When Christmas Isn’t Supposed to Be This Way: A 5-Day Reading Plan for Pregnancy Loss

Scriptures: Isaiah 53, John 1:1-18

The Christmas that’s Not Supposed to Be This Way

Christmas isn’t supposed to be like this: grieving the loss of a pregnancy you dreamed of, just as the world is celebrating its most historic birth. A season of light, but for you, it feels mostly like darkness. Joy to the world feels worlds away. 

It can feel intensely painful and disorienting when your personal moment clashes with the moment of the season, especially when it’s meant to be a season of joy. I know this personally. 

I warmed to the wonder of my first pregnancy during Advent, only to lose it the week before Christmas. It was Advent’s week of joy when I walked myself out of the ER. “We can’t find the heartbeat,” the doctor had said. If I’m honest, for the first time in my life, I didn’t go to the Christmas Eve service that year. I could not fathom celebrating this most historic birth when our baby was gone too soon. 

I had to reckon with the dissonance of this season. I had to wrestle this out with God, and mostly, my prayers were, Why? and, How could you? I don’t have access to the “why” question when it comes to pain and death in our world, and I’m suspicious of anyone who claims they do. But what I do know is that it’s not supposed to be this way. We may not know the “why,” but we can experience the depth of God’s with-ness present to us in our pain. That Christmas, I had to rediscover for myself that God was born into our world for this very reason: to be with us in everything, but most of all, our pain. 

If you, like me, ever struggle to reconcile someone else’s great joy with your sorrow, it helped me to reframe Christmas that year not as some show of twinkly lit triumph, some great joy from which I was excluded, but actually as an expression of empathy for humankind in pain. Like a mother rushing to a child crying out, saying, “I’m here. Where does it hurt?” I’ve come to see the Incarnation, God with us, as God’s loving response to a hurting world. 

We may never know why we couldn’t find a heartbeat, why there were abnormalities or complications, why joy comes seemingly for others, but not for us. But we can know that the God who experienced death himself through Christ never meant it to be this way. From the beginning, life was the design for all of us. And we can know that this very God is with us in all the places that hurt the most.

Scriptures: John 11:1-27, Psalms 56:8

Your Sorrow is Sacred to God

If you’re reading this, if you chose this study, I’m so sorry for the loss that has brought you here. I’m so sorry that we have this grief in common, as someone who has experienced recurrent miscarriages. And I’m writing with the hope that you will here encounter the God of comfort, who is with us in all the places where we feel pain. 

It is often cited that one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, yet the grief of such an intimate loss is often wildly underrecognized. First, it’s largely an invisible grief, isn’t it? Something as significant and life-altering as death has occurred within your own body, and from the outside, no one else would know. You grab a coffee and your barista greets you like it’s just any other Tuesday. You zone out at the traffic light and the impatient driver behind you lays on the horn, with no way of knowing what tragedy in your life has just transpired. You put a smile on as you show up to the office Christmas gift exchange, only to go cry in your car afterward. 

In the early days especially and for as long as you need, I hope you’ll be gentle with yourself. A grief of this magnitude takes time to absorb. It can be even harder when you feel the need to put on a happy face and go about your way. But in the presence of God, you don’t have to go through the motions and you can be fully yourself in your grief. 

Psalm 56:8 says of God, “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” 

Everyone grieves differently, and no matter how that process is for you right now, you are allowed to feel whatever you feel. Your sorrow is not too much for God; to the contrary, your sorrow is sacred to God. He sees you in your pain and it matters to him so much that he’s keeping track. 

I think also of the story of Jesus and his grief upon hearing the news that his friend Lazarus had died (John 11:1-27). When Jesus came and saw Lazurus’ sister Mary weeping, “he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled” (John 11:33b). Then when he came to the tomb to see for himself, the text tells us, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). The shortest verse in the entirety of scripture makes one of the biggest reveals about who God is: a God of empathy. Jesus shows us that God is not far removed, still-faced, or disaffected from our pain—not even when he knows resurrection is in the future.

In the framing of this story, Jesus has made his intention to raise his friend Lazurus from the dead from the very beginning. He showed up to the scene fully knowing that’s exactly what he was about to do. 

But that knowledge doesn’t stop his tears. It doesn’t prompt him to dismiss the sadness, nor make light of Mary’s distress. The grief is real to Mary, and so it is real to Jesus. Even though he knows Lazurus will live again, divine empathy compels him to observe her grief with her. 

And the empathy of God is likewise with us. Your pain is real to you, and so it is real to God. You can still put your hope in resurrection, and grieve the loss of the departed. And you are not alone in your grief. None other than Jesus weeps with you.

Scriptures: 1 Kings 19:1-9, Matthew 26:17-30, Psalms 65

“The Journey Is Too Much for You”

Sometimes the emotional pain can be so intense that we forget to tend to the needs of the body. Whether in the tender immediate “after” of pregnancy loss, or the weeks, months, or years since, it’s always a good practice to do a check-in with yourself: How am I doing right now, and what do I need? How does it feel to be in my body? Am I hungry, restless, or in need of a warm cup of tea or a shoulder rub, or a good night’s sleep? Do I need to move my body or rest it?

Sometimes spiritual practice can be found in prayer and meditation, and sometimes it can be found in something as simple as a breakfast sandwich and a nap. 

There is never a more important time to take care of you than on the heels of something very hard. 

There’s an amazing story in 1 Kings that shows us how much God cares about our physical bodies and their nourishment, especially in difficult times. Elijah, a prophet of God, has been shaking things up in Israel by calling God’s people back to God, away from the god Baal they had made for themselves. Things reach fever pitch when the king and queen catch wind of what he’s doing and vow to stop his voice by ending his life. Elijah goes on the run into the wilderness, collapsing under a bush for shade and fearful sleep. It was so bad, he said to God, “I have had enough” (1 Kings 19:4) and prayed for his life to be over. 

God’s response is remarkable: he sends an angel to attend to Elijah in the wilderness. The angels touch him—I imagine here a gentle hand on the back—and says, “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you” (1 Kings 19:7). When Elijah got up, he found bread still warm from a coal fire, and water, and he ate and drank. The text says he was strengthened by this food, enough to make the journey to the mountain of God at Horeb, where we found safe harbor and slept in a cave. 

We know what it’s like to feel depleted, emptied by grief, anxious in fear. We know what it’s like to say with our whole being, “I’ve had enough.” It’s a good prayer because it’s an honest one. And it’s a prayer that God answers. 

I want you to imagine God saying these words given to Elijah to you: “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you” (1 Kings 19:7). 

Experiencing the thrill, the joy of new life, only to learn it’s over before it had a true chance to begin—it’s too much.

Imagine a future together and a new shape of family life, only to realize this dream is not to be—it’s too much.

Grieving the baby you no longer have while others share their happy pregnancy news—it’s too much.

Facing the open question of whether a future pregnancy will be possible for you, or not—it’s too much.

From the mouth of God, and I hope you hear it—it’s too much. So let the God of all comfort care for you now. This is a God who is constantly calling us, through Christ, to take and eat. God has made provision for you in the wilderness and earnestly wants you to receive it. As you check in with yourself, consider what you need, what would feel like rest, and what might feel like nourishment. From the mouth of God: you are deserving of all care, especially now.

Scriptures: Matthew 2, Jeremiah 31:15-16

Rachel weeping for her children

When you’re reeling from loss, especially the loss of a child, it’s perfectly reasonable and understandable to feel unseen by the joy of the Christmas story. After all, this is the ultimate pregnancy and birth narrative, the God whose birthday is the hinge of human history. When you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, this isn’t exactly relatable. Speaking for myself, I held a lot of bitterness, a lot of rage, as I wrangled with how God could possibly care for me as my personal season clashed so strongly with the Christmas season. 

Something that helped me in this wrangling process—and perhaps it might help you—is the remembrance that God weeps with those who weep, even in the midst of Christmas joy. The Christmas narrative shows us this directly, though it’s a story that rarely makes it into the nativity plays. 

King Herod, the ruler of the day, had heard rumors of this new king’s birth and decided it was a threat to power. He did what all corrupt power does when threatened: took it out on the vulnerable, commissioning the death of children. This is a very difficult story about at-risk children that does not end the way we hope it will. The realness of this threat sends Mary and Joseph into another country to take refuge, where they stay for years until Herod has died and it’s safe to return home. 

While the star rises over the manger, the sky goes dark for the families of the innocents. And don’t we know what this is like? 

This narrative, traditionally known as the Massacre of Innocents, ends with a prophetic proclamation of lament: 

“A voice was heard in Ramah, 

wailing and loud lamentation, 

Rachel weeping for her children; 

she refused to be consoled because they are no more.” 

(Matthew 2:18) 

Rachel was the wife of Jacob, who struggled for many years to have the children she desperately wanted, and is often remembered as the Mother of Israel. Jeremiah later refrains her lament as Israel, the children of God, are being led into Babylonian captivity. And now, generations later, her weeping echoes anew for the children who are taken by a jealous despot. 

Upon first glance, it would seem there is no room for us—those who grieve lost children—in the Christmas story. But upon deeper reading, we find the narrative gives a bold voice to the mothers who are without, alongside the story of Jesus’ birth. Even here, in the gentle quiet of a silent night, Rachel’s cries echo through the centuries, and are heard and honored by God. So is your crying—heard and honored by a God who remembers our grief in every season.

Scriptures: Psalms 139:13-16, Colossians 1:15-20

You Are Held

My mother’s mother was a self-described “pushy old broad,” and proud of it. She was the head of whatever committee she was on, whether it was for her Lutheran church or its larger synod, her nursing school program, or Meals on Wheels, where she ultimately became local chapter president. She didn’t take no for an answer, and it was in her personal rule of life to always sample a little bit of every dessert on the dessert table. 

I love being her granddaughter, and can only hope some of her pluck has come to me by way of inheritance. She died before I could tell her about any of my pregnancies, but I remember after my first loss the astonishment and felt belonging of realizing the babies I never knew were more closely connected within my family than I first thought. 

The science goes like this: your earliest biological beginning traces back to your maternal 

grandmother’s womb. As early as twenty weeks in utero, a female fetus has developed ovaries with a lifetime supply of eggs. Meaning: there was a time in your grandmother’s pregnancy when she carried not just your mother, but also the earliest part of you. Her body, in these twenty weeks time until birth, was a haven to three generations—herself, your mother, and what would one day become you. 

Likewise, when your mother was pregnant with you, she carried not just you, but the earliest known DNA of all your future children. Three generations in one body! But what means the most to me about this biological curiosity is the suggestion that we have all been held, carried, for much longer than we thought. As your maternal grandmother held your newborn mother in her arms, she held also the earliest parts of you, somewhere within. And when your mother cradled newborn-you in her arms, she was holding the earliest parts of your future children—those who would be born and live themselves, as well as those that would not. 

Maybe your family history is a complicated one. Maybe the mother-daughter relationships along the line are fraught and painful. But I have to believe that if we were to take the long view and trace this particular biological connection back and back, daughter to mother to grandmother, all the way back to the original woman if you like, we will find care and goodwill. 

The depth of this biological connection brings out new dimensions to my read of Psalm 139:13, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” The imagery in this beautiful psalm is that of a craftsman, speaking of God weaving. I imagine God at a loom weaving together a tapestry from double helix DNA, weaving love and belonging for which we are all meant. I imagine God holding each of our mothers, and each of our children, born and unborn. I imagine God holding the children we never got to hold, and singing over them a song of love that never ends. 

The Bible speaks of God as the one in whom “all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). This Christmas, if you find that you can’t hold it together, may you know that you are held by one who can.