The only thing more complicated than death is resurrection. I never fully understood this pain until I lost my son, twice.

I was speechless for a season about it, knowing few could stomach my heart’s cry. My laments too fierce, my despair too real, my grief wasn’t exactly “on brand” for my joy-filled, grace-laced communities.

We’d been trying for a year and a half, but I’d told no one. I’m not sure why, other than I didn’t want to have to admit that I wanted another child if I couldn’t have one. Secure in my identity as I thought I was, I still wanted to be perceived as competent in all aspects of life—even in my family planning.

The unfruitful months went on and on, and I began to make peace with the idea of being a single-child family. Those who are blessed to know my daughter, Bella, understand. She is so much more than enough. But she had so much love to give. And so did we. So we kept on in faith, hoping God wouldn’t give us a desire he wouldn’t fulfill.

And suddenly, there they were. Two little pink lines on a test, like two arms raised high, testifying to God’s faithfulness. Still, we told no one. It felt too precious, too new to share.

We kept the secret until we couldn’t any longer. Roughly twelve weeks in, I knew something was wrong. Symptoms compounded, pain set in. With exactly zero context from my first textbook pregnancy, I built my case with God.

God, if you choose to take him, I won’t fight you.

But if you let me raise him, I promise I will love and lead the child straight back to you.

I trust you, no matter the outcome.

But I’m believing for a miracle.

I’m sure I meant every bit of that surrender. And yet, surrender can be fleeting. The next morning, things got worse. By evening, I was en route to the ER. We were forced to tell family, and they rallied quickly to watch Bella while we drove an hour to the hospital in silence. I just knew God had taken me at my word, and taken my child straight to heaven.

In what felt like a lifetime later, the ER doctor broke the news.

“There’s a STRONG heartbeat! You and baby are doing just fine!”

I burst into tears, startling my care team to concern. They weren’t used to such joyful responses in their rounds. We were so overcome with gratitude, excitement, and sheer awe, and we shared the big news with friends and family.

“God brought our baby back from the dead!”

The symptoms subsided, and I settled in to rest at home. Three days later, I followed up with my doctor and took my mom along with me. We were bubbling with energy,  dreaming and hoping and planning even as we walked into the exam room. We celebrated with my doctor as we shared the ER miracle, and he extended heartfelt and relieved congratulations as he prepped the ultrasound.

Two seconds into the scan, I sensed a pause in my spirit. The screen quickly confirmed. No wiggling fingers or toes. No signs of little life. Just a tiny silhouette drowning in a uterine black hole.

My doctor tried to stay calm, but I could sense the fear in his eyes. He could only muster, “Well…I’m having a little trouble finding a heartbeat…but we’re going to go down to the 3D room and…”

Everything from that moment on was a nauseating blur.

Kindness, encouragement, and compassion poured from my doctor and his staff, but I couldn’t hear a word. Floating along, feeling helpless and hopeless, I caved to the inevitability of my options. A D&C procedure was scheduled for early the next week, but I delivered our son at home the next day.

I was so angry with God. Something I knew to be normal, understandable, and ultimately reconcilable. But my heart refused to align with my head. In those dark nights to follow, I began to understand why some people give up on God altogether.

Is he trustworthy?

Is he faithful?

Is he really and truly good—in spite of all this evidence to the contrary?

He gave me no answers, but clung to me through fits of rage. And when I collapsed from sheer exhaustion into his arms, he reminded me that death was not what he wanted for me, or for my child. He sat with me, wept with me, and revealed himself to me as the Man of Sorrows—acquainted with my grief. He, too knew what it was like to bleed out.

At the end of myself, I dared to ask the question.

God, did you really give me a miracle? Was it all in my head? What was all that even for?

He whispered a truth I’ll never forget.

“Child, even Lazarus died again.”

And so we named our son Lazarus.

They say these things get easier with time. I’d love to believe that sentiment, but my experience proves otherwise. It’s not OK. It never was OK. It will never be OK, because we were never meant to experience loss in this way. I lost two more little ones before once again making peace with being a single-child family, and there are days when those losses still sting like new.

And yet, God has made me a spiritual mother to so many—a role I could perhaps not have fulfilled were I busy with my own family. I’ve learned mothers come in all shapes and sizes, and birthing children is not a prerequisite to embodying the mothering nature and nurture of God. 

I still have questions. I still crave answers. But here’s what I know for sure.

• My son Lazarus, was resurrected in mind, body, and spirit in a miracle of God.
• Lazarus lived, even briefly, to remind me God is faithful and in control.
• Lazarus went from death to life—and back again.
• And in this second death, Lazarus was born to eternal life.

“Even as all who are in Adam die, so also all who are in Christ will be made alive”

1 Corinthians 15:22 TPT

My grief observed? A grace disguised. Thank you, Father.

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