How to Comfort and Encourage Parents of a Miscarriage
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This past fall my husband and I were welcomed into a community no one wants to be a part of: those who have miscarried a baby.
When the spotting started, I tried not to panic. With my first son I made many trips to the hospital for random spotting. This pregnancy would probably be the same. I stared at the doctor as he roamed the ultrasound probe over my belly looking for a heartbeat. I waited for him to say the same thing the doctor had said about my first son, “There’s a little baby moving in there!” But the room was silent. He proceeded to tell us that he couldn’t hear a heartbeat, the blood test showed my hormone levels were very low, and to expect to miscarry that week.
The following morning I hugged my legs to my chest as the cramps began. I squeezed my husband’s hand. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way,” I cried. “I don’t want to lose my baby.”
If you don’t already know someone who has miscarried, chances are you will at some point.
In the following weeks my husband and I experienced grief like an avalanche. It didn’t come slowly; it didn’t build up quietly. Rather, it overwhelmed and covered us. We felt weighed down, like we were suffocating under the sadness. It felt like our cries were muffled by piles of snow.
About 15 to 25 percent of recognized pregnancies will end in a miscarriage. If you don’t already know someone who has miscarried, chances are you will at some point. To those who have not experienced a miscarriage, you can feel helpless watching those you love experience one. How do we help? How do we encourage them in this unique pain?
In the midst of our smothering grief, we had a local body of family—our physical family and our spiritual family in Christ—who together dug us out of our avalanche. Though there were still wounds they couldn’t heal, they helped dress and care for them.
Here are four ways people ministered to us in our suffering:
1. They met our physical needs.
In grief and sadness, ordinary tasks can appear overwhelming. Some women are also crippled by physical pain and complications from their miscarriage that make average work trying.
I am thankful for the variety of food that was delivered to our family: we had home-cooked meals and goods to simply place in a microwave or grab from the counter when needed. What a blessing these gifts of food were to my husband and me. If cooking or baking isn’t a way you can serve, there are many other ways we can help meet the physical needs of those who have experienced a miscarriage. Babysitting their children or offering to take care of housework may be a way you can encourage your grieving friends.
2. They acknowledged our grief.
We like to compare. We compare nearly every aspect of our lives to each other, to see who has it better and who has it worse. Suffering is not exempt. In my own heart, I felt guilty and foolish at times for the sadness that held me each day.It could be worse. I should just get over it. In attempts to comfort us, we received comments such as, “Oh well, that’s life.” One person said with a laugh, “Well at least your other son won’t have competition now!” I often wondered if what my husband and I were experiencing could be labeled as grief at all.
But a miscarriage is truly grief, and if we hold the pro-life position, we shouldn’t brush off the grief of our fellow brothers and sisters who have felt the pain of a miscarriage. It’s a loss because conception begins a new life; and the loss of any life, no matter how small, brings grief.
Grief needs to be felt, or else it will force its way out in other areas. Those who dug us out of our avalanche of grief were those who acknowledged it. They acknowledged our grief by asking how we were doing (even many weeks after the fact), were patient with our sadness, prayed for us and with us, and sent cards, flowers, and texts with condolences. They didn’t scoff when we continued to remain downcast but instead put an arm around us. They listened to us babble and stumble over words as we tried to express our grief.
One instance of this is impressed in my memory. I bumped into a fellow mom in the bathroom at church. She asked how I was doing, to which I said I was okay. With tears brimming her eyes, she replied in a quivering voice, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She glanced over at her baby sleeping in her carrier. “I can’t imagine how you feel.” That moment, with a woman I hardly knew, meant much more to me than she probably realized.
3. They shared their stories of grief.
As I mentioned above, because of our miscarriage my husband and I were welcomed into a community. As much as we hated why we were a part of this community, we were ever grateful that we weren’t experiencing this alone.
To know someone else felt this intense grief comforted me that I wasn’t abnormal or wrong. To know someone else wondered at the same questions as I did, yet was carried by God through to faith, encouraged me. To know someone else had survived this grief, had again found reason to smile and remember their little one without tears, gave me hope. To know someone else could see this grief transformed into their own sanctification, a ministry, or an encouraging word for another gave me strength.
I longed to hear others simply say, “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve felt this grief too.” Those simple words gave me courage.
4. They reminded us of God’s love.
The people who encouraged our family the most brought us back to the foot of the cross to remind us of God’s love: We are loved by the Father who gave his only Son to a horrific, humiliating, and painful death to save us from eternal condemnation and suffering (John 3:16). We are loved by the Son who willingly gave himself for us. Jesus rose again to life, and by placing our faith in him we likewise will be raised to eternal life (Rom. 6:5)—faithfully trusting God’s promise toward our little ones we have lost as well (Matt. 19:14-15; Acts 2:39). We are constantly indwelled by the Spirit who brings our sobbing prayers to the Father (Rom. 8:26-27).
There were many times I found myself with clenched fists and misty eyes wondering how God could possibly still love me. I desperately needed those people to envelop me in their arms and preach the gospel to me. I needed them to reflect the character of God as they sat with me over and over again, telling me the truth I knew and had heard the other day but was still grappling to trust was true. Yes sister, yes, he still loves you.
Lack of understanding doesn’t make you ill-equipped.
We can feel paralyzed when those we love suffer in a way that is foreign to us. But just because you don’t fully understand what they are going through doesn’t mean you are unable to offer something of value. Sometimes all a suffering person needs is someone to acknowledge their pain, or someone to offer a literal helping hand. If nothing else, bring them the gospel. What may seem to you as a small and insignificant action to them is another scoop of snow out of their avalanche.
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This article is adapted from “How to Encourage Parents of a Miscarriage” at laradentremont.com.
