All I remember from the hospital that night is the ultrasound. That was the saddest moment of my life. All of the dreams we had of the future came crashing down. The death of a baby that isn't born isn't just a death of a life that hasn't taken its first breath of air; it's the death of every dream you have of the future. Each dream had to be thrown away and rebuilt. I was still clinging to hope at this point.
I sat in the corner of the semi-lit room. The floor was cold. The metal on my chair was cold. Everything seemed cold. Lindsay laid on her back. The ultrasound was out of her view, so she looked at me for confirmation that they might still be alive. At times I would just weep, more inside than out because I felt that I had to be strong. For about an hour the ultrasound technician took photos of the babies. She measured their heads, their hearts, everything. I kept praying in my dark, cold corner that God would heal them. I wanted to see them start moving. I wanted to see the heartbeats on the monitor. I wanted them to live so badly. I told God, "I will tell the whole world of this miracle if you would just give life back to them." They didn't move. Lindsay and I left that room broken and filled with more sadness than either of us have ever encountered in our lives.
It’s stories like this that can define our prayer life if we let them. We all have our tragic stories of disappointment and unanswered prayer. Some probably more heartbreaking than mine. These are all part of life.
