There are things, as a writer, you cross your fingers you’ll never be able to write about from experience. When one of those things happens you know you have to write it down, because that is how you make sense of the world, but oh how you don’t want to read your own words. Today is that day for me. And with all of me, I wish it wasn’t.

Four weeks ago we found out we were pregnant with our third child. The day before Thanksgiving our beloved tiniest one was scooped up into Jesus’ arms without ever filling mine.

When I first realized what was happening I simply sat on the toilet. Time standing still. And whispered to myself. “Oh no. Oh no. Please. Jesus. No.” I sat there a long time. Knowing that if I moved from that place, I would have to face a new chapter in my life. One I didn’t want to read.

Then almost immediately I began telling myself how ridiculous I was. It was so early on. Countless people have suffered greater losses. How could I cry over someone I never knew? This world is such a mess, my problems pale in comparison.

And then the gentle voice of my Jesus. One person’s suffering is not to be measured against another’s. My grief is not less real because in my mind some else’s grief seems bigger. More acceptable. More deserving of tears. My pain isn’t invalid because I never kissed the perfect cheek of the child we dearly loved and had dreamed of for so long.

And so, because this is part of our story now, and because I believe too many women feel they cannot grieve publicly for a child they never held, I will tell our story. I will share the words I wrote in private, never thinking they would be shared. Because pregnancy loss needs to be talked about. The lives we carried need to be celebrated. And our tears need to be cried because the journey through sadness leads us to healing.

Below you will find words I wrote in the moment that our hearts broke. I pray they will offer others the freedom to grieve. And if my story connects with your heart, dear mama, please know that in our weakness, he is strong. May his praise ever be on our lips.

Sharing this photo is outside of every comfort zone I have. But from day one this space has been for sharing the real version of our life. Not just the pretty moments or the perfect days. So here it is.

I took this photo, and wrote the words below, the morning I miscarried. I couldn’t hide the sobs, and Hudson wouldn’t leave my side. He made faces, told jokes, drew me pictures, cuddled up, and let me cry. I took a photo for my husband. {See how sweet our boy is?} But I ended up capturing heartbreak, and love unwavering, all in one painful image. It’s hard to even look at. Yet it reminds that we are always better together. Even when we’re just letting someone we love cry as hard as they need.

“At 2:30 this morning I went to the bathroom. I was spotting. I laid in bed most of the night drifting between sleep and praying for a miracle. I crawled out of bed to face the truth that my baby is no longer this side of heaven.

I woke Johnny, who in a fog of sleep struggled to understand. I gave him facts. Cramping. Blood. I’ll call the doctor. I was scared to feel so I treated it like business. Then we sat silent. I felt it coming. Feared the words but had to say them.

I touched my aching stomach and whispered, “my little baby.”

And the tears, they came.

A flood of grief coursed over my body and took my breath away. My sweet little one. I’ll never see your face or watch you grow or hug you so tight. Oh how deep that ache is. How sharp the sorrow. It seems there aren’t enough tears in the world. My husband held me tight. Let me feel it all. And he prayed. The perfect words. The hardest words.

“Jesus we love you. We trust you. We love this child who will be ours forever. We want this baby here but are so jealous he gets to meet you first.”

His words were simple. And true. And words I never wanted to hear.

When glory comes, we will meet the child who has forever marked us as parents of three. But until that day we grieve our loss while we celebrate heaven’s gain. Because the risk you take in loving someone with reckless abandon and all of your heart, is that someday you might have to say goodbye. Maybe even before you’ve had the chance to say hello.”

Truth be told, I was tempted to not share this story with you until I was pregnant again. I wanted my story to have a happy ending and the guarantee of dreams fulfilled. I wanted to say, see! God is so good because he gives us the desires of our hearts! I wanted to take a picture of a tiny baby bump and I wanted to tell you to never give up.

And then I remembered that it’s not about what I want.

My Jesus is good and he is faithful and he loves to overwhelm us with beautiful things. But he also knows we live in an imperfect world and he does not promise us perfection. In fact we are guaranteed hardship.

So the real question is this. Do we believe that, even if the dream we have clung to for so long never happens, He is still good?

It’s easier to say yes then to mean yes. And that’s okay. God can take our questions, our fear, our anger, our screaming, our tears, our four letter words, our silence. Because we serve a God who grieves with us and for us. He does not promise a perfect and pain free life here on this earth. But he does promise we never ever walk alone. So every morning I wake up and choose to dream and pray and hope for another sweet baby to fill my arms and call me mama.

And if not, if it never ever happens. I will say it even if my voice shakes. He is still good. So, so good.