Comfort from Psalm 139 for the Parent Grieving Miscarriage

“Congratulations!” She smiled from across the hospital desk, handing back my admission papers.

I took them, grimaced faintly in return and tried to avoid her gaze, wondering if she’d realize her mistake. She must have missed the words in the middle of the page, the words that called me here: “Spontaneous Abortion.” The first time I’d seen those words I wanted to purge them from the page, for the hospital to absolve me. I didn’t choose this—my body failed me and my baby.

I found a seat in the waiting room, away from the cluster of patients. Soon, a technician would call my name, and I’d have my second ultrasound of my fourth pregnancy. Soon, a technician would speak out loud what my first ultrasound had whispered: the baby I’d carried for eight weeks was gone—gone from this life and gone from my womb.

What was the value of my baby’s life? I quickly found that it would depend on who you asked. Unhelpful “encouragement” assured me that I’d get over it soon. A disinterested doctor in a follow-up appointment refused to acknowledge the weight of my loss. And the popular political rhetoric, shared by friends and strangers alike, equated my child’s life with something holding no value at all.

I suppose I wasn’t surprised when I heard that my baby’s life meant nothing to many, but still I wrestled with the question: did my baby’s life mean anything to God? Did he see me and my pain? How was I supposed to process this loss in the midst of a culture—both secular and religious—that didn’t seem to fully value the life inside of me?

In years following my miscarriage, the Lord has continually sent me to his Word when others’ thoughts about the value of my little one’s life and my own pain have felt loud. For grieving parents, Psalm 139 provides dignity to our babies’ short lives in the womb and comfort for our aching hearts.   

God Created Your Little One

For you formed my inward parts;
You knitted me together in my mother’s womb. (Ps. 139:13)

Too often, we think that we are the ones who give our babies life while God simply took it away. These verses reassure us that this is not the case: God is the creator of your little one, and his creation was deeply personal.

Look at the language surrounding the creation of the psalmist: He declares that God shaped him and thoughtfully put him together. Just as an embroiderer stitches her creation, carefully choosing each thread’s length, color, and placement, giving her time and attention to make something beautiful, so God worked to make your little one.

When God spoke to create, he displayed his power. When God formed from the dust of the ground, he declared his love. Here, we see God forming and shaping, declaring his closeness in creation—declaring his care for our little ones.

God’s Creation of Your Little One Is Good

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
    my soul knows it very well. (Ps. 139:14)

We’re tempted to second guess this when a little one’s life is short, aren’t we? The pain feels like too much—we’d rather it just be gone. Still, the psalmist recognizes that his creation by a personal God is good—wonderful, even.

When our hearts are too weak to declare that he is good, his creation declares it for us. A good creation stems from a good God. This is what our little one’s life preaches to us, even when the loss hurts.

Does your soul know very well that the creation of your baby is good? In the midst of great pain, some of us are still struggling to believe this. Sometimes we wonder why, and if it might have been better if there was no life at all.

Even when we’re weak, the invitation to believe in God’s goodness is extended to us. God created your little one, and here he declares their creation good.

Your Baby Is No Stranger to God

My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth. (Ps. 139:15)

When two of my children play hide and seek, there is one who loses interest too quickly and forgets that she is the seeker. The youngest hider will continue with the game, waiting for someone to find her, while the seeker has her nose in a book in another room. Usually a quick “go find your sister!” reminds the seeker of her job.

God doesn’t need a reminder that he’s the seeker of little ones unborn. Even when hidden from the world inside their mother’s womb, they’re not hidden from God. He sees them and knows them. After all, he’s the One who made them.

Is this a comfort to you as it is to me? Our little ones are known by the One who gave them life.

God Gave Your Little One His or Her Days

Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them. (Ps. 139:16)

Too often, the first person we blame for our little one’s death is the One who gave that baby life. We see God as the One who took away our little one’s days, the One who limits. This passage declares that God is the one who wrote out their days and provided them. Each day that your little one was in the womb was a day graciously given by a good God.

I’m sorry those days were short. I mourn the brevity, too.

When all we see is our little one’s lack of days, I pray that we also see the days given. Each and every day of our children’s lives were penned by a God who cared to write them.

Mirrored Grief

I still remember the technician’s tears as she honored my loss in the darkened ultrasound room. By acknowledging my sadness, she honored my baby’s life, too.

This is the heart of these verses in Psalm 139. That the lives of the children we held in our womb—even if only for a short time—are thoughtful creations of a good and loving God. The grief is hard, yes, but their lives are worth grieving.

But what about us? As Christians, when we mourn the lives of our little ones, do we do this alone?

Charles Spurgeon once wondered about the darkness that accompanied Christ’s death on the cross. Perhaps, he considered, the scene was so grievous for this Father’s heart that he used darkness as a veil to shield all eyes from it. We often think about our own sadness as we recall our savior’s crucifixion, but have we considered the Father’s grief for his own beloved Son? This Father endured his Son’s death so we could grieve with his hope and his comfort. This Son endured death so that we could grieve in the refuge of his Father’s wings (Ps. 91:4–6).

So we grieve for now, knowing that his greater grief will one day end our own suffering for good. We grieve knowing that the hands that formed our little ones in the womb will one day wipe the tears from our eyes (Isa. 25:8).

We grieve, but we grieve with hope.  

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