nothing was missing.
Early December was shimmering through the countryside. The weather was pleasant, the holidays bright. But inside our house, nestled at the top of the hill outside our small hamlet of a village, I was grieving.
I wanted to be okay. Some part of me felt like I should be okay. We all love to compare and compartmentalize hardship and there’s always something worse out there in the world, but in truth? Grief stands alone. There’s no qualifying it.
When grief is present, there it is. And it demands a response.
The day came when I finally responded. It took me three phone calls before I found someone who was available. It was my mother. “I feel so desperately sad,” I told her, my throat tight. “I feel numb to anything good. I thought I was getting better, but I’m not.”
My mother listened, then her voice was soothing and soft through the line. “It’s okay that you’re not okay.”
My holiday emotional collapse was a year in the making. There are some parts of my story that I can’t tell yet, other parts that are so intricately entwined with other people I may never be able to tell them publicly, but I can tell you this: in July, after another early miscarriage that piled on top of a crisis we were navigating, my husband and I wrestled with how to respond to the fact that my body kept conceiving but not carrying past 6 weeks.
After much prayer and conversation and the realization that there were some simple things medically that I could do that could maybe help, we started a six-month season of fertility work.
It had been ten years since we’d pursued fertility solutions to this degree, and I carried a bit of PTSD over all the emotions that were involved in the process.
But in October it looked like our efforts were going to pay off. I was intensely sick, starting the very early nausea that marks pregnancy for me. When it became clear that I was, indeed, pregnant, and then as we passed the 5-week mark that is my most common miscarriage point, hope exploded in me.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Other things were happening in my world that were horrendously difficult, and there was intense stress on multiple fronts, but this pregnancy was like a glittering piece of beauty. Something hopeful after months of strife.
When I started bleeding anyway, bitterness boiled out of my sadness. “No, no, no,” was all I could say aloud but inside my words were more violent and desperate.
I collapsed inside myself with a hollowness that scared me. My husband kept holding my hand, asking what he could do, and I kept shaking my head. “When we found out [the other difficult news in our lives] the only thing I told God is that I couldn’t lose a baby at the same time,” I whispered fiercely to him. “That would be too much. It was the only thing I asked of Him. But I’m losing the baby anyway.”
That Sunday my husband sent the rest of the family to one church, while he wrapped me up and practically carried me to my parent’s church. “You need your mother,” he told me. After the service, my mom, and her close friend, Delite, surrounded me and prayed over me. They held me, they listened. They asked questions until I finally spoke.
“I’m so, so tired of losing babies,” I sobbed. “And I know that God can use this, redeem this, but I feel like I’m just collateral damage. Like the things He’s doing in other people are so important, suffering on my hand is worth it. I don’t know why I’m not worth being protected. It’s not even about having a baby—I don’t have to have one. I just don’t know why I had to lose one right now.”
Caught up in those statements were deep questions that I’d already settled in my life, but they taunted me anyway. Questions of God’s existence, His goodness, His character, and whether life is just a giant cosmic joke.*
For weeks following my miscarriage, I grieved. Sadness seemed to seep into my bones to the point that my husband was watching me carefully, concern etched on his face. He brought me hot drinks, tucked blankets around my shaking body, and skimmed his fingers across my cheeks, wiping tear after tear. At night he’d wake to me crying and sit with me in the dark.
Since depression has been a part of our story, we found a rhythm of questions and honest answers. I was grieving, not spiraling. My body and mind were okay. I was still thinking logically, still hearing the truth in my head. I wasn’t wishing for life to end or wanting to stop the pain with pain. He’d nod and tell me, “Grieve as long as you need. I’m right here.”
My mom and several friends knew the whole story, all the parts I’m sharing here and all the other pain points that I can’t, all the reasons why this loss was different than my other pregnancy losses, why it felt too heavy, too hard for me to carry without falling apart.
One by one, they all said the same thing: “This is so much. Go ahead and grieve. You’re allowed to not be okay.”
So for the first time in a really long time, as the holidays came barreling through, I sat back and said, “I’m not okay.”
And friends? The world didn’t end.
A few weeks later, Lore Wilbert shared a New Year’s questionnaire that she does every year and I printed out the pages. I started answering the questions.
If the last year could be summed up in one word, what would it be? Struggle, or grief.
What are two or three themes that kept occurring? Losing. Losing trust. Losing hope. Losing babies.
I almost stopped. But I had the paper in front of me so I kept writing.
What disappointments or regrets did I experience this year? Miscarriage in July. Miscarriage in November. Confronting damaging behavior and being told we were the problem. Being blindsided by betrayal.
We were falling into a pretty clear theme here. This past year was hard. And sad.
What was missing from my year when I look back?
I stared at the question. I started writing, then paused. My mind started forming sentences. Well, what was missing was… and the words would fade away.
I sat with that question. Then, for the first time since that October morning that I woke up and felt the familiar pregnancy-nausea that sent me hurrying to the restroom, the swirling anxiousness in my body settled. The dread that I would hurt and the dread that I would keep hurting, finally calmed.
We were harmed, but not overcome by depression or sorrow. We were hurt, but we still breathed and loved. We lost, but still were able to see lovely things as we traveled and enjoyed things with our family and friends. We struggled, but there were still small wonders—the littlest one learning new things, the older kids starting new jobs, the farm carrying beauty and joy into our days. I, personally, grieved so deeply and was surrounded and cared for by friends and family. I wasn’t okay, and that was okay.
Nothing was missing.
It was so hard—but nothing was missing and that could only have been by the goodness and gentleness and kindness of God.
For the first time in two months, the pain lessened enough that I could see the smallest glimpse of God’s presence. He didn’t do a miracle to save me from another miscarriage in the middle of the hardest time of my life, but somehow, miraculously, I was still here despite the deep billowing sadness.
Even though nothing in this life had filled the emptiness, here I was.
Nothing was missing.
The new year arrived, which is also my birthday. For the second time in the past six years, I spent the day at my parent’s house. Six years ago, I was there over the New Year to sit with my grandmother on my mother’s side as she slipped from life to death. This year it was my dad’s father who was home on hospice, his breath getting more labored as we moved into 2024.
I spent hours sitting by his bedside. I sang to him, held his hand, and sometimes just scrolled my phone. Lore Wilbert shared something else. A short video by a woman I’d never seen or heard of before [Megan Fate]. She was talking about tragedy and how it reveals our faith. Then she went on to talk about how God grieves. How He hates death, and He grieves with us when we face it.
Sitting there, watching the last of my grandfather’s life fading, carrying the loss and death from the past year, I finally understood how, despite the losses and difficulties, it was still true that nothing was missing.
I had written the words, but I didn’t fully understand them. Nothing was missing, but my babies died. Nothing was missing, but I had been harmed by someone I trusted deeply. Nothing was missing, but grief had been my constant companion for most of the year—especially the past two months. And now death was prowling again.
Unlike the other deaths I’ve witnessed, the weeks leading up to the end were painful for Grandpa. Internal bleeding made him sensitive and my heart hurt every time we had to adjust things to get him comfortable again.
At one point he shifted, clearly in pain, and I leaned near to brush my fingers down his cheek trying to comfort him. His eyes opened and met mine. I whispered, “Shhh, shhh, we’re right here. I’m so sorry it hurts. It’s Tasha and I’m here.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, the tiniest sliver of a smile before he sighed and closed his eyes again, and the truth settled so deeply I blinked back tears.
God was there.
Not there watching, but there grieving with me.
Like I grieved with my grandfather when pain gripped him, God was sitting close, grieving with me.
Shhh, shhh, I’m right here. I’m so sorry it hurts. I’m here.
Nothing was missing because I was never alone.
Since that day, we said goodbye to my grandfather. We faced more hard things and some of the last year’s worth of hard things got too big to handle ourselves. Some days I’m okay now, and somedays I’m still not okay.
And almost daily, I read the gospel message Paul gives in Acts 17. I follow the words and cling to the hope that is stronger than grief:
“…he made every nationality to live over the whole earth and has determined their appointed time and the boundaries of where they live. He did this so that they might seek God, and perhaps they might reach out and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. For in him we live and move and have our being…” Acts 17:26-28
When darkness threatens, may we all stretch out our hands and find Him, for He is not far from each one of us.
*I share this for two reasons:
- Pain makes all of us question and that’s okay. We can acknowledge this without fear because if the answers we thought were true, really are—they’ll show themselves every time.
- Questions don’t form us, they reveal us. God teaches us, by example, to ask questions (From Gen. 3:9, Gen. 3:11, and onward through Scripture) and He doesn’t fear them, so we don’t need to either.
Tasha, I have no real understanding what you and Amos are walking through. As I’m writing this I realize I don’t even know what I want to say. Just please know that you are loved by me and I have every confidence that what you are going through will not be in vain. I keep deleting my words because they are not worth anything. Love you guys. Thanks for sharing your heart and bringing hope to others.
Thank you, Curt. Your encouragement is so deeply felt. <3
My dear, sweet Tasha,
You don’t know me, I haven’t commented much over the many years I have followed your stories, but it has been many years and many stories. I am one of those who have been blessed, and touched, and also cried along with you through my own journey of infertility and losses. Yah has blessed us with children dotted here and there through that, and several early losses as well.
I want to thank you for being real. So often we feel like we have to be ok during the hard or somehow we are less than or just waiting to be judged by all those “perfect” people out there who seem to have it all together. It really is ok to not be ok! I also really appreciate the main point here – through all of the hard you endured this past year, Yah was there in it with you and nothing was missing! This is such a beautiful truth and one I think we overlook in those moments of hurt.
I don’t know why your journey looks the way it looks – why you have so many painful things to overcome. I do appreciate very much that you continue to share even through these moments of grief so that others may be edified by the wisdom you gain.
Thank you, friend, for your encouragement. It means more than I can express. ♥️