I lay in bed cur­led up, sta­ring in­to the dark­ness. As the pain in­ten­si­fied, grief en­com­pas­sed my mind, my body, my whole being.

I pra­yed si­lent­ly that, if pos­sib­le, God would not take away the lit­t­le one that was gro­wing in­si­de me. I al­so fer­vent­ly pra­yed that if He was to take this lit­t­le one from us, we could humb­le our­sel­ves to ac­cept His will. I pra­yed that we could give up our own plans and trust in His wis­dom.

I soon he­ard a ras­ping sound be­hind the door. So­me­o­ne slow­ly hau­led a chair to the door, clim­bed on top of it and pres­sed down the door hand­le. The door ope­ned a crack and let in some light. Our 18-month-old pee­ked in. When I put out an arm, the child came quick­ly down from the chair, clim­bed in­to my bed and snug­g­led up to my body. Bre­at­hing light­ly, she brought her face right next to mine.

Des­pi­te my pain and wor­ry, I felt pro­found com­fort and gra­ti­tu­de. Hug­ged by my lit­t­le one, I re­mem­be­red all the good things that had been gi­ven to us by the He­a­ven­ly Fat­her. Our dai­ly life is full of ten­der­ness, im­por­tant thoughts and many kinds of joy, eye con­tact that of­ten con­tains more than any words could ever say.

In the dim mor­ning light her small hand touc­hed my nose, ear and cheek. “Noo-se, ee-ar, mum­my.” I thought that wha­te­ver was me­ant to hap­pen, the He­a­ven­ly Fat­her could and would help us get over it.

The scan I had a coup­le of days la­ter sho­wed that the tiny baby had left us. The nur­se re­cor­ded mis­car­ri­a­ge in her com­pu­ter. My hus­band and I held hands when we came out of the hos­pi­tal in­to a sun­ny fall day. The sun shone more bright­ly than it had for a long time. I strong­ly felt that our lit­t­le one was in a good place, and that we would get over our grief.

On the eve­ning of All Saints’ Day I lit a cand­le and watc­hed its qui­et be­au­ty. We tal­ked about the mi­rac­le that brought us joy for such a short time. We knew that, alt­hough the baby’s body was still very small, just a few cen­ti­me­ters long, his or her soul was re­a­dy and re­dee­med to be free by God.

In my mind I am still sa­ying fa­re­well to you, lit­t­le one. I do not want to won­der what you would have been like, or who you would have re­semb­led most. I want to think that you had a per­fect life, me­a­su­red to be comp­le­te by the He­a­ven­ly Fat­her.

The words of the Bib­le touch me: “You knit me to­get­her in my mot­her’s womb. I will prai­se You

be­cau­se I have been re­mar­kab­ly and won­der­ful­ly made.” I want to be­lie­ve that the li­ves of us all, even the smal­lest ones, are in the He­a­ven­ly Fat­her’s hands. I want to think that even the very short life of this baby did not end pre­ma­tu­re­ly.

Text: An­ne Lind­fors

Trans­la­ti­on: Sirk­ka-Lii­sa Lei­no­nen

You will find the ori­gi­nal fin­nish blog post here.