Due to having an emergency, crash c section and needing four blood transfusions, I stayed in the hospital for four-ish days. The hospital stay consisted of millions of blood draws, two rounds of blood thinners to prevent potential blood clotting due to acute blood loss, an ECG, various supplementation, and of course, keeping a close eye on me, my heart, and ensuring I was stable to go home.

On the other hand, I was crying over my baby, holding him continuously while also switching him to the cuddle cot so he didn’t “change” too fast due to being dead. Those days were filled with getting as many memories, keepsakes, and cuddles we could before handing Arthur Henry over.

The nurses were sweet: all of them helped with memories. From footprints and handprints, to molds, to outfits, and even to photos, each of them helped me preserve the small, but big life of my son. Now, as we are almost six months from his death, I have many of his keepsakes in a cabinet and in a trunk that is ever so dear to me.

But when discharge day arrived, I could not sleep that night. That entire night, I spent holding Arthur Henry and sitting next to the cuddle cot that was on a cold, 42 degrees. I cried, I wept, and I wanted time to stand still. My mind was acting as it was a stopwatch dreading the moment the knock from the funeral home would sound on the door.

“How am I supposed to give my baby to them?” Is what I thought as my mind raced with the unknown. “How am I supposed to leave this hospital fully postpartum, without my baby?” These thoughts flooded my mind as I held onto my lifeless baby. I held him tight, caressed his sweet face, and cried into his outfit.

Then, morning arrived.

The doctors flooded my room, all of them kind, and told me the game plan. They asked me if I was ready for the funeral home to arrive, but before I agreed, I made it known, “I want to leave here right after he is taken because this place will now feel like a prison to me.”

Discharge paperwork immediately went into the works and the funeral home was called.

I wept and held my baby as tightly as I could. I got more of his hair, I got more photos of his face, and I held him by the window.

The knock arrived.

My soul dropped.

And my entire world shattered yet again.

“They are here to take my baby” is what I thought. I looked behind me and there the funeral director stood: stoic, respectful, and sweet. I placed him into the car seat provided, and just held his hands. Tears were flooding the entire car seat, my face, and my outfit.

“I want to follow him as far as I can go,” I said, and so the long journey down the hospital hallway began. Once in the elevator, we went down to the bottom floor, a floor most don’t go down, and I held him for what felt like an eternity. The funeral director did not rush me and gave me time I needed.

I kissed him, loved on him, and with a final, “I love you and I am sorry I could not save you,” I let him go.

The elevator doors closed and there went my baby.

Gone.

We went back up to the ground floor and waited for my husband to go pull the car around. The cold wind from the draft of the door matched the feelings of my soul: lifeless, cruel, and brittle.

The car ride home was gut wrenching as I felt like a hallow shell where I used to have my baby alive within me, but now is on his way to a cold, morgue at the funeral home.

When I got home, I took a long shower: my first shower in days. I didn’t shower at the hospital as I didn’t want to spend one second without my baby. Besides, I didn’t care. My baby died, I almost died, and walking was a struggle at first. I could care less about how I looked or felt because nothing could make me feel better after his death.

But I stood in that shower and let the water hit me. I cried, and cried, and cried. The outfit that I wore when holding Arthur Henry still hasn’t been washed, even almost six months later. It still smells like him and I refuse to remove the smell or wear the outfit again.

It sits in a bag in my bathroom right now, which is the place I last took it off and it will stay there for the time being.

The next day, we met with the funeral director at 9 am. We went over funeral plans, times of the services, and what to expect. I was shown Arthur Henry’s death certificate and was asked to sign it. I read every line and how it only had his life as a mere five minutes.

Afterward, we went to the graveyard and picked his spot in baby land, which was free of charge because they know babies shouldn’t die. They marked the ground in which my baby would be lowered in, which was cold, hard, and the grass was dead due to the December cold.

And yet, as we were planning his funeral and approving all the details, I was still healing from labor.

I was cramping and still having a struggle walking due to being cut open seven layers deep.

I was bleeding due to being freshly postpartum.

My body ached due to the woes of labor ontop of the emotional pain I was having.

My physical body, not knowing that my baby had died, was going through the normal postpartum experience with no baby to account for it.

While I emotionally and mentally knew that my baby was dead, my body didn’t. Every fiber of my being screamed for my baby, and the agony of such mixed signals was hard to handle.

I still woke up at 3 am due to my body screaming, “where is your baby?”

Whenever I heard a baby cry out in public, my body thought it was mine, and yet my baby never cried and was silent.

Whenever I saw a baby, my body wondered where mine was.

As I was days postpartum, I had to pick out the outfit I would wear to my son’s funeral when all I wanted to wear was comfy clothes as I laid in bed. The funeral was a week after he was born, and I am thankful we had that in place as we had no idea what labor would entail. That week gave me time to heal before standing at my son’s funeral and emotionally dealing with saying “goodbye” for the last time on this earth.

The morning of his funeral, I woke up and felt like a million bricks fell on top of me and were showing me no mercy. I felt suffocated, crushed, and bruised. As I was putting on another postpartum diaper, I was making myself “presentable” for my son’s funeral when all I wanted was to fall apart.

The bruises on my arms from all of the blood draws were still healing, the incision of my c section was still sore, standing for too long caused a dull ache, and the recovery from blood loss caused my iron to be low.

Yet, I preserved for my son: the one who I wished more than anything could live.

His funeral was beautiful: one where life and death met between the two gardens we are in while the hope of Christ transcends all things. Though my body was postpartum and confused as to where my baby was, my son was dancing on the waves of heaven healed, restored, and in joy.

The burial was hard and quicker than I thought. Within 5 minutes, my baby was buried in the ground with fresh grass placed above his grave. It was as if he was never buried, never existed, and wasn’t above ground not even five minutes ago.

Such a reality cut deep and it solidified, “This actually happened, my baby died.”

Healing from postpartum recovery and emotional pain of death wasn’t easy. Most women have the joy of having a baby to account for such woes and physical healing, I did not.

Instead, I had to trust Jesus to hold my baby for the time being as I physically recovered.

The first six weeks without Arthur Henry were some of the hardest weeks, but Jesus never once left me.

Even as my body screamed for my baby, He reminded me that he was healed.

Even as my body bled and was bruised, Jesus gave me the strength to continue.

Even as I laid on my baby’s grave in the cold as my heart, body, soul, and mind ached, He sat with me in my suffering.

The worst pain a woman can go through is postpartum with no baby, but because of Jesus and His suffering, we can find hope in the eternal.

My son’s death is not where the story ends, but it is where it begins. His testimony, his life, and his restoration all echo the beauty of God’s grace. Going through postpartum with a butterfly on my hospital door due to my baby being deceased isn’t the end of the story: it is the beginning of one that echos Jesus turning sadness into joy and dancing into mourning.

While I may not see the joy in the valley right now, I know that our God is good and I will taste and see of His goodness again. Part of that goodness is being proud to be Arthur Henry’s mom, and another part of that goodness is being able to share his story, champion other loss moms, and to share my heart through the journey.

I wish I didn’t have to sign his death certificate, but I did.

I wish I had a newborn while I was freshly postpartum, but I didn’t.

It is a hard pill to swallow and one that many women do not go through and those who go through it feel isolated.

But Jesus….

That is all I can say.

While I am making sense of this new reality of mine, I know one thing to be true: my baby is held, loved, and adored not only by me, but by Jesus. Until I go to heaven and hold my baby once more, I will trust my Savior to hold him for the time being.

And until then, I will be here sharing Arthur Henry’s story, suffering with fellow loss moms, and making a big noise for the kingdom.

My heart was pounding out my chest. I knew from the moment the ultrasound happened that something was wrong. The ultrasound looked bad, it looked as if something was detrimentally wrong, and though the ultrasound tech could not tell me anything that was happening, she didn’t need too.

Something was wrong with my baby.

My heart was racing, my mind was even faster.

“Please say something” is what I thought. “Tell me that the ultrasound was blurry or that something was just missed,” but nothing could have prepared me for what she said.

My midwife finally turned around, looked me in the eye, and told me, “i am concerned about his head shape. Do you have any ultrasounds from before you transferred here that I can see? Any of his head?” She was desperate for this diagnosis to be wrong, so I scoured through my phone looking, pleading, for any photo that could debunk this entire situation.

The only scan I had to show her was one from nine weeks, but he was too small. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see much with that photo. Do you have any other ultrasounds?”

In that moment, I shook my head no. This was when my midwife took a pause and finally looked me in the eyes. “We are going to be getting the senior radiologists report right away with his findings, but based on my observation, I believe your baby has Anencephaly.”

“Anencephaly? What the heck even is that” is what I thought as the words of this diagnosis were first breathed to me. Little did I know my entire life would be consumed with this one word.

“Does that mean he’ll be special needs or does that mean he will be delayed,” I asked hoping that it was simply that.

But nothing could have prepared me for what she was about to say.

“Anencephaly is where the brain and the skull do not form, which means your baby is incompatible with life.”

When she said these words in the most caring, but heartbreaking way she could, it felt as if the air had hit me with a cold, brutal force.

I was just told my baby is going to die and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I began to ask my midwife all of these questions from little ones to big ones. I wanted to know everything: could he hear me, was he conscious, did he feel pain, was he suffering, did he know who I was?

She answered all of them and the one she did reassure me on was this: even though he had Anencephaly, he knew who I was and he knew I was his mom. He could feel me, he could sense me, and he knew me.

My midwife had me lay down on her couch as I was hyperventilating. I was shaking, I was hysterical, and I thought I was going to pass out. I didn’t believe her in that moment, how could I? I didn’t want to believe it, and so I tried with all my might to dissociate, to become removed from the situation, and to be in denial.

When I finally left her office, I walked past other mothers who were waiting for their appointment. My hair was wet with tears, my entire stature was a mess, and I stumbled out of there as fast as I could.

I stumbled to my car, slammed the car door, and began to scream to God.

I screamed to Him louder than I ever could.

“Don’t take my baby from me.”

“Don’t let him die.”

“I will not survive if he dies, God. I cannot watch my baby die.”

I screamed that last line over and over and over again.

“I will not survive. I just won’t.”

You see, my parents have already passed away and while their deaths were hard on me, I always expected my parents to one day pass await due to the natural flow of things, but my baby? Completely blindsided. To me, I had no idea how I would survive this let alone comprehend it.

The entire drive home, I was on the phone with a friend trying to make sense of whatever I was just told. At this point, my brain chose denial as a protective mechanism because I was in such shock, heartbreak, and trauma.

I was trying hard to make sense of it and to explain it away, and yet there was no explaining Anencephaly away.

I was trying my best to stay positive, but there was nothing positive about relieving the news that my baby was going to die.

I was trying my best to keep it together, but there was no point in holding it together when my world was on fire.

That day was one of the worst days of my life: and I relieve it every single day.

I cried many tears that day and got no sleep that night. I stayed up like a zombie staring at the ceiling feeling the knives enter my heart over and over as the appointment replayed a million times.

I doom scrolled on my phone hoping that it would “distract me,” but it didn’t work.

I paced my kitchen allowing myself to get lost in my thoughts hoping I would forget, but all that happened was I got tired.

I tried praying and having big faith that he would not have this diagnosis, but all it did was make me feel small in a sea of death.

Nothing worked.

I laid on my living room floor staring up into the abyss. Part of me thought I would die from shock, another part of me thought I was being drowned by some invisible sea on top of me. What does one do after being told their baby has a terminal diagnosis and was not going to make it? How does one even begin to make sense of a diagnosis so rare and unfathomable?

But here we are 9 months since the diagnosis first hit my ears.

As I recall before, my number one thought and question was, “how will I survive this?” I truly didn’t think I would survive my baby dying as it is a heartbreak so deep, that it was all consuming. However, here I am, and I am doing it: I am surviving.

Survival isn’t easy after your baby dies: it is a daily choice, a daily re-discovery of mourning who I once was before his diagnosis and learning who I am after his death.

Survival is exhausting as I navigate the various emotions of grief while parenting the living child I do have.

Survival brings glimmers of hope as I am reminded that Jesus is holding my baby until I, one day, enter His presence to hold Arthur Henry again myself.

While I am still on this winding road of life after infant loss and I am unsure of what is beyond the horizon, I do know one thing: I will survive, I will make it, and Jesus will be walking alongside me every step of the way.

If you are reading this and you, sadly, got news your baby also has a terminal diagnosis, or your baby was born still, or you were told your baby no longer has a heartbeat, survival feels like such a foreign concept. But though our grief is deep, His grace and love go deeper.

You will make it, one day at a time and one emotion at a time. The beginning stages feel as if everything is towering over you as you make sense of a new reality without your baby, the one you deeply wanted in your arms.

While it may feel isolating as the world continues while you grasp at the little life that left the biggest impact on yours, Jesus is standing in the gap holding you and suffering with you.

Right now, in the beginning, you will wonder, “How am I going to survive this,” but you will.

You will survive, you will learn who you are again, and you will taste and see of the goodness of God one day soon.

While you will never be the woman you once were before your baby died as that version of you didn’t know the tragedy that was about to occur, Jesus makes beauty from the ashes and you will re-discover who you are in new ways.

Your baby will always be with you.

Jesus will always be with you.

And He is holding your baby in heaven for the time being.

Everything may seem blurry right now as you have eyes full of tears, but rest assured that because our God lives, we can too and we will survive through His abounding grace.

One day at a time, one step at a time, and one shaky prayer at a time.

Infant loss still isn’t easy for me and I don’t think it ever will be. My son’s death will never “lessen” nor will it ever become “less harsh.” It will always be the most traumatic thing in my life and the deepest heartbreak in my soul. Even five months later, I am still making sense of the diagnosis, his death, and his burial.

But I know one thing to be most certainly true: God welcomes me no matter what question, thought, or emotion I have.

I have questioned God about all that this road has entailed as I was desperate for answers, and He has always answered me.

I have cried, pleaded, screamed to the sky, and said nothing to the Lord as the pain of infant loss rushed through my veins, and He still never left me.

My mind raced with a million thoughts per second trying to rationalize something that could never even begin to be rationalized, and not once did He let me drown in my sea of thoughts.

His faithfulness and His very presence are evidence that survival is possible after our babies die. His love, His death, and His majesty are what give us the grace to keep going, keep moving, and to finish the race strong.

Because of the hope we have in Jesus, we have the promise that tears will be turned into joy and mourning will turn into dancing.

I know these words may feel like a distant dream, and I am learning to cling to these words myself. Anyway, how does one remain hopeful after their baby dies? This is something I am learning and something I am actively seeking to believe and strive for. However, no matter where you are at in your grief or the timeline of that grief, Jesus will never leave you or abandon you in such turmoil.

So if you are lying in bed, staring at the ceiling wondering, “Will I survive this,” I am here to tell you, YES.

It may not look like it, it may look impossible, and it may be swallowing you up, but you will come out the other side surviving. This doesn’t mean you will forget your baby or that you aren’t grieving, for you always will be, but you will be a new you: one that has may shattered pieces due to grief, but one who is still beautiful.

And one day, you will be reunited with your baby again and that will be a beautiful day.

So take it one step at a time, one moment at a time, one emotion at a time.

Survival doesn’t happen in one day, so there is no need to rush this process or to suppress the grief.

Jesus is with you, even if it doesn’t feel like He is.

Because of Him, I promise, you will survive.

Even though infant loss is so deep and full of gut wrenching pain, you will survive because of Him.

I promise.

It will also mark six months of him dying as well.

As I sat on the couch in my therapist’s office, I let those words roll off my lips as that realization hit me: my baby is dead, time is flying by, and my son’s name is barely mentioned anymore. Other than loss moms checking in on me who understand the weight of their babies dying or our church family so graciously checking in. (We are so blessed with an amazing church), it feels as if Arthur Henry’s existence never happened.

I want to paint a picture for you and ask you a few questions. If your mom died today and no one ever said her name again, would that invoke a rage within your heart? Would it hurt and cut you to your core?

If your mom died today, and people told you that it was “time to move on” because they thought you “should” be over it by then, would that make you feel completely isolated and unheard?

If people thought you were “weird” for posting photos of your mother in memory of her, would that invoke utter disdain in your spirit?

After all, she’s your mother and you want to honor her and remember her, right?

Sadly, this is how it is with infant loss: isolation, taboo, and forgetfulness.

Many loss moms have been “advised” that posting too much about their babies will not help them “move on” or is triggering for others.

Many loss moms have been told they are “too sensitive” about their babies that have died.

Rarely do we hear their names mentioned even though they are still our babies.

Rarely are our babies that have passed away ever included in the “children” count anymore and it’s as if they never existed.

Our babies, that we have lost, are nothing more than a ghost and a “season” to the world and it is the most isolating grief to ever walk.

While other loved ones such as grandparents, parents, and even dogs get more dignity and remembrance after they die, babies that die are only an afterthought.

I have talked with countless loss moms and they have the same issue. “I wish people would say our baby’s name” is what I am told over and over. “It was like they never existed” is what I hear from others. This list can go on and on as the grief goes deeper.

I find himself sitting with my therapist with tears in my eyes and the ache of such grief clouding over me. “If this happened to them, they would understand how horrific it is for someone to never say their child’s name ever again.”

The truth of infant loss is that no one thinks it can happen to them until it does. You might be afraid of your baby dying, but you never truly think your infant, toddler, or child will die until it does happen.

And this is why people don’t remember babies that die. To them, they don’t want to face the reality that this can happen and does happen and to them, ignoring the baby that died somehow makes them think it won’t happen to them. (Out of sight out of mind kind of concept.)

To others, ignoring the life of a baby who died is simply because, “it was a baby and didn’t live much life.” To these people, they view the baby more as a “hard season” than they do a baby or a human being.

But here’s the truth of it all: our dead babies aren’t simply “hard seasons,” they are humans. The phrase, “this too shall pass” does not transpire to our children that are in heaven: because the grief will never pass.

The weight of their death will loom over us forever until we are re-united in eternity.

The day they died will play over in our minds like a broken record until the day we die.

We will remember smells, sights, sounds, and touch of everything about our dead babies.

And time does not heal this wound: it only adds salt to it.

Six months means six months I haven’t held my son.

Six months means six months since I had to say goodbye.

And while six months means six months closer until I see Arthur Henry again, I also have what feels like a lifetime until I see him again.

Another thing about infant loss that hurts, is when loss moms are expressing their grief and someone says, “but you have so much to be grateful for.”

Grief and joy can co-exist, but not every moment of grief needs the reminder of gratitude. Jesus suffers with those who suffer and He, himself, wept at the grave of Lazarus. It does not make a mom “less Christian” if she chooses to lean into the suffering of her grief, nor does it make her “fragile” for coming to terms with those feelings.

We are allowed to grieve our babies.

We are allowed to be angry that they died.

We are allowed to go to the throne of grace with whatever emotion we are feeling and know that God welcomes our broken hearts.

We are allowed to grieve out loud no matter who is uncomfortable.

I am Arthur Henry’s mom and I wil grieve however I need to before the Lord.

Part of that grief is opening up the blinds on how taboo infant loss is and how isolating it is.

Arthur Henry was not a season of life that is “over and done with.”

He was a baby who lived and who is now in heaven.

He isn’t a “okay the terminal pregnancy is over and he is gone now, so we can continue like always” kind of baby. He is a baby who was fearfully and wonderfully made and is still our son.

He was more than a season, for he is a human who deserves to be remembered.

Our babies, though dead, deserve to be celebrated, remembered, and loved even if it makes people uncomfortable. Their death was not their fault, but their lack of remembrance will be our faults if we do not value them.

So here I am: my name is Christina and I am Arthur Henry’s mom.

His heaven day is December 12th, 2025.

He lived for five minutes and was born 3 pounds, 15 oz and 16.5 inches long.

He had a full head of hair even though he had Anencephaly and he has an older brother who he got to meet.

I felt his heartbeat, I felt his kicks, and I felt his life for eight months.

Arthur Henry wasn’t just a “hard season,” but he was and IS my son.

He, like any other life, deserves to be remembered.

And to all the other loss moms, I remember your babies too. You are seen, you are heard, and you are loved.

Infant loss should not be as isolating as it is, nor should babies be forgotten. It is not a coincidence that the flower associated with infant loss are “forget me not” flowers, for a life as precious as a baby, no matter how short the life is, should be remembered.

I will never “get over” or “move on” from the death of my son. His death has fundamentally changed the very facet of my being. Not only did I give birth to him, but I watched him die in front of my eyes and there was nothing I could do to save him.

I will always think about “what could have been” and “what should have been,” and when people ignore and forget the babies that have passed away, it makes it feel like their existence is nothing more than something to easily be erased rather than cherished.

Say their name.

Remember their lives.

Because them dying isn’t their fault, but us forgetting them will be ours.

Until we all see our babies again, let us all say their names as long as we have breath in our lungs.

1. Natural isn’t always the best option.

We always hear it, “natural is always best,” but that isn’t always true. I have learned this in hard ways this past year. I did everything natural and “right” and my baby still didn’t develop a brain and had a terminal condition. I wanted to have a home birth, but my amniotic fluid levels rose to dangerous heights. Because of it, I ended up having an emergency c-section that saved my life, my uterus, and my future of having more children.

And with that, natural isn’t always best because we live in a fallen world. Of course, if sin did not inhabit this world, natural would be the way to go 100% of the time; however, that is not our reality. Modern medicine is good, natural medicine is also good, but both need to be balanced on a tight rope and work together.

I still think home birth is beautiful, but I also think there are major risks that come along with it due to the fall of sin. I also think there is a huge stigma of “If I am crunchy and live by the rule book of crunchy living, my babies will be healthy,” and that is also not true.

I will be having c sections for my future babies, and I am okay with that. Natural isn’t always best and for modern medicine, I am thankful. I would not be here if it weren’t for c-sections and the amazing medical team who saved both my baby and me. (Even though he lived five minutes due to Anencephaly.)

2. We are stronger than we think.

Something that loss moms hear all the time is, “I would never survive if my baby died.” I have been told this countless times, but I am here to break it to you: yes, you would. Would it hurt like hell to have your baby die? Yes. Would it rip your entire life apart and strip your identity away until you feel nothing besides the emptiness of a hallow shell? Yes, but you WILL survive. I survived watching my baby die in front of my eyes as he took his last breaths, and I am still here making it and living.

Because of Jesus, I am here and you would be too. The death of my son has shown me I am a lot stronger than I think I am, so when people say they wouldn’t be able to survive the death of a child, I shake my head.

You would survive because you have no choice.

3. Death doesn’t always happen in old age

During my labor with Arthur Henry, I experienced a life threatening complication and if it wasn’t caught as fast as it was, I would not be here. During labor, I did lose 2 liters of blood due to the high amount of amniotic fluid I had. I had to have an emergency c section due it and 4 blood transfusions.

As I was on the table, I began to feel my hearing going in and out and I could feel the blood loss. This was after Arthur Henry had already been born and died. I wasn’t able to hold him due to how critical I was, so my husband held him as he died. This is something that hurts me to this day because I wanted nothing more than to hold my precious baby before he went to heaven, but I am glad my husband got those five minutes with him. Thankfully, my husband had him right next to my face and I never left my baby boy’s side.

However, there was a moment, after my son had died, that I wondered if I would. I felt the weight of the blood loss and I asked the anesthesiologist if I was going to be okay. After that, my son was taken to be placed in a cuddle cot due to being dead, and I saw blood bags being delivered to the OR and being hooked up to me. This was when the anesthesiologist asked if I wanted to be put to sleep due to seeing all of these scary things.

I said yes.

I woke up and I was thankful to be alive. Arthur Henry was in the cuddle cot wrapped up, and it was in that moment I realized: tomorrow is never promised. It made me tighten my relationship with Jesus and to realize this earth is fleeting. I am thankful to Jesus and my medical team that I am here, but I will never live my life thinking “I have a lifetime to live” because we don’t know when our last day is.

4. God can say No

I saw a different side to God during my pregnancy and death of my son: His power and authority to say “no.”

When I found out that Arthur Henry was going to die, I pleaded and begged for God to save my baby’s life and He didn’t. It wasn’t because God “killed” him and it wasn’t because God, “gave him anencephaly,” it was simply because God had the power to say “no.” Through His “no, I am not going to heal your son on earth,” my faith has grown.

I have learned that God isn’t just a security blanket who does everything “we want,” but He is the Sovereign God who holds all power and authority. My son is healed, but in heaven. My son is alive, but not on earth. My faith has been made strong to know that even when life doesn’t make sense, we serve a God of justice and a God who vindicates us.

5. I will forever share my son’s story, even if it makes people uncomfortable

I have been sharing my son’s story since I found out about the diagnosis. Most people have been so kind and compassionate, but there are those who are cruel. The reason I share is for the moms like me wondering, “will I survive the death of my child” or for the moms who just got a terminal diagnosis. I have had many women message me who found out their baby had anencephaly or another life limiting condition, and I have connected with many loss moms. If I can raise awareness on Anencephaly and share “you will survive infant loss,” it is a job well done.

Arthur Henry has taught me to stand up for what I believe in, and I will always share his big life and story.

6. Nothing matters in the end

Before Arthur Henry’s diagnosis, I was worried about so many little things. How we would re-arrange the nursery, my birth plan, little things around the house, and so forth. This is the most liberating part of this entire year: I learned that 99.9% of my worries didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

I am not going to worry about the little things, but live in the moment. I had 16 weeks with Arthur Henry that were completely clueless to his condition, and I had no idea those would be the “happy weeks” of the pregnancy before the storm clouded in.

"There are years that ask questions and years that answer” is a quote I remember from my high school reading list from the book, “Their Eyes Were Watching God.” I find this quote to be true in my life as 27 was full of “what the hell is happening” questions. But here we are with answers to some of those questions.

I wish I could change how 27 happened, but I can’t change any of it. It is a hard pill to swallow and it is my life. 27 happened, my baby died, and I am grieving. Now here we are onto the next year.

But regardless, I will always share Arthur Henry’s story and be thankful for his life. he has taught me a lot of things about who I am as a mother and a person.

So here’s to year 28 and whatever it may have in store.

On August 12th, my entire world came crashing down when I heard the words, “I am sorry, your baby has Anencephaly and he is incompatible with life.” In that moment, it felt as if the weight of the world was heavy on my shoulders as I sat on my midwife’s couch with tears streaming down my face.

In that moment, I was not able to comprehend the words that were being spoken to me as something so unimaginable never seemed to occur to me. Infant loss was never in the picture in my mind, and yet here it was messing up the perfect picture I had envisioned.

Anencephaly felt like a sloppy wet brush messing up the stokes I had already painted on my canvas. The picture perfect family of two boys under two shattered, destroyed, and wiped away. Tears cascaded the painting, shaky hands were holding the brush, and my tears echoed deeply to the heart of the Lord.

That night when the diagnosis cut through my reality like a cold brutal wind, I found myself unable to sleep. I stayed up hour after hour pacing the living room and kitchen floors. I would open my Bible over and over, I would cry out to God while falling to the floor, and then I would hyperventilate when replaying those words in my mind.

One minute, I thought I would pass away from a heart attack due to the devastating news, another minute I thought life would swallow me up, and then the other, I dissociated thinking, “There is no way this is truly happening.” There were so many emotions in so many ways consuming me entirely.

When the words of Anencephaly were first spoken to me, the first thing my husband told me was, “I know what you are thinking and it wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you did to cause this, Christina. Do not blame yourself,” My husband knew that the first thing I would begin doing is self-inflicting blame onto myself.

And I did.

I wondered, “did I cause my baby to have a terminal diagnosis?” “Did I not eat good enough?” “Was my prenatal not the best?” “Did my morning sickness have something to do this?” “Was I not a good mother to him?”

I spent many hours googling “anencephaly,” “what causes anencephaly,” and “can anencephaly be wrongly diagnosed” on a repetitious cycle. I wanted answers, I wanted to know if I was to blame, and I was wanting to see if there was any way this could be wrong.

I compared earlier ultrasounds by looking at his head, his skull, and so forth to see if I could see anny indication of Anencephaly. My blood work during this pregnancy came back 100% healthy, and the NIPT that tests for most chromosomal abnormalities came back crystal clear. He was labeled a low risk baby boy by many testing, and so this diagnosis was a complete and utter shock to my system.

One of the nights where I could not sleep, I found myself on the floor crying out to the Lord. “Lord, did any of my sins cause my baby to have a terminal diagnosis?” At this point, I was wondering if I was being punished for something or some sin that was deep down that I had yet repented of.

I begged the Lord to answer me as I wept with tears down my face. It was 3 am at this point, the entire world was asleep, and it was just Jesus and I in full vulnerability.

At this point, I had gone outside to get fresh air. The summer air hit my face and made the tears feel cool against my skin. My body was weak, sleep deprived, and weary. I was trying hard to make sense of the most life shattering news, and so I quieted my soul so that I could hear the Lord.

While standing outside, I felt the Lord leading me to open my Bible. I have never felt the Lord more strongly guide me to His word than in that moment, and so I sat on the couch, opened His Word, and shakily flipped through the pages. “Where do I go, Lord” is what I asked.

That was when I landed on John 9:2-3.

When I read the Words of John 9, I began weeping, for John 9:2-3 states,

^““Rabbi,” his disciples asked him, “why was this man born blind? Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sins?”

“It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him. We must quickly carry out the tasks assigned us by the one who sent us. The night is coming, and then no one can work.” John 9:2-3

As I read those words, I knew the Lord was speaking loudly to my heart. He answered me, He held me, and He was in the room ministering to me. It was in that moment when the chains of self-guilt, blame, and condemnation broke in His name. It was not my fault my baby boy was diagnosed with a terminal diagnosis, but rather, the Lord is making plans to use such a tragic diagnosis to bring glory to HIS name.

While I also do not believe the Lord caused Anencephaly to occur to my baby, for Anencephaly was a result of the sinful nature of our world, I do believe it did not catch Him by surprise. Because of His sacrifice and His love for us, He will turn the tears and pain of Anencephaly into joy and bring honor and glory to HIS name.

Anencephaly, while a painful and heartbreaking diagnosis, was not a result of my actions or any “sin” I might have done, for I fall short of His glory everyday. Therefore, I refuse to allow the enemy to use my son’s diagnosis to make me feel like a horrible mother or that I am the result of my baby dying.

Because of Jesus’ grace that surpasses all understanding, none of us are subjected nor bound to condemnation as we are free in Christ. Anencephaly does not have the final say and terminal diagnosis does not have the final verdict, for death has been defeated as the King is alive.

Though the painting in which I had created in my mind is vastly different than the one I had envisioned, Anencephaly and death do not have control of the paintbrush, the Lord does. He is molding tears into beauty and is still creating a masterpiece out of Arthur Henry’s story.

And though Arthur Henry is no longer here, his testimony has just begun. Because of the grace through faith we have in Christ, Arthur Henry STILL SPEAKS and echos the glory of our God even in hardships.

I choose to live in the freedom that comes in Christ Jesus and not blame myself for my baby boy’s death because there was nothing I could have done different to change the outcome.

I choose to take joy that my baby boy is healed and is now living in audacious joy in the arms of our Savior.

I choose to hand over the paintbrush to our Lord and let Him paint the masterpiece while I trust in his Sovereignty, mighty hand, and grace.

Anencephaly and infant loss will never be easy, but rather than letting them being sloppy strokes on the canvas, they now echo the glory of God in ways I did not think were possible, for He has now made those strokes into beautiful aspects that reflect His glory in the bigger scheme of the canvas.

I never thought I would ever find myself writing the words I am about to say, and yet here I am composing the very words that echo the reality of my life:

God and I have something uniquely in common that not many can say they can relate to.

Both God and I watched a son die—a son so deeply loved.

The difference though is that His son defeated the grave and rose again while my son is now being held by him.

While I am a mere sinner and cannot even compare to the resounding glory of our God, I find myself wondering the emotions in which God Himself felt and displayed when He saw His son being betrayed, beaten, mocked, and crucified.

Did God let out a roar throughout all of heaven when His Son took His last breath on that cross?

Did God let tears fall from His eyes as He saw His beloved Son being forced to wear a crown of thrones that pierced his skull while being mocked?

Did God feel utter anguish as His son asked, “Father, why have you forsaken me” while all the sins of the world laid heavy on His shoulders so that redemption could be brought forth to the world?

What did God experience, feel, and articulate to Himself in those very moments—the moments where His son died?

These are the thoughts that go through my mind now when I am alone with my thoughts during the deep trenches of infant loss. I think about our Heavenly Father, the Son of God, the crucifixion, and the sacrifice in which He bore so that we could have life.

When I find myself crying and in deep somber as I ache for my baby boy who is now in His arms, I find rest in knowing that I serve a God who relates to those emotions. Because of His grace and His mercy, He sent His son so that death did not have the final say. Because of His immeasurable love, His son died and rose again so that the casket that holds my baby’s physical body has no power over him.

As the days go by, I have not once questioned God when my son passed away, nor will I do so. Many times, when sorrow and grief strike, the first question that escapes people’s lips is, “God how could you do this?” The truth is, is that He didn’t. The sinful and fallen nature of our world is what causes sickness, grief, sin, and anguish, not His hand.

Instead, it was by His hand, that He gave His son so that we could have hope beyond the grief and sadness. It was by His mercy that we could have new mercies every morning. It was by His son’s sacrifice, that we can look to the heaven’s for renewed strength.

And so while the death of my baby is a heavy cross to bear, I run to the Father and lay down all my burdens, emotions, and grief at His feet because I know He understands. He understands the grief of infant loss, He understands the anguish in watching a child die, and He has new mercies for me as I navigate this new “normal” that life has brought upon me.

God is not distant in our suffering, but He is all the more close to us as we fall to our feet. He is our defender, our protector, and our healer. He seeks to take the broken pieces of our heart and mend them back to together, and by the loss and the resurrection of His Son, no pain that we go through will triumph over us.

And as I navigate infant loss and the grief that arises with such a loss, how could I possibly blame God or turn on Him when He watched His perfect Son be crucified?

How could I ‘throw in the towel” when God watched his Son be beaten by the soldiers to the point of being unrecognizable?

How could I blame God for the death of my baby when His son had to carry the cross he died on so that I could be set free?

How could I turn my cheek on God when He did not turn His cheek on me?

While the loss of Arthur Henry will be the gravest thing to ever occur to me, it pales in comparison to what Jesus—both Son of Man and the Son of God—did for us. Jesus died so that Arthur Henry would not be defined by Anencephaly. God endured the grief of watching His beloved Son suffer so that we could have relationship with Him again. Most importantly, God sent His only beloved Son so that we could have eternal life.

That is the beauty of the gospel—the Word was God, the Word was with God, and the Word became flesh.

I take comfort in knowing that God and I have something in common and it’s the loss of a son. While in no way is Arthur Henry esteemed to the same level as Jesus, who is both God and man, I know that Jesus suffers with me and shows me mercy in this grief.

And it is evident in every little detail that Jesus is all the more present in my time of need ministering to my heart, holding me, and keeping me steadfast.

We serve a merciful God, and the loss of my son shows me how deeply thankful I am for His Son all the more.

So how could I blame Him for my son’s death when He gave his very son so that he could be made alive in His presence?

My name is Christina, but you could also call me Abraham.

Why, you may ask?

Because God asked me to surrender my son before His feet, and I did.

And now, my son is in heaven and I sit at his grave.

On August 12th, I found out that my baby had a fatal birth defect, Anencephaly, and that he was going to die when born. I remember that day as if it was yesterday—sitting in my midwife’s office, hands shaking, and heart racing. She broke the news to me, tears cascaded my face, and I begged God, “please, don’t take my son.”

I remember calling a friend asking if the ultrasounds looked “that bad.” I remember grasping at any hope I could. Maybe the photos were a bad angle, maybe the technology was outdated, and maybe, just maybe, something miscalculated during the ultrasound.

That night, I thought I would pass from a heart attack as my heart raced and the hyperventilation set in. That entire night, I got no sleep, I was on the floor, and I pleaded with Jesus as I yearned from my son’s healing.

I remember the emotions I first had; true panic that was within my bones and the shakiness of my prayers. I remember going to the Word, reading verses of healing, and reading verses of His sovereignty. I remember doing just about everything and yet feeling like I wasn’t doing enough.

That night, felt as if it were the longest nightfall of my life.

The two weeks after were the hardest two weeks of my life as we were waiting for Maternal Fetal Medicine to confirm the diagnosis. Those entire two weeks, I held onto the hope that “the scan was wrong.” However, when I walked into that ultrasound room at MFM and saw my baby had no brain, I knew it was happening.

This was my reality: my baby had a terminal diagnosis and he was going to die.

That day, while I cried looking at the many ultrasounds of Arthur Henry, the Lord asked something of me—something I never thought I would be asked.

He asked me to surrender my son.

I remember crying as I was reading my Bible when I could feel the Lord pulling me to surrender him. This was when the story of Abraham was brought to my heart and I began to read it all over again. Abraham, a man who loved his dear son, was asked to surrender him if he loved God.

And he did even though the Lord stopped him.

Abraham was fully ready to surrender Issac, to give him up to the Lord, and to fully love the Lord in reckless abandon.

Abraham’s love for the Lord was so strong, he was willing to give up the one thing he loved the most—his own child.

So here I was, sitting with tears down my face while yearning for my baby to live, being faced with the same decision that Abraham was faced.

The Lord wanted me to surrender Arthur Henry, my baby boy, and the one thing I wanted more than anything.

He was asking for my surrender.

With a shaky breath and a face full wet with tears, I whispered, “Lord, I love you so much that if you are asking of me to surrender my baby, I surrender him to you. Do as you will even if that means not healing him on this earth.”

Those words escaped my lips as the pages of my Bible became tear-stained. As I spoke those words, I couldn’t help but be weary, for I did not know what would occur next. The future was unknown, my baby’s life was on the line, and my faith was being tested.

That night, I no longer begged for the manifestation of healing over and over like a broken record. Instead, I thanked Him for His sovereignty and chose to trust in His goodness regardless of the outcome.

Because in the end, I knew that He was still a good God even if my baby died. I knew that He was still a holy God even if my baby never cried. I knew that He was still a loving God who loved me deeply even if my baby wasn’t healed, for He withholds no good thing from His children.

That night, I felt the presence of Jesus encompass me in a hug as I knew I was not alone. Jesus did not cause my baby to have Anencephaly nor did He make my baby terminal to “teach me surrender.” Instead, He was weeping with me and mourning with me. This was the truth that made surrendering my son not as hard, for Jesus now holds my baby and wept when my sweet boy entered His arms.

Many people ask “why did my baby die,” and the answer is simple: we live in a fallen world and even babies are susceptible to the sin nature that we all are fallen to.

Arthur Henry was no different. Though he is made in the beautiful image of God and deeply loved, he was not immune to the sin that is in this world, thus why he passed away.

Therefore, when being called to surrender him, I understood that it was not by my might or my will that could save him, but it was only by God’s grace that could save my baby.

By surrendering my baby unto the Lord, I was not only saying that the Lord was worthy of my love even in the harrowing pain I was enduring, but that I was trusting Him with whatever outcome were to happen.

By surrendering my baby unto the Lord, I was telling Him, “Jesus, I am giving you the control, and whatever you decide, I know you are still good.”

By surrendering my baby unto the Lord, I was relinquishing myself from the guilt and control of thinking “I” caused the diagnosis because in the end, it was a freak accident caused by being in a fallen world.

Surrender is not something done because of a test or to “prove a point,” but rather, surrendering is the act of setting yourself free from your own strengths and trusting His. It is finding rest in His embrace as you lay it all down at His feet. It is all about making Him the center while taking yourself out of the center.

This is what I did with my son. Regardless of what happened, me surrendering him was me no longer blaming myself for his condition, no longer desperately striving for a miracle, and no longer depending on my own strengths because I left it in the Lord’s hands.

I no longer was handling the weight of such diagnosis, but God was.

So, I guess you could call me Abraham, for I surrendered my son before His feet. While I never thought I would be in a similar place as Abraham himself, I understand the weight of that decision that was placed in his path.

And yet, even with the same decision, the truth still remains: Jesus is worthy, and I do not regret giving Him my son as I know he is fully healed and completely free.

Therefore, while my name is Christina, my life currently reflects Abraham where I was called to surrender my own child.

I know I will see Arthur Henry again and I know he is in the best place possible, and until I see my baby again in eternity, I will let my light shine for the Lord and share His goodness for all my days.

Arthur Henry’s life was short—too short. As of now, I am still deeply saddened by the fact my baby only lived for five minutes and then died in our arms. When he was born, he never cried, he never made a sound, and he was simply quiet. The only noise that could be heard was the worship music filling the room.

But my baby, though completely silent and completely still, was still alive.

He was looking right up at us when he was born with his beautiful eyes, and then not long after, it was as if we could feel his sweet soul leave his body and be united with the Lord. I remember my husband saying, “I think he’s gone” and he was right—Jesus swept into the room and took our sweet boy home.

Even though Christ could not be physically seen in the hospital room, His presence was felt. Heaven had collided with earth and after we said our goodbyes, our baby boy had gone home. That moment was where the veil between heaven and earth was thin—five minutes of humanity to eternal glory.

Now that it has been a month since Arthur Henry has passed, I have been musing about several thoughts regarding his diagnosis, his passing, and his story.

Many times, we hear some say “if you have enough faith, the Lord will do what you ask” or “ask and you shall receive.” We hear these sayings, and verses, spoken a multitude of times in sermons, videos, and posts.

However, whenever calamity strikes and we don’t get what we “wanted,” we tend to question God and wonder, “Did I have enough faith?”

We ask “But God said to ask anything in my name and He would do it”

The truth: But God also has the authority to say no and none of us are immune to the humanity of sin while being on this earth.

We ask “But God said He would give me the desires of my heart.”

The truth: God delights in giving His children gifts and blessings, but we were never promised a suffering free life.

We ask, “But if we have enough faith, won’t He do it?”

The truth: Sometimes, life just sucks and it isn’t about measurable faith, it’s simply the fact that we live in a sinful existence.

The one thing that I dealt with when my son was diagnosed with Anencephaly was the, “I had full faith, so why wasn’t my son healed” question. Quickly did the Lord answer me, and it was simple. The Lord wept when my son died and there is no doubt about it. The Lord DID heal my son and there is no question about that truth either. While the healing that my son was given was different than what we would have envisioned, my baby boy is completely whole, renewed, and living in joy.

That is the best gift of healing he could ever receive.

However, I feel as if modern day Christianity has made Jesus into a genie in a bottle, and while He loves preforming miracles and showing His beautiful sovereignty, many only call upon His name when they need something from Him. (Harsh, but true.)

Many only focus on the healing, the miracles, the expectations and the things Jesus can do rather than the relationship aspect of following Christ. Many only focus on the streets of gold rather than focusing on the crown of thorns that He wore so that we may be set free. Many only focus on the prosperity rather than the calling to pick up their cross and follow Him.

And the truth is this: it isn’t based on how much faith you have, it’s based on how much sacrifice is in your heart.

Will you still love the Lord your God even if your baby isn’t healed?

Will you still love the Lord your God even if your baby still dies?

Will you still love the Lord your God even if the diagnosis does not change?

Will you still love the Lord your God even when seasons are bad or only when seasons are good?

Because if you only focus on healing and miracles, then your faith isn’t built on the rock that is steadfast, it’s based on the things He can “give” you. Following Jesus means picking up your cross, sacrifice, and understanding that you don’t deserve miracles. You don’t deserve healing, miracles, or goodness; however, because of His bloodshed you can be saved.

Again, does Jesus heal? Yes, without a doubt. However, does it always look the way we want? No.

Jesus is still good even though my baby is dead, and Jesus is worthy of my surrender because I know He is still worthy of my worship.

The reality is simple: the modern day church needs to return to its first love because we have lost the plot when it comes to following Christ. Jesus wants out hearts, our devotion, and our adoration. However, rather than the Modern Day Church preaching about seeking only Jesus, being at the feet of Jesus, pouring our oil onto His feet, and worshiping Him, we preach only on the prosperity, the healing, the miracles, the expectations, and the desires.

I am not saying all churches do this, but I am saying that the modern day church of America does. (Looking at those mega churches—cough, cough)

My faith is strong because I am made strong in Christ. My faith is strong because I know He weeps with me and that He is just as heartbroken over my son’s death as I am. My faith is strong because I know I can trust the Lord regardless of any outcome because in Him, I have everything I could ever ask for.

Do I miss my baby everyday? Oh, most definitely.

Is faith hard? Yes, but that’s why we walk it out with trembling hands.

Jesus is worthy of my devotion and my praise even if things do not go according to plan. He is good even when life isn’t and I am not immune to the humanity of this world. One day, every tear will be wiped away, and that is the hope of tomorrow. While I weep now, I know that in eternity I will have joy forevermore.

Jesus is my first love and He is worthy of my surrender regardless of the circumstance because I know that in Him, I am fulfilled, deeply loved, deeply known, and deeply cherished. He did NOT cause my baby to die and my baby is safe with him.

I will see Arthur Henry again because of the goodness of His grace and that will be a beautiful day. And while I am here on this earth, I will testify to the goodness of God and always share Arthur Henry’s story.

Jesus is worthy of my surrender even in the most hardest seasons, and I will lift up my voice and declare His goodness even when life is not.

However, I thought I would curate intentions for this year along with some goals. With Arthur Henry passing in December, I think it’s refreshing and a good way to cope with grief to create a list of intentions and goals for a soft start to 2026.

2026 intentions:

• Embrace the seasons instead of resisting them

• Live a bold, beautiful, vibrant life

• Embrace being a mom of two under two (even if one is in heaven. He was here, he was ALIVE, and he was, and is, still my baby.)

• Create, create, create

2026 goals:

• Add more color to my house one paint can at a time.

• Read 100 books

• Memorize one bible verse and mediate on it a week

• Take barre classes (as a former ballerina, I like the concept of barre)

• Grow my love of needlepoint

• Embrace the fine arts

• Grow my social media and my platform of infant loss awareness

• Journal more with daily gratitudes, what the Lord is teaching me, and junk journaling

• Host girls night with friends

• Focus on self-care (pelvic floor therapy, weekly chiropractic visits, etc)

• Plan and host a celebration of Arthur Henry’s first birthday that I know he would have loved and appreciated

If I had to be honest, I am having a hard time picturing 2026 and how we are even in a new year. Every fiber of my being wants to go back to 2025 and hold my baby again. Arthur Henry was here in 2025 and he was alive in 2025, and so a major part of me doesn’t want the calendar to be a year that he isn’t here. However, the Lord has grace that abounds even past these feelings, and I know he has good things in store even in the midst of grief.

So here is to a slow start to 2026–not a fast one or an audacious start. Here is to slow, intentional, steadfast starts where even with shaky hands, we trust that the Lord’s mercies are new every morning.

Infant loss is one of the trickiest and stickiest type of griefs to ever walk the face of the planet. While grief of any kind is hard, this type of grief is unnatural, foreign, and unlike any other. The idea of a baby dying is one that doesn’t grace our minds, for babies shouldn’t die. Therefore, when we do experience the death of a baby, knowing what to say or do can be difficult.

And as a loss mom who lost her baby to a devastating diagnosis of Ancencephaly where he lived only five minutes, I understand the empathy and the heart in those around me. However, if you are actively wanting to know ways to show love and support to a loss mom, I have decided to conduct a list of ways.

1. Ask her about her baby

2. Say her baby’s sweet name

3. Send her pretty flowers

4. Send her snacks

5. Send her chocolate (because honestly, chocolate makes everything a little better)

6. Make her a nourishing meal

7. Send her a self-care package (doesn’t have to be over the top!)

8. Send her a cute card or letter

9. Send her a gift either for her or one that reminds her of her baby

10. Send her bible verses

11. Send her encouraging messages even if they don’t respond right away

12. Tell her you love her and that you are praying for her

13. Ask her how she is taking care of herself

14. Ask her if she needs help with any chores

15. Ask her how you can be a help for her

16. Ask if she wants company

17. Tell her that you are taking her out to coffee or somewhere simple so she gets out of the house

18. Ask her if her basic needs are met

19. Invite her to things even if she doesn’t have the bandwidth to go

20. Recommend some binge worthy shows (because a good escape is healthy every now and then)

21. Listen to her when she is venting or talking about something regarding her baby

22. Remember specific dates regarding her baby

23. Validate her and reassure her that she isn’t alone in her grief

24. Simply check in on her

25. Send her encouraging or funny reels (if she’s on social media)

26. Give her hugs when words seem to be absent

27. Show her grace

28. Ask her if she’s had any water that day

29. Show interest in the things she is talking about

30. Ask her many questions about her baby

31. Go on a walk with her

32. Give her a phone call

33. Be present even if that means sitting in silence with her

34. Randomly tell her if something you saw or thought of reminded you of her baby

35. Look at photos of her baby because that’s one of the only things she has

36. Compliment her even on the little things

37. Tell her she’s a good mom and that her baby is blessed to have her as a mama

38. Give her encouragement for getting out and putting one foot in front of the other

39. Allow her to vent even about the not so great parts because grief isn’t linear

40. Send her things to help her get back into her favorite hobbies (doesn’t have to be over the top either)

41. Be willing to try something new with her so she gets her mind off grief for a bit

42. Send her photos from pages of books you are reading if you think it’ll encourage her

43. Send her a devotional that reminds her of His promise

44. Send her a doordash gift card

45. Send her a coffee or a Starbucks gift card (because honestly, coffee also makes things a little better)

46. Go to an infant loss support group with her if she’s afraid of going on her own

47. Help her find resources if she asks

48. Remind her of His promises

49. Ask her what she thinks her baby is doing in heaven in that exact moment

50. Always remind her of how loved she is

These are FIFTY ways to show support and love to a loss mom and while this list seems long, it gives a plethora of ideas that one can do to show encouragement to a mom who is experiencing indescribable grief. You do not have to do each one or view it as a checklist, for simply having the heart to want to weep with a fellow sister in Christ who is going through grief is the most important part.

It is not about getting it right, saying the right thing, or doing the right thing, it is about the heart behind the gesture. Simply loving and praying for a loss mom is the most beautiful and pure way to love on her. And of course, saying her baby’s name, talking about her baby, and showing interest in her baby is also one of the best ways to show support.

Because that was her baby who she longs for every second of the day. Not one moment goes by where she isn’t thinking about her baby, so I promise, mentioning her baby is one way to light up her face.

I love it when people say Arthur Henry’s name, ask about Arthur Henry, want to know his story, and simple just want to talk about him. It makes me warm, it makes me happy, and it makes me feel as if he is still remembered and seen.

So talk about their babies, I promise you, they feel the same exact way.

We are now in a new year, and yet, I have absolutely no emotion other than numbness as it feels as if I left my baby boy behind in 2025. While I know this is not true, he was alive during 2025 and I carried him for 34 weeks before he decided to arrive on December 12th.

And so that is where the sad emotions evoke a strong presence. With that being said, I thought I would finally compose my thoughts on his celebration of life because truthfully speaking, it was the most honoring service put together for Arthur Henry.

When I look back at photos of this day, to which I am so grateful that sweet friends took photos of, I think of how proud I am to be Arthur Henry’s mom. God could have chosen anyone to be Arthur Henry’s mother, and yet He hand picked me.

And that makes me proud—proud to be this sweet boy’s mama and proud to have such a testimony in my baby. A testimony of strength, endurance, and being wonderfully made even in the face of adversity.

When I first woke up to get ready for the celebration of life, I had no idea how to feel or even compose my thoughts. Getting ready felt monotonous as I told myself over and over, “you can do this” as the thought of closing the casket on my baby loomed in my mind.

That was the hardest part of the entire service—closing the casket and having to say goodbye to Arthur Henry for the final time until eternity.

Truth be told, the reality of the situation felt like hitting a brick wall when we had to finally close his casket. This was the moment where the heaviness sunk it’s teeth into my heart and reared it’s ugly head—my baby was dead, I would never hold him again on this earth, and that was my last time laying my eyes on him physically in this lifetime.

To say I collapsed is an understatement and it took everything in me to close the casket. It was not by my strength, it was by the Lord’s alone, for if it were up to my abilities, that casket would have never of closed.

Because let’s be honest, how is a mother supposed to close the casket on her own baby when he should be alive and healthy?

However, I prayed deeply in my spirit for the Lord to overwhelm me with His peace and to shower me with His understanding. For the entire pregnancy, labor, birth, and delivery, I trusted that the Lord was right beside me, ministering to me, weeping with me, and navigating this entire storm with me.

He was the one placing the wind in the sails.

He was the one guiding the path.

He was the one soothing the deep ache in my heart that poured out in agony.

And so when I went up to give the eulogy for my sweet Arthur Henry, He did just that—showered me with His presence, peace, and ability to be steadfast.

For his entire eulogy, I felt only peace and adoration for Arthur Henry. In that moment, I had never been more proud to be a mother than I was there. I was speaking of the goodness of our God while also sharing the beauty of my son. While the reality is that my baby’s casket was not even a few feet in front of me, the love I had for his life and his testimony abounded deeper than the grave, but through eternity.

But let’s make no mistake, while the peace of Christ surpasses all understanding, the deep ache in which I feel is unlike any other pain I have ever felt. I have cried, and still cry, over my baby, I held him in my arms for three and a half days, and I did all that I could to make what memories I could with him to last a lifetime.

We are not immune to suffering and that is due to the crushing blow of sin and the humanity in which we endure. The phases of grief are ones we cannot escape, and each come at their appointed time. Running from them and avoiding them does no good, but handling them as they arrive while trusting that the Lord will sustain us through each emotion is far more healthier than avoidance.

But again, a resounding emotion comes to the surface and that is simple: I am proud to be Arthur Henry’s mom and his life is a celebration.

Even as I wept when he passed away after five minutes, he was worth celebrating.

Even as we had to navigate holding him and making memories with him alongside a cuddle cot, he was still a precious baby I was proud of.

Even as we had to say goodbye and give him to the funeral home, I knew I still carried him in my heart.

Most importantly, even though I had to close that casket, give a eulogy at one of the hardest funerals to ever go to, and watch him be buried, I am still forever proud to be Arthur Henry’s mom.

I could say that over and over again without getting exhausted.

I am proud to be Arthur Henry’s mom, and I am glad that God chose me for this sweet boy.

While navigating life after devastating loss is proving to be hard, I am choosing to see His goodness and cherish the beauty in the story Arthur Henry has. While I have good days and most definitely bad days, Arthur Henry was, and still is, worth it.

I would do it all over again—go through diagnosing day, the pregnancy, the labor, the delivery, and the three and a half days of snuggles just to hold him and love on him.

There has never been a moment or a doubt in my mind and I only feel joy and love when looking back on every single detail regarding Arthur Henry.

I will never stop saying his name.

I will never stop sharing his story.

And this is only the beginning.

Arthur Henry, I love you and I am proud to be YOUR mom.

That, while heartbreaking, is a prayer that was answered—I just wanted him born alive so I could say “I love you, Arthur Henry.”

The grief of losing Arthur Henry has been immense, and there is no getting around that. The death of a baby is unimaginable, indescribable, and like a huge weight constantly on my shoulders as I realize my baby is dead.

When the funeral home came to pick Arthur Henry up, it was one the worst moments of my life. I remember the knock on the door, the sweet nurse saying, “They are here, but take your time,” and placing him in the car seat they had.

I had no idea how I was supposed to let him go in that moment, and it took every fiber in me to say “goodbye.”

I stalled them in the elevator as I followed my baby as far as I could—to the basement of the hospital where they typically pick up deceased individuals. I grasped the little car seat, caressed his sweet face, and told him “I love you” once last time and then let him go.

The doors to that elevator closed….and my baby was gone.

That ride home was, quite literally, hell. I had evidence of having a baby—I was wearing a postpartum diaper myself, having after birth contractions, and stretch marks to prove it. However, I had no newborn in the backseat, no baby to hold anymore, and no baby to nurse.

I remember thinking to myself, “how am I supposed to live life without my baby?” It felt like an impossible task before me knowing my baby died before my eyes and I had to say goodbye.

How on earth am I supposed to put one foot in front of the other when the only thing I want is for time to stop and for my baby to be back in my arms?

The truth is, is that infant loss cuts deeper than any knife ever could. It is the most cruel reality that shows us how nasty and disgusting the sin in this world is.

But I want to emphasize something—something that this world fails to understand.

My baby passing away from Anencephaly was not apart of God’s original plan. In fact, Jesus wept when my son died because if He wept at the grave of Lazarus, then I know He wept at the moment my baby took his last breath.

God did not cause my baby to have anencephaly, and while it did not catch our God by surprise, it was never apart of His original plan. God does not cause sin, death, heartbreak, or pain, but He does walk alongside us when it happens. To simply put the theology into this matter, my baby died because of the humanity of the world and the sin nature that we all possess.

Arthur Henry was not immune, thus why this horrible tragedy happened.

The Lord did not cause him to die to “teach me a lesson.” However, the Lord DOES use the hardships that we go through to teach us to trust in His sovereignty during things such as infant loss.

What caused Arthur Henry to die was sin—not God, not the gospel, and not some “test.” It was simply sin, humanity, and the brutality of this fallen world.

A lot of times, people say “This was apart of God’s plan,” and I know that comes from a good place. While I do agree that the things that God does with the broken pieces of my heart are apart of His greater plan of restoration, showing His glory, and healing, I do not believe the Lord “caused” Anencephaly because the Lord does not ordain sin, instead He ordains holiness and perfection. This is why He sent His son to die for us, so that sin could be defeated and His holiness restore us to His original plan.

This very truth is why I can put one foot in front of the other, because we serve a Savior who WEEPS when we weep, who SUFFERS when I we suffer, and who is always in intercession over us at the right hand of the Father.

My son is in the throne room right now seeing the train of His robe filling the temple, seeing the splendors of heaven, and never knowing sin. My baby boy is healed, perfected, and whole, which was another prayer answered.

Our God took back the narrative of Anencephaly and showed us that though sin occurs, Arthur Henry was still made in the beautiful image of God. He was a beautiful life that had value, purpose, and testimony.

And though he lived only a few precious moments, Arthur Henry’s testimony is still ALIVE, filled with God’s glory, and evident in every little thing.

I am proud to be Arthur Henry’s mom—now and forever.

I will always share my baby boy’s testimony because it is one of the strongest I have ever witnessed.

I will always say his name and showcase the goodness of God even in the midst of my profound grief.

Because we serve a loving Father who suffers with us and who sent His only son to die for US so that we may have victory over death.

That is the truth of the gospel.

Death has not won and it never will. My son is alive and well, and my love for him will echo that truth with every breath that I have.

Arthur Henry has the greatest reward that we are all still longing to see—he has seen the glory of the Lord.

That brings me peace as a mother.

I love you Arthur Henry and one day when it is my turn to cross into eternity, I will hold you again and never put you down.

I feel extremely guilty when I have happiness about Christmas because part of me thinks I can’t be happy because my baby is dying.

I know, that sounds counterintuitive, but when you are grief stricken and losing your child, it makes sense. How could I possibly be excited about anything when my very baby is dying as we speak—only to live a few moments or hours outside of the womb?

I talked to a friend about this recently because I was feeling conflicted on these feelings. However, the best way to put it—my eldest son deserves a fun, happy, and beautiful Christmas, and my baby would want me to celebrate Christmas too. I bet he would have loved Christmas and he probably would have said, “Mommy, put up all the shiny lights for me.”

However, while I am excited about Christmas decorations, music, hallmark movies, hot cocoa, and the lights, there is one thing I don’t want—gifts.

I have no wants this Christmas because unless you can gift me Arthur Henry alive and healthy, then I don’t want anything.

I just want my baby to live.

Forget about the sweaters, skincare, trinkets, and wellness things—I just want Arthur Henry to be alive.

This holiday season is going to be the hardest on me because not only are my parents in heaven, but I also am going to have to say goodbye to my son who will join them. This reality is a crushing blow to my heart and I want nothing more than the bleeding of my heart to stop.

So how could I possibly want anything this Christmas when my heart just wants one thing—my baby not to die?

I cannot explain the pain of infant loss other than it feels like a thousand knives are constantly stabbing your heart over and over again. For the rest of my life, I will question why I had to say goodbye to my baby—it is only natural to question these things. I don’t believe the Lord gets upset when we question things that happen because David questioned God a multitude of times in the Psalms.

However, what He does mind is when we blame God for things, and I know that He is weeping with me over Arthur Henry’s anencephaly and that it has not gone unnoticed by the heart of the Lord.

Therefore, Arthur Henry is at the top of this year’s wish list because I want him here, I want him alive, and I want him to be apart of the family in the physical. No matter how many years pass after his passing, I will still yearn for him to be here. No matter how many children we have, I will still yearn for the baby I lost because I want all my children alive and healthy.

When I am making Christmas cookies with my kids, we will also include Arthur Henry in some way.

When I am watching Christmas movies with my kids, we will also include Arthur Henry in some way.

When I buy Christmas gifts for my kids, I will also include Arthur Henry in some way.

And truth be told, I just might buy him a small gift every single year because he is still my baby and he will not be forgotten in our home.

One of my biggest fears in infant loss is that people will forget Arthur Henry. After his celebration of life, I fear that people will move on and will forget that he was a human who existed—my baby I carried, birthed, and had to say goodbye to in my arms.

I am afraid his name will fade into the back of people’s minds and memories. I am afraid that when people think of Arthur Henry, they’ll gloss over him as an after thought.

I cannot help but think these things because he is my baby—my son.

I will always say his name, I will always share of him, and I will never grow tired of talking about him or his story. Anyone who knows me or comes into contact with me will know about Arthur Henry—that I will make sure of.

So forget Christmas lists this year, I just want my baby to live.

All of the other stuff doesn’t matter this year if I am going to lose my baby.

But if you had to ask me what I want for Christmas, it’s that you remember Arthur Henry. When you make Christmas cookies, make one for him in his honor, I bet he would love Christmas cookies.

My name is Christina, I have a beautiful 14 month old, pregnant with a baby with a terminal diagnosis, and who will take his last breaths on my chest. This is my life.

Each morning, I process my reality before getting up and being the mom I need to be to my 14 month old. Every morning, I am like a broken record to the Lord, “Lord, save my baby, don’t let him die, and please let the doctors be wrong.”

Every morning, when in my quiet time, I try to fathom the reality of how my baby is here, kicking me, has a strong heartbeat, will be born alive, and then will not be here anymore.

He will pass through this life and go straight to heaven in the blink of an eye—passing our reality in what seems like glimmers of seconds.

Nothing can prepare you for this kind of reality because truthfully speaking, no one should lose their baby or have to bury their baby. This nightmare is something that has no textbook, no rule book on how to act or grieve, and no guidebook on how to navigate “Child Loss 101.” The reality is that it sucks, it hurts, and child loss is something so unimaginable until it happens to you.

We all know child loss is a reality, but we pray it passes over us. We either know of people who have lost infants or we have heard of people who have lost their babies before.

Until….. it is you having to tell the doctors that you’ll be denying life support for your baby when they are born because there isn’t anything they can do. Until it is you having to talk to the comfort cate team about what things will look like once he is born. Until it is you picking out your baby’s casket and picking where he will be buried. You are the one skirting a tight dance between keeping it together and falling apart all while anticipating the death of your baby.

It is a nightmare that you cannot wake up from no matter how hard you pinch yourself or shake yourself “awake.”

My second son’s name is Arthur Henry Sinclair, and I am proud to be his mom. He was diagnosed with Anencephaly on August 12th at a simple routine ultrasound at my home birth midwife’s office. That day, part of me died. I don’t think I will ever fully be the girl I once was before finding out my baby will die. That day, part of the innocence that I had was stripped away by the gruesome reality of having to bury my baby.

I believe I can be fully grateful to the Lord for the many blessings He has given us, and will give us in the future, and still have a deep ache for what should have been. I will always ache for Arthur Henry, always wish he was here, always wonder what life would be like with him running around the house.

He won’t have a first birthday, his feet will never touch the floor, and I will never see the kind of man he will grow up to be. Would he have been a minster for the Lord? Would he have been a doctor, a lawyer, a writer, a businessman? We will never know because his life will pass as fast as lightening.

And honestly, there isn’t much more to say about child loss—it simply hurts beyond belief.

But the grace of Jesus is that we have hope to continue pressing forward. We are walking through the valley, we are crying, and weeping all while rejoicing with the truth of the gospel. We are choosing to continue with this pregnancy because God is sovereign through it all. We are choosing to seek the goodness of the Lord and His majesty. Because of Christ, we CAN do this and we will do this—no matter how messy, how tearful, and how ugly it is, we can DO this.

This chapter in our life serves a greater purpose of giving God glory and I will always believe that after every harrowing storm and every dark season, there is a rainbow of HIS promise.

So right now, we are doing this…..one day at a time, one step at a time, and one prayer at a time because we are not doing this alone and we do NOT walk alone.

Whether it was through the stress of college and student teaching, the stress of losing my parents, or through various seasons of my life—I have journals upon journals of prayers, insights, and words written on paper.

Just like my mom did.

In my house on our bookshelf, I have all of my mother’s poems that she wrote to the Lord—all dated from the 70’s-80’s. My loving of writing and a fondness of words comes from her as she had a way with poetry, metaphors, and displaying the intricate thoughts of her brain.

And I am glad that such a beautiful gift has been passed down to me, for without it, I would be clueless in processing the seasons of life that I have gone through.

Now, here I am in the hardest season of my life—trying to make sense of it as I navigate the unknown—filling more pages, writing more words, healing, and grieving out loud.

When thinking about this season of my life, one phrase continuously comes to my mind, “Between two gardens.”

Right now we live in the broken world that was separated from the garden of Eden—a world where sin, sickness, evil, sadness, tears, and chaos ensue. However, because of Christ and His profound love for us, he has given us an eternal hope of being reconciled with Him; reconciled in the eternal garden of heaven that is perfected and where no sin exists.

While we walk the painful walk of carrying a pregnancy with the terminal diagnosis of Anencephaly, what keeps me afloat is that eternal hope of the perfected garden. I will see my son again—perfected and in a glorified body. This is my hope, this is the joy of the gospel, this is the beauty of Christ.

That while I may suffer in between gardens, I can rest assured that because of the suffering of Christ, my suffering in this in between is temporary.

This suffering is severe—there is nothing easy about it. Daily do I find myself lamenting as David did as he hid in the caves begging for his life as Saul sought after him. Psalms has become a pivotal book for me as it details suffering, anguish, questioning God, and asking numerous questions.

Yet even in David’s questioning, suffering, and sorrow, not once did God turn His face from Him, and I believe He will not turn His face from me either.

While we are walking this journey, we have hope—an eternal hope in which we pass through this garden and enter into His where every tear shed is wiped and every weary question is answered.

Because of Christ, Anencephaly has no power.

Because of Christ, my son shall be healed and perfected.

Because of Christ, the perfected garden of His presence will be my reward.

That truth makes all the suffering in between these two gardens worth enduring.

If you want to follow along this journey of navigating Anencephaly, sign up to get emails whenever a new post is published!

With love,

Christina x

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