushed hard on her belly with a doppler. I held her hand, completely speechless and frozen. A doctor wheeled an ultrasound machine in. The next several minutes were the longest, quietest minutes of my entire life. I know there was sound, but I didn’t hear it – I didn’t hear anything. Pure shock. Pure horror at looking at a completely still screen. When the doctor turned to us saying, “I’m so sorry…” I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. Your mommy covered her face and wailed.

I’ve heard crying. I’ve heard sobbing. I’ve heard weeping. I had never heard wailing before. It goes beyond sadness and hurt; it goes beyond the physical – it is true agony on a spiritual level. I will never read verses about wailing the same after hearing your mommy. The doctor and nurses gave us some space to grieve and hold each other, but there were no words spoken because words did not exist – only tears and gasps for breath.

After finally making phone calls to family members to alert them, the doctor walked us through next steps. We could stay and induce delivery that night, or go home and come back later when we were ready. How could we possibly go home and try to sleep? How could we wake up to your siblings the next day and tell them? To us it felt like an obvious answer – we would stay and induce delivery.

They moved us to a delivery room. Your mommy did a great job capturing each detail of what happened, which she wrote about in a previous blog post – I won’t cover everything like she did. The next several hours and next morning are all a blur. Family members coming to visit, restless tossing and turning trying to sleep, crying when reality would hit that this wasn’t a dream, our pastor praying over us and reciting Psalm 23 while mommy was in labor. All the while, mommy’s body was fighting the induction process – clearly her body was not ready to give you up.

We’ve played worship music during each birth, and we weren’t about to stop that now. He is God of the mountains, and He is going to be God of this valley – so we are going to continue praising Him. Even though we played mournful worship songs this time, it was the most raw of all the births. No excitement. No joy. It was a time to weep.

When you were born, we instantly recognized you. “That’s our baby! She’s our girl!” we sobbed. You looked exactly like your sister, Genesis. The image of you being laid on mommy’s chest and your arm flopping to the side will always be seared into my mind, and hearing the cries of, “Oh, my baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened to you,” in between sobs.

The nurse said she had never seen a stillborn this big. That didn’t help.

I can’t even write this without tears running down my face.

Nothing on this earth can prepare you to hold your child’s dead body.

Everyone knows when holding a newborn that they need to support the head. When it comes to holding a dead newborn, the entire body sags in your hands. Even as you try to support the head, limbs fall to the side, their mouth gapes open, the skull plates shift around in your hand because they will never fuse. Their skin is cold and easily torn.

Calvary, I have never cried so much in my life. Tears soaked your body and the blanket you were swaddled in. We held you and danced to worship music. It’s the only time on earth I’ll ever get to dance with you.

One of the most powerful moments, though, was seeing your mommy, sobbing while listening to worship music, desperately reaching one hand up to her Heavenly Father to be comforted – while her other hand clasped your lifeless hand. Even in the depths, our response was to cry out to God.

I visit that hospital room often in my mind. All I have to do is close my eyes and – boom – I’m right back. I hear the songs you and I were dancing to, I know exactly where we were in the room and how I was holding you. I cherish those memories and thank God that they are etched into my mind like stone. Those few hours with you are all the precious memories I will have, and they are indeed precious.

Our pastor said at the funeral that, “Nothing screams ‘broken world!’ like a tiny casket.” 

I could carry your casket physically – easily, actually, which is crushing – but to carry your casket emotionally has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Something a close friend pointed out to me, which has hit me very hard is: instead of walking you down an aisle of rose petals to give you away in marriage, I had to carry your body down an aisle of rose petals to your grave. 

Little did we know that all of this was just the beginning of a spiritual walk unlike anything we’d experienced previously. As we heard recently in a sermon, “God will take you to where you don’t want to go in order to accomplish things you didn’t think you could accomplish – or even want to accomplish.” We have experienced a grief that no one would choose, but we have also been given the opportunity to share the gospel in the midst of it. Your life has given us an opportunity for us to point people to Jesus, and we are going to take that opportunity.

I am learning firsthand the meaning of spiritual endurance. James 1 and Romans 5 have come alive. Suffering produces endurance, which produces character, which produces hope. This is so hard, but your mommy and I have looked at each other and promised that we are simply not going to give up. We are going to keep showing up moment by moment, day by day, Sunday by Sunday. We are not going to stop turning to God and leaning on Him.

There will be more letters to write to you, telling you more about the wonderful stories and lessons that God has planned, but this one is at the forefront:

As the head of our family – the husband to your mommy and the father to your brother and sister, it is my responsibility to shoulder these burdens and care for our family. I don’t have to move on, but I have to carry on – and I will carry you with me. In this grief, I have felt the weight of this physically. My back and legs must be strong enough to bear the weight of this world without letting it crush our family. My arms must be strong enough to shield and protect yet gentle enough to cradle them close. My words must be honest enough to guide and inspire yet tender enough to bring comfort. My heart must be steadfast enough to challenge the evil of this world yet soft enough to remind our family that they are deeply loved.

And yet I cannot do these things – how can I possibly comfort and guide my family when I need to be comforted and guided myself? I can’t, and that is okay – because I was never enough to begin with. Our faith will hold because we were never the ones holding it together in the first place. Christ is sufficient for me and for my family – for your family.

Love, Daddy