Most mothers don’t talk about their miscarriages. I know a couple who lost babies over 20 years ago and they are still sad about it, still counting the years since they lost their babies, imagining what they would be doing now if they were still alive.

Each day, no matter how insane and hard it’s been, I am so happy with my babies. No matter how hard or painful it is being pregnant, I am thankful for each day with my babies. I hope God never decides to take back any of the babies He has given me.

One of my friends who has had 3 miscarriages sent me what follows below. I have heard people say almost everything. From experience with breakups, I know already that most of the things people say to be helpful actually hurt far more than they help so I still don’t know what to say. Even though I have never lost a baby of my own, from my breakups, I know that sometimes the most painful thing in the world is being around happy families with children because they have everything I almost had and lost.

I hope that you read this and find it helpful.

· Don’t say, “It’s God’s will.” Unless you are my pastor and I am seeking specific counseling, please don’t presume to tell me what God wants for me. Many terrible things are God’s will—that doesn’t make them less terrible. Because of God’s love for us, He will turn death around and use it for good, but it is not in itself a blessing.

· Don’t say, “It was for the best—there was probably something wrong with your baby.” The fact that something was wrong with the baby—or with me—is what makes me so sad. My baby never even had a chance. Please don’t try to comfort me by pointing that out.

· Don’t say, “You can always have another one.” My baby was not disposable. None of my children are disposable. I would have died for this baby, just as you would die for your children.

· Don’t say, “Be grateful for the children you do have.” If your mother died in a car accident, you would be grieved terribly. The fact that your father may still be alive does not take away the grief over the loss of your mother. Other children do not in any way replace the baby I have lost.

· Don’t say, “Be thankful you lost the baby before you loved it.” I did love my baby. I still do love my baby. Whether I lost the baby just after finding out he existed in my tummy, or after delivering full-term, my heart would be overflowing with love for this baby.

· Don’t say, “Be thankful you lost the baby before you knew it.” This is far from comforting to a parent who so desperately wanted to spend years knowing this baby. I ached to know my baby.

· Don’t say, “Isn’t it time you got over this and moved on?” Being stricken with grief is not enjoyable. I wish this had never happened. But it did, and it is now part of me forever. The grief will ease on its own timeline—not mine, most certainly not yours—but the grief in some capacity will always be part of me. Don’t make me feel like I have to ignore my grief just to make you feel better.

· Don’t say, “You’ll get to meet the baby in heaven someday.” As true as I believe this is—and I praise God for it—I honestly wanted this baby to bury me in my old age, not to bury my baby in its infancy.

· Don’t say, “I understand how you feel.” Unless you’ve lost a child, you have no idea how I feel. And even if you have lost a child, remember that everyone experiences grief differently.

· Don’t tell me horror stories of your neighbor or cousin or mother who “had it worse.” The last thing I need to hear right now is that it is possible to have this happen six or twelve times, or that I could carry until two days before my due-date and labor 20 hours for a dead baby. These stories are horrifying and frightening; they leave me sleepless and weeping. Happy ending or not, do not share these stories with me. I have had enough grief and terror and weeping of my own.

· Don’t pretend it didn’t happen and don’t change the subject when I bring it up. If I say “before the baby died” or “when I was pregnant” don’t get scared or clam-up. If I am talking about it, it means I want to. I may need to. Let me. Pretending it didn’t happen will only make me feel utterly alone. Pretending my baby didn’t exist is a falsehood and breaks my heart.

· Don’t say, “It’s not your fault.” Whether it’s my fault or not doesn’t make a difference. This tiny little person depended on my womb to nourish and care for him, and apparently I couldn’t do it. For whatever reason. I was supposed to care for her for a lifetime, but couldn’t even carry him for nine months. You can not even imagine how angry and confused I am at my body right now.

· Don’t say, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have another baby right now anyway” or “you weren’t too sure about having this baby right now.” I feel so guilty for ever having complained about exhaustion or morning sickness or the financial repercussions of another child. I would giveanything in the world to be dead tired and puking up a storm right now. I would go into debt ten times to have my baby back in my tummy.

· Don’t say, “It will happen when it’s supposed to” or “Look on the bright side” or “Here, just take my kids” or “Kids aren’t all they’re cracked up to be anyway.” This minimizes my grief and mocks my heartache. Scripture says, “Whoever sings songs to a heavy heart is like one who takes off a garment on a cold day, and like vinegar on soda” (Proverbs 25:20). It is repulsive.

· Don’t say, “Maybe you aren’t meant to have more children” or “You can always adopt” or “What about finding a surrogate?” or “You’re still young, you can try again.” These make me realize that you have no comprehension of my pain, no compassion for our loss, and don’t understand the problem. If I had a broken arm, responses like these would be ridiculous. These don’t apply to me. Be sensitive to that.

· Don’t say, “There are plenty of people who are happy without kids or with only one kid” or something like that. You have no idea what our hopes and dreams are, where God is leading us as a family, what size family we feel called to, or why we want (more) children. The fact that some people don’t have children has nothing to do with us. Please respect the fact that we want a large family. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting more kids. And the fact that we’ve had babies die does not in any way indicate that our desires are inappropriate.

· Don’t say, “You shouldn’t be angry.” The Bible does not say that anger at injustice is wrong, but that we shouldn’t sin in our anger (Ephesians 4:26). Anger at injustice is a natural stage of the grieving process as a person works out how his or her struggles fit into their relationship with God. I am angry that death is in the world. I am angry that I am a sinner, and therefore am part of the cause of death.

· Don’t constantly remind me that “all things work together for good if you love God.” It is easy enough to quote Romans 8:28 in a trite manner, but remember that Romans 8:26 comes first: “the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” I have never felt weaker than when I lose a baby. And sometimes it is even hard to pray. I am thankful that I have the Holy Spirit. Understand that I am weak and relying wholly on God’s strength. Understand that only the Spirit intercedes for me.

· Don’t say, “But you believe in the sovereignty of God.” Yes, I do. I understand that God controls all things. But that does not necessarily imply that death makes me skip around laughing, handing out lollipops to everyone. In God’s sovereignty, resurrection follows death. But death was not in God’s original plan.

· Don’t say, “Oh, please don’t cry.” Even Jesus cried when Lazarus was dead. Right before He would raise him up! Let me cry. I need to, more than you can ever imagine.

· Do recognize that I have suffered a death in my family—not a medical condition.

· Do recognize that in addition to the physical aftereffects I may experience, I am going to be grieving for quite some time. Please remember to treat me as you would any person who has endured the tragic death of a loved one.

· Do say, “I am so sorry.” Or even “I am so sad for you.” That’s enough. You don’t need to be eloquent. Sometimes what you think may be eloquent or helpful really just digs the wound deeper into my heart.

· Do say, “I will pray for you.” But if you say you will, make sure you do.

· Do send flowers or a short note—every acknowledgement like that reminds me that my baby’s life meant something, that my baby was loved.

· Do feel free to offer to bring over a meal or even just a cup of coffee. But don’t be offended if you arrive and I need you to simply drop it off and head home. I might not be able to predict what days will be good and what days will be particularly trying. If I invite you in, please come visit and mourn with me. But if I don’t, please give me a hug, drop off the food, and understand that I will visit with you at some other future time.

· Do refer to my baby as a baby, even use the baby’s name. Please don’t forget that this is a member of our family, not a medical issue that happened on one day. This was a creation who bore the image of our holy God. Do not minimize that.

· Do understand that I may need some time and space. If I don’t respond to phone calls, pleasedon’t resent that. Or if I leave quickly from church. Or if I avoid group activities for a while. Help me by not needing anything from me for a while.

· Do understand if I do not attend baby showers (or similar activities) for a while. And don’t askwhy I can’t come. Please don’t take this personally or resent me for it.

· Do be considerate, and don’t share pregnancy or baby news with me until I ask. It’s not that I can’t be happy for anyone else, it’s simply that every smiling, cooing baby or every glowing round new mommy makes me ache so deep in my heart that I can barely keep from exploding. Please help me keep away from temptation, and protect me from news that would simply enhance my heartache.

· Do understand that church is very emotional for me right now. Remember that our belief that we ascend into heaven during our Lord’s Day worship means that only on Sundays at that time does my family ever really sit and fellowship together as a whole. The rest of the week, only aremnant of my family lives together. If I seem extra emotional during worship, it is because of the solemnity, joy, and sorrow involved in actually having my entire family together.

· Do remember that although I may look okay to you—I may even be smiling and tear-free—there is a good chance that I am still barely able to get myself dressed each day and cry myself to sleep every night. It may be weeks or months before I can go a whole hour without thinking about my barren womb or my dead children.

· Do keep in mind that this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me and my family. The word “miscarriage” is small and easy. But my baby’s death is monolithic and devastating. It takes much time to figure out how to live with it. Please bear with me.

· Do remember that all the above applies to me as the mommy but also to my husband as the daddy. Don’t assume that he is peachy-keen, even when he looks it. Please deal kindly and compassionately with him. Many people assume that men are invincible to grief. They are not. Remember what I said about Jesus weeping over death.

Society is a hell as long as man or woman is alone. And the human soul dies from consumption in the hell of social catastrophe unless it makes common cause with others. In the community that common sense rebuilds, after the earthquake, upon the ashes on the slope of Vesuvius, the red wine of life tastes better than anywhere else. And a man writes a book, even as he stretches out his hand, so that he may find that he is not alone in the survival of humankind.

– Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy, I Am An Impure Thinker, p. 19