The other night I had dinner with the sweetest couple whose son was stillborn in August. Their desire to show compassion to others, their new outlook on life in spite of their grief, and their growing love for each other were inspiring. My heart was heavy, yet full. I cried when I stood in his nursery, complete but never used for its intended purpose.

They are living my nightmare, yet they are more than surviving. They are healing, at their exact right pace, and they are doing it with grace. I intended to bless them with a meal and friendship, and in their tragedy, they ministered to me. Grief is funny that way.

If you know me, then you may already know my deep-seated and longtime desire to be a mother. I lost my first pregnancy to a miscarriage in March of 2014. I was almost 11 weeks along, and for the last 5 weeks we had several ultrasounds as we heard our baby’s heartbeat slow down and eventually stop. I knew knew the odds of having a miscarriage, yet still did not fully grasp the gravity of the situation even as it happened. I desperately wanted to be a mother, and put much of my identity and value into fulfilling that desire.