It was when I bent to lay the body of our infant son in that earthy hole that I first knew Beauty in the valley.

Before that doctor’s appointment – the one where he’d looked at the floor instead of my eyes and the screen was perfectly still – I’d been largely untouched by pain, loss, anything even close to hard. Didn’t know the valley existed really. O, maybe for other people, but never for me.

Because when you grow up in an upper-middle class neighborhood in the Midwest with a mom and a dad and a few siblings, going to church each Sunday, living in a community where most everyone has known you from birth, and folks don’t talk much about their problems, even when they have them – then scraped knees and being told it’s your bedtime is about as painful as it gets.

And so that initial introduction to Beauty was so very unexpected, came out of nowhere really, that week I decided to leave Nathan in Iowa, working on his graduate studies, and drive myself back to Nebraska for a quick visit to my parents’ house.

We’d been married 5 years then and I’d wanted a baby from the very beginning. He’d wanted to wait, until that last Christmas when his gift to me has been a subscription to Parents magazine with the note, something like, “Are you ready to start trying?” Those 2 little lines showed up on that stick-in-a-box before Easter that next year. I took 3 tests just to be sure, saw the doctor right away, swallowed vitamins, didn’t eat tuna, wore elastic pants, heard the heartbeat, bought a book of baby names.

My time at Mom and Dad’s, right there overlooking the Platte River, was so very welcome, a reprieve from the mundane. Until I woke up that morning and thought back over last night’s sleep. How long had it been since I felt those butterflies in my belly, the gentle flutters that had now ceased to feel strange? Unknown. What to do? Talk to Mom, who had always been the one to bring comfort, reassurance.

Over breakfast that morning, I mentioned it casually, that I hadn’t felt baby in awhile. A brief word of reassurance came from her lips and a suggestion to call the Iowa doctor. I did, expecting to be told that I was just an over-reacting first-time mama. Instead, words came quick, hard, direct. Get in to see another doctor in Nebraska immediately. And if I couldn’t get in right away, drive to the nearest ER. Now.

And so, Mom and I, we got in her car and she drove me there, to her old doctor’s office, right there at the hospital where I was born 25 years earlier. I called Nathan on the way, to let him know. He said all the right things and we hung up. It was still morning.

Once we’d taken the elevator up a few floors and sat in the sterile chairs, waiting our turn, the nurse called us back, into the examination room. When the doctor came in and I lifted my shirt, and he put the Doppler on my belly and moved it around and around and around, we heard only empty fuzz. Still, the valley never crossed my mind; still, unaware of its very existence.

Next on to the ultrasound room. On my back now, with cold goo rubbed all over my womb, watching the screen, and the ultrasound tech’s face. Nothing. No words, no expression, no movement. But I felt the tech step towards the door, pushing it open slightly so the doctor could enter.

The words came then, the “I’m sorry” and the “There’s no heartbeat.” And after a moment from my lips, “Is it a boy or a girl?” And from his, “A boy.” And after awhile later from mine, “I need to tell Nathan.” And from his, “You can call from my office.” And I dialed the phone with trembling hands, heard his hello, and couldn’t think how to form the words, to tell him, this way, over the phone. How to tell a father in one sentence that he has a son, but that his son has died before he even had a chance to take his first breath, to see the light of day?

My tears came before the words, prepared him, I think, somehow, to hear the news that our firstborn had left my womb for heaven, that I was headed up to the maternity floor as soon as we got off the phone here, that the pitocin would be turned on in an attempt to force my body to let go of the child in my womb, to usher him into the world, cold and still. That he needed to get in the car and come. Come hold his firstborn son. Hold him, and say his first hello and his last goodbye.

My body didn’t want to let him go. It was more than 24 hours after I was hooked up to the machines and meds when the whoosh of water and blood came and, along with it, our son. I looked around for him after he came, almost frantic to see him, to touch him. Had to ask the nurses where he was. Saw them carry him out of the room in a red plastic container, with words saying they’d bring him right back, saying they needed to clean him up first.

And when he came back, wrapped in a white blanket with a pink and blue striped hat on his head, I held my baby for the first time. Our son. One pound, one ounce. Nine and a half inches long, with his ten fingers and ten toes, his closed eyes, round nose, perfect little lips. We gave him the first name Silas, a companion of the apostle Paul and leader in the early church. And the middle name Immanuel – God with us.

The nurse said we could have as much time with him as we wanted, but what does that even mean, when his body needed to be prepared to lay in the box, to be lowered into the hole in the earth. And so, with tears coursing down our cheeks and onto the hospital bed sheets and onto his tiny frame, we gave cuddles and kisses, ran our fingers over his silky eyelashes, tried to memorize his face. And then I opened up my hands wide, palms upturned, raised to the heavens. And we gave him back. Because what else is there to do?

Under that tent, out there in the cemetery, on that mild day at the end of September, we tucked our Silas into a box with a soft yellow blanket, along with a photo of Nathan and me, looking so young and happy, untouched by pain; and the letters we’d written to him. We’d read our letters to each other the night before, and held each other, and cried and cried until everything in us was empty and tired and dry.

Nathan had written:

‘Silas,

It is strange even now for me to see your name. For so long your mom and I have been talking about you, preparing for you, and loving you. To see your name written on paper is a sign to the rest of the world that you did come and live on this Earth as a real person. I am so proud to see your name and to know that we brought you into this life, even if it was for only a short time.

You have been (and will continue to be) a source of happiness, joy, and love in our lives. From the moment we found out that we were going to be parents we were excited. When you began to move inside of your mom we knew that your arrival was closer and we were thrilled. When you came we were so proud to be your parents, so proud that all we could do was cry. To us you are perfect and whole in every way.

As I sit here now and watch your mommy cry I wish that you could meet her. She is a wonderful person. She is smart, beautiful, fun, and strong. She has been an amazing model of strength and character through these last few days. I want you to know how much we desperately wanted to be able to tell you these things as you grew up.

Silas, you are and will always be our firstborn son. We love you so much it hurts. We both are so sad that we can’t take you home, watch you grow up, and get to know what a great person you would have been. You have taught me so much about life and what a precious gift it is. You have taught me to cherish the people that are closest to you because you never know when they will be gone. You have taught me to fight and to be strong in the face of impossible circumstances. And you have taught me that the Giver of Life is far greater and wiser than I could ever understand.

Thank you, Silas, for being such a great teacher and perfect son. You will be loved forever and we cannot wait until the day when we get to meet you in heaven. Thank you for giving us the time you did and for giving us joy.

Rest in peace, my sweet son, and until that Great Day when we meet again, know that we love you with all that we have. Goodbye.

Love,
Dad”

And the words on my heart, my page:

“My dear baby Silas,

I want you to know how thankful I am that God chose me to be your mama, and how very proud I am to have you for my son. You are a beautiful, precious boy and, even though we only had a short time together on this earth, you brought your daddy and me so much joy. I am so thankful that you lived inside of me for 23 weeks, that you hung on for so long so that I could do my best to give you a good birth, even if I couldn’t give you life.

I know that you tried your best to grow and develop into a healthy baby; all of the doctors and nurses were surprised at how big and strong you’d grown. I want you to know too how your daddy and I tried our best to give you a happy, healthy life. But, even with all of us giving our best, God knew better. You are so beautiful and precious to Him that He couldn’t wait to hold you, and I know that you are in the hands of a perfect Father; He had to give up His firstborn son too. Your Aunt Abby was right when she told me several times that you were resting. And I have peace, knowing that you are resting in God’s arms.

I want you to know all of the things I’ll remember about you: how excited I was when I told your daddy that you were inside me, how amazing it was to hear your heartbeat for the first time, how special it was to feel you moving inside my tummy, how happy I was to find out that you’re a boy, how glad I was to be given the chance to go through labor and give birth to you, how peaceful and snuggly you looked when I held you in the arms, how much love I felt when I saw your perfect eyes, nose, lips, and tongue, how miraculous it was to hold your little hands, and count your 10 perfect fingers and your 10 perfect toes. I’m so thankful for all of these precious memories that you gave to your daddy and me; I wouldn’t trade you for the world.

I want you to know, Silas, that I’ve loved you and I’ve wanted you since I can remember. I will always be your mommy. And I will never forget you. You couldn’t have been more perfect in my eyes.

All my love forever,
Your mama”

After the hole he’d left in us, in our world, was filled back up with dirt that day, after the pastor had spoken the words, and the friends had stood around us and sung loudly, and their tears too had fallen, after the earth was packed down with a spade, and the place marked with a stone, we walked away. And I knew death and darkness and sorrow and grief then. But I also knew Beauty.

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