Ten weeks. Six weeks. Fifteen weeks. Such brief periods of time. If only we counted all our relationships in weeks, then perhaps these numbers wouldn’t grieve me so much. But of course, that’s not the way of things. Weeks quickly blur into months and years, and the minute time frame of just a few weeks becomes unimportant in a lifetime of months and years. 

Except when it’s your babies. 

Miscarriage never lets us forget the weeks. The weeks that we held our little ones, if only in our womb. The weeks that we knew a brand-new soul dwelt within us. The weeks we rejoiced in a new baby who was loved, cherished, and desired. The weeks we dreamed of a life yet to be lived and a hand yet to be held. The weeks that we didn’t want to end and can’t seem to forget. 

I wanted my babies to stay. In my womb. In my arms. In my home. But that was not the answer that God had for me. I remember the last night that each of my babies was in my home. I clung to the little time I had left with them after each “no heartbeat” diagnosis, waiting for them to pass from my body and then preparing for their burials shortly thereafter. The dread of my children leaving for somewhere I could not follow overwhelmed my mind with a grief that I had not known before. A scream lived inside of my stomach that was difficult to quell. For the better part of a year, the suffering overtook me. The cavity of sadness in my stomach expanded into anxiety that was crippling.

On these darkest of days, it was the rhythms of everyday life, and the habits of prayer formed in my childhood that saved me. The dedication to attend the Divine Liturgy (Mass) every weekend without exception was a ritual commitment that pierced through the sadness and drove me to continue. Through the grace of the Sacraments and the loving support of my husband, family, friends, medical team, and counselor, eventually the weight of grief began to lift, and I could breathe again. The panic abated, and I began to be able to laugh again. Loss changed the contours of my heart, making it softer and perhaps a bit wiser. Grief no longer frames my daily life and the anxiety has subsided. Joy and pain have learned to coexist in a gentle way and while the sadness still bubbles to the surface from time to time, I am no longer crippled by it.

Miscarriage put death in front of me. Memento mori. The saints and monks have put this phrase in front of us for centuries. The skulls that line the catacombs and monasteries remind us that this life is short and that we must focus on our eternity with Christ. Miscarriage for me was a glimpse into the catacombs. It tied me to women throughout ancient history who knew in an intimate way that death was always a part of life. They understood that not every pregnancy would end with a healthy baby in a  mother’s arms. They knew death was the way of this broken world and didn’t imagine they could stop it. Perhaps this is another cross of our modern times – to imagine that we could do things differently. To entertain the idea that we can stop the fangs of death from penetrating our own world is modern foolhardiness that adds weight to an already impossibly heavy cross.

At the same time, miscarriage put in front of me eternal life. I have never longed for Heaven more than in the days following our children’s deaths. A seed of hope for an eternity together and a home without pain or tears was planted in my heart. In the Eastern Catholic Church when someone dies, we say, “May their memory be eternal,” and of course, this is true. As we pray for the loved ones whom we have miscarried, we speak their name and bring them back to the forefront of our minds. In this way, we turn those short weeks that we carried them into months, then years, and then a lifetime of remembrance and intercession—they for us and us for them.

It would be a lie to say that the grief of miscarriage and all that it encompasses is gone. Once it is known, once grief is truly written on our hearts, it simply becomes a part of us, resurfacing from time to time. But grief united to the cross of Christ is transformative. Rather than continuing to dwell in the darkness of the first days, I was brought back to life in a new and profound way. God turned my darkness into light (Psalm 139:12). With the help of family and friends, I began a non-profit to minister to those who, like me, are walking the path of miscarriage or infant loss. We Carry You Still is the name, but it is also our reality. 

For our babies gone too soon, your father and I will never forget you…we carry you still. And for all those who are grieving, whether your loss was recent or many years ago, our community will walk with you as well. . . We carry you still.

Eden, Thomas, and James, may your memories be eternal.

Jocelyn Abyad is the wife of Fr. Zyad Abyad and mother to 7 girls on earth and 3 babies in Heaven. An Arizona native, she feels fortunate to serve at St. John of the Desert Melkite Catholic Parish in Phoenix, Arizona. In addition to her work at the parish, she maintains an online presence as “Melkite Momma,” sharing homeschool and liturgical living tips as well as writing articles for Byzikids Magazine. She recently cofounded We Carry You Still, a non-profit that serves women and families who have experienced miscarriage or infant loss.