By Jessica Lilley-Ochoa ’12 M.Div.

I would worry about every prenatal checkup before my daughter was born, and every time we would hear her heart beating strong or see her wiggling on the ultrasound screen I would wonder at the miracle of her growth. 

As we prepared to celebrate her first birthday, my husband and I went in for her younger sibling’s first prenatal check. This time, my worries found footing as the doctor failed to find our little one’s heartbeat. The next three weeks were filled with agonizing waiting and fervent prayer, until we finally lost our second child late on a cold and dark Wednesday night. 

I recently told my husband that I am simply looking forward to the day where I am not constantly on the verge of tears. And yet, in the midst of this slow-motion grief, these words of Lamentations have accompanied us:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness. (3:22-23)

Every day since that difficult morning in the doctor’s office, God’s mercy has been visible and tangible, carrying us forward in the affirmation of God’s love. Family, friends, co-workers, doctors, nurses, and strangers have all reached out to bear our weakness and our struggles with us. So many individuals have born us in sorrow, lifting us up to hope in our grief. 

In these heavy days, carrying the joyful call to mercy has looked like my students praying for me because they knew something was wrong, even before I told them specifically. It has looked like friends courageously sharing the grief of their own miscarriages long before this happened, giving me strength to share my own vulnerability in this journey. It looked like a doctor making phone calls and sharing resources with us so that we can bury our little one with the dignity that this child deserves. It looked like a hand-written card from a friend across the country pouring out the salve of love on our aching hearts. It has looked like my daughter’s sweet hugs, my husband squeezing my hand at an opportune moment, my mom calling to see how I’m doing, my mother-in-law bringing me lunch. It looked like a wise woman, tenderly reminding me that this child deserves the dignity of my grief. His mercies are new every morning.

Again and again, I have returned to the trust that we will, one day, hold this precious child in our arms and never have to let go. Even so, as I sat at Mass last Sunday, all I could think about was how I ached to hold my child, not later on in heaven, but here and now. 

As I waited to receive the Eucharist, my mind gently turned to the truth that my little one is now one with Christ. I was given this merciful reminder: every time I receive the gift of this Sacrament, I hold Christ, of whom my child is now a part. What a merciful love this is, that allows me to touch and see and be bound more tightly to this little one in the Blessed Sacrament! 

In the abundant love of this mystical embrace, our family is together and complete, held tightly together by Christ. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end.