T’S HARD TO SAY WHERE IT HURTS THE most, for the pain rises from within. It gradually strangles your world until there is nothing left to focus on other than the pain that pounds before your eyes. The world, once so full of possibilities and hope, narrows down into an almost eternal present; no past, and definitely no future. Time, once so measurably linear, seems to lose meaning as you drop into a strangely ethereal time warp. A day is too long as it slowly edges its way around your grief. Concurrently great globs of time seem to disappear somewhere, unremembered, meaningless. Yet through the pain come threads of hope. Small, normally inconsequential things take on enormous significance; a smile, a phone call—from one who understands.

William was born on March 11, 2000. He attempted to breathe, but after several shuddering gasps he was still. The warmth gradually left his body, and we were alone. In an unknown hospital, in an unknown country where we had arrived nine weeks earlier, we held our beautiful baby boy and wept bitter tears.

Some days have passed now, and most days we cope; some days we don’t. Life is changed forever. In some ways it has become richer, in others poorer. We have joined an exclusive club—those who have lost a child. Prior to joining it we were oblivious to just how large it was. Through it all comes growth—unwanted growth—but growth nonetheless. Only then did we realize how hurtful innocuous questions can be.

“Is this your only child?”
“So when are you having another child?”
“I’m sure your son would love a brother/sister…”

How do you answer this? “Well, we have two children, but the other one is dead”? Or maybe you just smile and nod, and try to remind yourself that it wasn’t meant to hurt.

We had warning that things wouldn’t go right with our second child. As the news spread, we received many messages of support. We prayed long and hard. We wished God would intervene. He didn’t. But God did answer. His answer was simple: “I will help you survive.” How do you tell people who desperately need a miracle that God doesn’t always work the miracles we wish for?

However, if you have never experienced such a loss, but want to be helpful, read on:

1. Don’t tell me that God has brought such a loss to me for a reason.
Maybe He has, but I doubt it. God is a God of love. When Jesus was here on earth He brought life, not death. When He returns He will once more bring life. Don’t tell me that my God would bring such death upon me. I know that God can bring good out of bad—but Satan is the author of death. In a world blighted by sin, terrible things happen to us, and there may be no reason. Maybe one day we will understand how it contributes to the tapestry of our lives, but right now that doesn’t ease my pain.

On one particular day after William had died we received two e-mails—one spoke of how this might be used to bring glory to God; the other just reminded us that we were being remembered in prayer, and that God loved us. One made logical sense, the second one spoke to us in our grief. Although we appreciated both e-mails, we had to remind ourselves that both acted from the same motivation of care and concern—it’s just that one spoke to our hearts while the other didn’t.

2. Don’t avoid us just because it’s awkward.
As a pastor I have talked with many people who have felt isolated because of loss. Don’t avoid us. You may have nothing to say, but you can cook something, bring some flowers, send a card, or just let us know you are remembering us. We were fortunate to have many friends who understand loss and we have not felt neglected, but many do. Don’t feel you have to say anything wise, or that you have to fix the situation. You can’t. We just need your friendship. Sometimes we need you to understand that we want time to ourselves. Don’t feel put out if you don’t see us for a time, and then we suddenly resurface into your lives.

3. Acknowledge our loss.
You may not be sure of what to do or say, but remember, the person who has lost someone precious will feel worse than you. Acknowledge what has happened. Don’t just go on as if nothing has changed, because everything has changed. We had a baby. We don’t know why things didn’t work out better; we don’t expect you to have the answers. We loved this baby who died. Even though you never met him, he was real. Don’t pretend it didn’t happen.

4. It’s OK to laugh.
Sometimes we feel like laughing—don’t be shocked. We still laugh and cry. It’s just that we cry more than usual. We are not coping extraordinarily well. When we’re OK, we really are OK. We can talk about the death of our baby without crying; we can laugh. Remember, you might not see when we fall to pieces, and we may not want to share that with everyone. Don’t keep asking us whether or not we are OK.  It’s a hard question to answer, and we’re not sure you can cope with the answer. We’re not sure we can cope with the answer.

5. Share what helped you in your time of loss.
For those who haven’t lost a loved one, don’t feel that your company doesn’t touch our hearts as those we know have a shared experience. We still need your company. It’s just that when we receive the words and gifts of those who have grieved as we have grieved, we know that they understand exactly what we are feeling. We received a card and a journal book from friends who lost a baby several years ago. The words they wrote were special, but just knowing a little of what they had been through brought tears and a little healing to us that day. Tell us how you coped with your loss; it will help us. I had one person tell me that if I studied deeper into the seven seals in the book of Revelation, it would help me because it would get my mind onto other things. He went on to tell me he had never lost a loved one. I could tell.

6. Don’t expect us to be at church next week.
In our case, we were at church soon after our baby died. Church for me is where I am busy; my mind is occupied. After the first week back it did get easier. But to go and sit in church and think, and to cope with all the emotions that being there brings up, is too much, too soon, for many who have lost a baby. We know we have to merge back into the stream of life. We know that putting it off doesn’t make it any easier, but allow us to have that time out. We will be back; please, be patient.

7. Listen to our thoughts about God—don’t correct them.
It is inevitable that God’s working in this world will be questioned when loss is experienced. When we need to talk, please listen, maybe even suggest, but don’t correct. While this was not our experience, I know too many who have been “corrected” in their theology. In time we will put it all into perspective; allow us that time. We will ask questions about how much we should attribute to God, the purpose of prayer, and more. And through it all we will come to understand better the God who loves us.

Today we have some photos, an arrangement of flowers, a plaque, and some hand- and footprints by which we remember our precious little boy. We are not “over it” yet, but we are learning to live with it. We will see our little boy again. As one author pictures it,  “As the little infants come forth immortal from their dusty beds, they immediately wing their way to their mother’s arms. They meet again nevermore to part.”^* Isaiah points us forward to the day when “never again will there be . . . an infant who lives but a few days” (Isa. 65:20, NIV).

I am thankful that God seems to know when enough is enough. Many times we came to the place when we cried out to God and said, “Enough! Help!” And just when we thought we could go on no longer, something or someone would help us. God promises that He will be with us through the valley of the shadow of death. He was for us; He will be there for you.

The day after William died, I wrote “The Breath of Life.” If you have lost a child at birth, I share it with you as part of our pain and hope.

The Breath of Life
O Father God, What happened here today? In the beginning You took the ground of the earth and breathed the breath of life into it. Our son was fearfully and wonderfully made, yet life evaded him. Did You forget the breath of life, Lord?

Why did You choose to cry with us instead of breathe the breath of life? You knew him from before he was conceived. You knew he would have no hopes and no dreams. You knew he would be born just to die. You knew You would weep, just as we have wept.

I know You are still here with us, Lord. Through the valley of the shadow of death, You say, we have nothing to fear, For when we are weak You are our strength. Come boldly to the throne of God, You say; Is it OK to come sorrowfully as well?

What happened to the breath of life, Lord? No William the Conqueror this time, No preacher or teacher, builder or farmer. Just a few short minutes of a life that was almost . . .

So we wait for the breath of life to come. We wait for the resurrection day, the second coming of Christ. We wait for Him to bring the breath of life. We wait for a life that will not end; a life without sorrow, a life without pain. We wait for death to be swallowed up in victory. We wait for mortality to be transformed into glorious immortality.

What happened to the breath of life? He’s coming, I know. While today is dark, I long for the day when the darkness is gone, When the brightness of God’s glory shines brighter than the sun, And our sorrows will be no more.

(In memory of our baby William, written with love by Daddy, and read at the funeral.)

Note: We moved from Adelaide, Australia, where I had pastored seven different churches in five years, to New Zealand, where I am now the pastor of the New Plymouth and Stratford churches. Our baby William was diagnosed with Potter’s syndrome about four weeks after we arrived in New Zealand. Potter’s syndrome means the baby continues to grow within the womb but fails to develop kidneys.

^*Ellen G. White, Selected Messages, book 2, p. 260.

_________________________
Darren Croft is an Australian serving as a pastor in New Zealand, where he and his wife, Rosie, live with their sons Jayden and Rylan (born March 1, 2001).