How a miscarriage forced me to be brutally honest with God

By Kerrah E. Fabacher 

I will never forget it. My doctor couldn’t find the heartbeat. 

We had already heard our baby’s heartbeat four weeks before this appointment, but all my doctor could hear this time was silence. A silence that felt suffocating. 

I had a lump in my throat that kept me silent, too. I saw my baby -- my first baby -- for the last time that day. My sweet, still, silent baby. I had to say goodbye before I could even say hello. 

The D & C, the procedure to “remove the baby” was scheduled. I was too far along to try to “pass the baby” on my own. It would be too traumatic, so we had to do the D & C. 

I went in with my husband to an outpatient surgery center near New Orleans. I was hungry, scared, and brokenhearted.  They prepared me for the procedure, and when they gave me the anesthesia, I felt a wave of panic. 

By the time I would wake up, my baby would no longer be a part of me. She would be gone forever. 

Numbness set in after I cried for a while. A numbness that kept me from feeling anything at all. 

Emotionally. I felt dead. 

The brokenness that followed 

When I finally started to feel, the anger and grief and sadness and confusion came in waves, the kind of waves that hurricanes bring in. Strong and overpowering. 

I spent the week after the D & C at home, mainly in my bed, alone. I did not go to any graduate school classes, and I did not go to work. I could not be around anyone. Some beautiful souls brought me food and flowers, but I had nothing to give in return. 

I had barely any emotional or physical energy to pray, but when I did, my prayers were shallow and inauthentic. I said things I felt I was supposed to say, such as: 

“God, you are in control. I trust you.”

“God, maybe it was not the right time.”

“God, you are still good.”

I didn’t feel like I believed any of the things that I had been saying to Him, though. If I sat still enough to look long and hard at the condition of my heart, I knew I was actually angry with God. I was confused. Full of doubt and fear. 

My thoughts were more like this: 

“Where are you, God? I don’t feel you near me.”

“Why did you take my baby from me?”

“What did I do to deserve this pain?”

“Do you even love me?”

The truth that helped me remember 

I remember sitting on the old carpeted floor of my bedroom with tears streaming down my face, and I looked over at my worn Bible and knew I needed to tell Him. I had to tell Him how I felt. 

Something in me knew that if I did not tell God how I was honestly feeling, what I was thinking, my relationship with Him would be stuck in a constant state of dishonesty. 

I would be wearing a mask in the presence of a God who already knew me, and that would never allow Him full access to my heart to be able to start healing me. 

I remembered Jesus crying out with tears over and over to God His Father in prayer. 

I decided that if these things that I knew about prayer were true, then it must be OK for me to tell God how I felt. 

An honest prayer

Early one morning, unable to sleep, I knew I needed to deal with what was going on in my heart. I decided to lay aside my mask of what I thought a good church girl was supposed to be. I did not want to be gentle or nice or faith-filled at that moment. I did not want to say things to God that I did not mean. 

I just wanted to be honest. So I told Him.

I got up and went into our little office so I would not wake up my husband. I sat on an old blue futon that I hated. I took a deep breath, and reached for a pen. I got my journal and started writing as fast as I could. Anything that came to mind came out on that paper. 

“God, where are you?“

“Why would you give her life, a heartbeat, and then take it?” 

“I am so angry with you, God. I don’t even know if I believe in you right now.” 

“Will I ever be a mom?”

“Do you even love me?”   

I was so vulnerable and honest, more than I had ever been in my life. When I was finished, I slammed the journal shut and threw it across the room. And my tears broke free. I cried on that blue futon until exhaustion set in.

I just kept begging for God to hear me.

An answered prayer

After lying on that futon for a while, my eyes tired of the tears, I felt a peace flood over me. It was like I could hear God say to me, “It’s OK to be angry and confused. I never left you, and I never will. I am so sorry your baby is not with you. I am weeping with you. I promise she is here with me, safe. She did not get to know you, but she knows me. And you will be a mother again.” 

I still felt broken and would continue to grieve, but I walked out of that room with hope. I trusted in a God that welcomed my cries and anger and doubt, a God that was compassionate and kind. 

That authenticity, that vulnerability and honesty, developed such a deep connection from my heart to God’s. By spilling it all on his feet, I allowed myself to be fully known. It was one of the bravest decisions I had ever made. 

At that moment, I realized it was OK for me to tell God how I felt. He wanted me to be honest, and He  listened and spoke truth back into my broken heart, a truth that healed me. 

What I know is that God’s presence is safe for us to share our doubts and fears, and our sadness. These prayers are just as important as the prayers of praise and adoration and thanksgiving I learned growing up. 

Prayers of anger are just as holy. God hears and he sees. He can handle what we have to say. 

And I know now, God loves me and he loves my baby. He never stopped.

Kerrah Fabacher is a writer, a coach’s wife, a mom and champion of  three little diva girls (and three in heaven), a bookworm, and a Gilmore Girls ride-or-die. She is a southern girl who could sit on a back porch looking over the water all day (in her dream world).  Her days are spent as a Licensed Professional Counselor right outside of New Orleans, Louisiana. Her passion is to see women take off their masks and live authentically before God, self, and others so that they can experience connection and know the truth that can set them free. She writes on her blog at www.kerrahfabacher.com. Connect with Kerrah at info@kerrahfabacher.com or on Instagram @kerrahfabacher.