And so the journey continues...

Yet again I have received complaints about a lack of blogging.

The truth is I don't want to write when I don't have anything to say.

I could have talked about brilliant Christmas family services, with a great presentation from the kids.

Or great Christmas parties and Christmas dinners our Church has hosted, including for local sheltered housing and the senior citizen's forum. Or even the 110 toddlers who came with associated adults to our toddler group party. Yes, that is right, 110 toddlers.

Or even doing a double preach at our two Carol Services.

But I didn't.

Because I didn't want to.

There was only one thing I wanted to talk about.

But I couldn't.

So I didn't.

But now I can.

Say hello to someone who has taken up quite a bit of my thought life and my prayer life recently.

As regular readers will know, it has not all been plain sailing.

God is good. All the time.

He was good in the dark times.

He is good in the good times.

Because times don't make God, but God is good all the time.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART TEN: Eternity

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.

This is the last post in this series.

Pain does not have to lead to doubt.

The very fact we feel the injustice of pain is proof we are searching to a higher moral authority. As a Christian, not only do I know a higher moral authority to appeal to is out there, I know His name.

Not only do I know His name, I know His heart for me.

Search hard enough, and pain leads us to worship.

Because our pain has been defeated.

Forever.

Pain leads us to worship because if we let it, pain leads us to Jesus.

What we believed is true, is proved true.

So let's worship Jesus, who endured pain that we may forever be free from it.

Whatever the future, it is in Him we trust.

These three videos will take about 15 minutes of your time. Make yourself a drink. Sit down. And hear some truth, hear some honesty about the pain, and let your eyes be lifted up to Jesus.

A song full of truth and looking to future redemption


A song written from the graveside of a lost child; the section from about 3 minutes in is simply oustanding.


The song that has been an unswerving source of comfort in the dark days, a precious gift from God to us.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART NINE: At the Cross

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


As we start to look forward now I am mindful that walking in grace is a daily decision. Lots of our friends are pregnant and / or have small children. I think we know 8 people who are pregnant right now, and lots of our friends already have one or two.

Everything that makes our loss sad is what makes their blessing good and we are determined to enjoy, honour and celebrate the good with them. But there is a cost, and we need to walk in grace to allow us to do it.

God’s grace is sufficient for all of us. Somehow, by some great mystery the light shines in the darkness and we rejoice with them as they mourn with us. We will make it work.

I said at the start I cannot rely on the hope of having a healthy family in the future to give me meaning now, or make this all ok. I need to find peace now, and I have.

When the darkness envelopes you, you see the light. It draws you. It energises you. It comforts you. It guides you.

The last few weeks have shown me the sheer helplessness of man. It has shown me the corruption and brokenness in creation. Processes that were meant to work do not work, and we don’t have an answer and death is the consequence.

The darkness can be bleak.

And yet into that darkness came a man who lived as a carpenter in Nazareth. A teacher who taught with authority and love and grace. A man who was falsely accused, endured an unfair trial, and was brutally tortured and executed by an occupying power.

The sky went dark.

3 days later.

The light comes. The tomb is empty. Something has broken forth.

A new start.

A new day.

This death, this brokenness, this pain and darkness that we see all around us in creation, and if we are honest, inside ourselves has been overcome by the One who conquers death itself.

In doing so not only does He conquer death as a force that stands against humanity, but He conquers the death that stands within each of us. The brokenness. The godlessness. The mistakes and the shame and the things we wished we never did.

So as He walks to the cross Jesus takes all the darkness of our hearts, all the mistakes and the stuff we have done wrong and they go with Him, to be dealt with once and for all.

But it does not stop there.

The redemption does not finish with my heart.

It extends, and keeps extending forever.

For one day all of creation will be made new, all of it made right.

All the things that now don’t work that should, all the processes that stall at seven weeks and the scans that come back empty, will be made new.

The cross was not just for me and Esther, it was for our baby.

The baby we never knew, He does.

In the darkness, hopelessness and lostness of today comes a future hope, won for us by a Saviour who has walked our road, and felt our pain.

The cries we cry out now, are the cries all creation cries out, and they will come to fruition.

Jesus will come again and then it will be made new and things will be as they were meant to be and these tears will cease because our loving God will make it right.

That is our promise. That is our hope. That is our destiny.

I don’t know what will happen next. I don’t know we will have a family.

I don’t know it will all fall into place and I don’t know if I will ever have a child to take to the game but I do know that a loving God gave everything for me and for the pain I face.

The light shines in the darkness, just like His disciple said it would.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART EIGHT: Mizpah

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


It was raining in Keswick. It almost always does. The Cumbrian mountains suck the moisture out of the sea air and deposit it over hordes of holiday makers desperate for a bit of sunshine.

As we walked through the side streets we came across a jewellers. We had pondered the idea of getting a bit of jewellery to remember baby. The first time someone suggested it we were a bit dismissive because we didn’t want to just have to buy something to feel ok. We did not want to succumb to a weird retail therapy.

Several weeks after we lost the baby Esther expressed that she was struggling to move on, not wanting to leave the baby behind. We did not just want to turn the page of our lives and leave this all behind. The baby was no longer with us. Suddenly it dawned on us that something like a piece of jewellery would be "with us", and might free us to move on without fear of forgetting.

The word “Mizpah” is used as a Hebrew blessing. It is found in Genesis 31 verse 49:

“It was also called Mizpah, because he said, "May the LORD keep watch between you and me when we are away from each other.”

Mizpah jewellery is given between people who travel long distances, or emigrate. “The Lord watch over you, while we are apart” is a lovely blessing to give to people as they step on the plane. For Diaspora Jews this became a known blessing.

It is also used when death occurs, and is often seen inscribed on headstones. It sees the separation of death and faces it head on. Separation has happened. I can no longer “watch over” you. However, I know one who does. He is the Lord. “Mizpah” May He watch over you.

We had the ring engraved with the word “Mizpah”.

We will not “watch over” our baby. But we know the One who does, and the One who will. That is not a vague hope or a distant blessing: it is a reality, and it is the desire of our heart.

Now as we go about our daily lives Esther carries a reminder. Not a reminder of death. Not a reminder of sadness. Although it does cause us to reflect on both. No, the ring reminds us that our hope and our strength and the future of our baby is in the hands of our loving Father who watches over baby while we are apart.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART SEVEN: Finding God in it

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


(Some of this has already been blogged, apologies for duplication)

It is amazing how many bible stories involve an encounter with God on a mountain. I look at Moses. I think of Elijah. I imagine the scene of the transfiguration. There does seem to be something special about mountains. Maybe it is something to do with the sheer isolation of the mountain. Somewhere private. Somewhere between you and God.

I had been training since January 1st for the Bread Trust “Tough guy” challenge. The aim was all 15 3000ft mountains in Snowdonia in under 24 hours. 32 miles, 12,300 feet, and the most exposed ridge walk outside of the highlands. I had been training hard, doing a 9.5 mile circuit in South Shropshire fairly often. Five a side football on Mondays, circuit training on Tuesdays or Thursdays or both, then off to the hills at the weekend. When time allowed we had a couple of trips to Snowdonia just to acclimatise.


I was also supposed to do the “Three Peak” challenge, the highest peaks in Wales, England and Scotland in 24 hours. That was 3 weeks before the Bread challenge and would give me a good indicator as to how I was doing.

That was the day we had to go to hospital to undergo “medical management” to help sort out the pregnancy. That basically means a few pills and an 8 hour wait. It was a grim day. There is nothing that prepares you for that. You want it to be “over” in terms of the risk of infection of a failed pregnancy and yet you never want it to end.

You want another scan, the one that says all the others were a mistake and a little heart is beating. We didn’t get that. We got small private room off the ward and some very caring nurses.

So I had issues in my head. The opportunity to do a big challenge I had been training for six months to do had been taken away by the worst possible reason. It was dire.

Fast forward 3 weeks and the Bread challenge is upon me, I have unfinished business. Unfinished business with my own heart. Unfinished business with the mountains. And unfinished business with God.

An email came around the week before from Neal saying “It is a good idea to name each peak after a friend or loved one to help count them down and add significance”. Great idea!

I named one peak.

Number 15.

Baby.

Our epic adventure started at 3.15am with the alarm clock, and by 3.55am we were walking in horrendous weather up Crib Goch, an exposed ridge on the ascent of Snowdon which was the first peak of the challenge. The weather was simply horrendous. The peaks slowly started to tick by. In the rain and the mist and the friendship and the teamwork I could only really think of baby. The hours went by, peak 7, peak 8, getting ever closer.

So it was that sometime in the evening in the mist of the Carneddau range a tired and wet Dave approached the summit of Foel Fras, the fifteenth peak with my jubilant team. We were all delighted. High fives and photos finished, a moment of silence. We had done it.


I held the summit cairn in both hands, the wet rock gleaming in the light of my head torch. This was the moment.

“Lord, I give my baby to you. I release them into your care. I want to say that I love you. I will follow you. And I ask you to help me to continue to live for you”

I did not get closure. I did not want closure. I got peace.

Closure is an end. Closure is a door slammed shut. Closure is the finish of a journey.

I did not want that.

This is the start of our journey, not the end, and I wanted peace. I wanted a peace that says yes this is wrong, yes this is not what it was meant to be, yes this hurts like hell and no there is not an answer, except in the loving arms of a loving God who draws all things to himself through His son Jesus.

In rain like that you do not have to hide your tears.

As we trudged on in the endless descent down to the minibus and support waiting to pick us up I knew something had changed.

Something deep inside. The part of me that died when baby died. The bit of me that could not go on my great adventure because we had to go to hospital instead. The bit of me that still walks in my minds eye up Oteley road to watch the game with baby, is at peace.

Peace with God, and maybe even at peace with myself. He is loving. He is strong. Baby is in His care, and so are we.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART SIX: Honouring the whole journey

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


Quite a few people suggested doing something special like buying a piece of jewellery or something like that to remember the baby.

Others suggested naming the baby as a way of mourning and remembering. I don’t have any peace with that one, but if it works for you, fill your boots.

One thing people suggest is that you make a memory box. Keeping hold of things that you have to remind you of the baby. When Esther first suggested this my response was less than helpful. It was too much too soon. I didn’t want a box, I wanted our baby.

Our family dog was called Celyn. One of those Heinz 57 variety dogs you get from the rescue centre that seem to live about 20 years. She finally went to meet her maker (not a theological point) and the vet provided us with her ashes back in a little box. That box has sat in the main window of our lounge for nearly 10 years now, in the place she always sat, on guard.

I didn’t want that type of box.

We decided to go shopping for a box to store our precious memories. The pregnancy test. The scans.

As we looked around, I was drawn to the stationery section, and the amazing array of “baby” stationery. Baby picture frames. Baby photo albums. Baby memory boxes.

“I am not sure we are looking for something like that babe” said Esther, with her hand on my arm as I longingly held this blue baby memory box.

It clicked.

“Actually we are” I replied.

“I don’t want a coffin box. I don’t want some strange little urn that sits on the side. I want us to start our baby box. This is the start of our journey. Our family has begun. We don’t have the privilege of being able to raise this child, but I am a father and you are a mother and this is the start of our journey. And when we have our next child I want to put their photos in here too because it is all part of our journey.”

There are not many times I get it right.

I can be an insensitive oaf at the best of times.

But as I stood there with my eyes welling up and Esther nestling her head into my shoulder I knew somehow we had hit it. We had found our way. We were going to preserve the painful memory of our lost child as a valid part of our joyous adventure in parenthood.

This baby can take its rightful place in our journey, and the future joys we hope and pray for can build our memory box into the fullness of the journey God has for us.

If we are to be faithful with what we have we need to honour the whole of the journey, and that starts now, and so our memory box begins.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART FIVE: We need you

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


We have some wonderful family and friends and lots of people in our Church who care for us.

Some of the responses we have had have been really overwhelming.

Two of our closest friends came around the night we found out. They were there with us, they cried with us, and they were available to practically help us. I don't think I have known someone cry over my grief. It meant so much. They were there with us, and there for us.

A friend in our midweek had a simple message, “I am really sorry to hear your news. You must know it is not your fault, it is nothing you have done”. Yep, I’ll take that thanks. I needed to hear that. I needed to know we had not done anything wrong.

A family member texted us, “I am sorry to hear your news. I will be praying for you to be able to start a family soon”. I like that. Some faith. Causing us to look to the One who makes things work out for good and asking God for what we really desire on our behalf. Yes, I will take that.

Another one was people who have been through it themselves. “I know”, often followed by tears. That is enough. Just to know someone else feels it, someone else knows. You can see it in their face. Even if it happened 30 years ago, you can see it in their eyes, they know. You can almost touch it, it matters.

An answerphone message from my friend was simple, brutal honesty. “Mate, we were gutted to hear your news. I don’t know what to say. I have rung you but I don’t know what to say and I don’t think I will have anything I can say but I want you to know that I had rung because I care and if you guys want to come over sometime we would love to see you”

Yeah, I will take that.

The situation is dark. I don’t know what is going on and I am not looking to you for an answer.

I just want to know that you care.

I just want to know that you are there.

I just want to know you will stand with us in faith and pray for a successful pregnancy in the future.

I just want to know that it wasn’t our fault.

I want you to cry with us because it is so sad, pray with us because God can act for such good, and call us even when you don’t know what to say.

When couples around us, including some very close friends went through this in the past I just had no idea. I hate to think the sorts of things I said. Now on this side of the fence the way I will approach this in the future will be very, very different.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART FOUR: The death of hope

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


In August 2007 Shrewsbury Town Football Club opened a brand new stadium, on the outskirts of the town. 10,000 seats, everything shiny and up to date, it was great. I went to the game with my brother and my Dad. Two generations of Matthias’s walking up Oteley Road from our parental home to watch our team in our town.


I thought then, “One day I will be Dad, and he’ll be granddad”. I had this picture in my mind’s eye, not clearly a boy or a girl, but just a little hand, in mine, a little blue shirt, walking up through the gates of the complex and towards the family stand. That would be my delight, to take my child to the game.

The scan had shown a failed pregnancy and we sat at home, numb.

I thought I might feel more angry but I didn’t, just numb.

Disbelief.

It is not meant to be this way.

We had been trying for a little while and there was great excitement when we found out that we were pregnant. I love the idea of Esther being a mother, and am delighted that together we have the desire to raise children.

But here I am, and what really hurts right now, in some crazy way that I cannot pin down properly, is that I will never take this child to the game. I will never buy them their first shirt. I will never take them to the refreshment stand and buy them a sausage roll (as long as they promise not to tell Mummy).

All those things, the quirky bits that Dad was to me and I want to be to my kid, won’t happen.

So what do I do with that? Where do I go with that hope?

Proverbs 12:13 tells me that:

“ 12 Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.”

Yep, that is exactly right, heart sick. That feeling in the pit of your stomach. That emptiness. Heart sick. But what is the longing? What is the longing that can be fulfilled?

As yet, it cannot be another baby. If the hope deferred is making my heart sick, then I can’t rely on that same future hope to fix it. That puts me at the mercy of moods and tests and issues. My longing needs to be after something solid. Something robust. Something unchanging. Something pure. Yes, I want a family, yes I want another baby, but my longing to be fulfilled, a tree of life within me, that has to be after God right?

As I reach out to Him and experience his presence. As I open my heart to His words of instruction. As I worship, bare, humble, before my maker. As I long for Him. That is it isn’t it? That is the longing that He will satisfy, the water of life, the bread of life, my hunger, my thirst, my longing fulfilled.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART THREE: Why?

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


When difficulty or darkness descends on us we often ask the question “why”?

One comfort for me as a believer in a loving saving God is that I have someone to actually ask the question to! I don’t have to reach out and shout from a hilltop into an untouchable nothingness that drives creation, I can ask Father.

But you know what, I don’t want to. I just don’t want to. That is not because I am angry at God and so am refusing to talk to Him. It is not because I already have an answer. It is not because I have a neat draw in my various “ologies” that team up to make my overall view of God and man which I can open and present myself with a systemised and clear reason “why”.

I don’t. And I am not sure that there is one. I don’t even think that is the right question.

“Why” may perhaps let me know some sort of purpose, or greater good, for which God allowed this to happen.

“Why” may show me the depth of the curse of the fall on creation bringing sin and death and darkness like this. “Why” may, with hindsight give us another child, maybe a family, which we can appreciate, bring up and nurture with such a depth of understanding of just how important it is because of knowing what it is like to lose a baby.

But I am not asking “why”: because I don’t have time. I need an answer sooner. I need to find something now. I can’t wait for hindsight or history or healthy babies to validate our experiences.

I need some light.

So I change the question.

That is right, I have changed the question.

“Why” can wait.

I cannot prove its answer now. I want some rock. I want something to lean on. I want something that this storm of life may rage against but which holds me, secures me, envelopes me. I cannot afford to throw a bit of vague hope that in 20 years time I may look back and think it was OK because God did some good stuff between now and then. I need it now.

My question is not “Why did this happen”, but rather “Who is the answer?” As I reach out in the darkness I am not searching for a worldview, for an insight into the future, for a hope that my circumstances may be ok sometime. I am reaching out for God.

I am reaching out for the one made all things.

For the one who knows what happens in a womb.

For the one who knows unborn children.

For what I cannot know, I need to reach out to the One who does.

Again the Psalmist exorts me… Psalm 62 11-12a
“11 One thing God has spoken,
two things have I heard:
that you, O God, are strong
12 and that you, O Lord, are loving.”

God is loving. That means His heart for me, for Esther, and for our baby, is love.

Love.

The warm arms of love, close, holding. The embrace of a Father.

God is love, He is close, He is holding. There is a grace resting upon us for what we face. Not a clear answer, but a clear Father.

God is strong. A fortress. A rock. Unmoveable. Unshakeable. Not just distant strength like a castle on the horizon, but a source of strength, a place of strength, a fortress. For me, for us, for baby.

This world tells us what is “loving”, but often, if we are honest, what is held up as “loving” is also a bit soft, a bit vulnerable, a bit gooey. A double chocolate muffin experience which turns sickly sweet. Yet God is strong. Loving but strong, firm, secure, robust, to be trusted.

The world tells us what is “strong”, but often what is strong is dangerous, distant, a threat. It can overpower, overwhelm, dominate. But God is loving. The king of kings, the lord of lords, the supreme ruler and authority in the universe, is loving, tender, gentle.

I need someone loving who is secure. I need someone strong who is compassionate.

God is loving, God is strong. My question is not “Why”, but “Who” and a glimmer of light starts to shine.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART TWO: The Scan

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.


The gravel crunched under our feet as we trudged back to the car. Neither of us knew what to say. The birds in the trees seemed to sing on joyfully regardless, as though unaware of what was unfolding. We got into the car and sat there for a moment, in silence. This was not how it was meant to be. This was not what today was supposed to look like. You know how it feels when you are winded? When some impact causes a loss of breath and you just don’t have any strength for a moment. It felt like my soul was winded. The sudden impact, crushing the air out of my being.

Other friends had been for scans and we had been able to share the joy of the miracle of new life with them.

The scan is the big moment.

You can go public now.

The baby is developing well, the family celebrate, people wish you well, the scan goes up on Facebook and the rest of world “likes” it. It is real, we are having a baby.

Our scan was a painful, dreadful moment.

There was evidence of pregnancy but no longer of life.

Esther sat clutching the small black and white image, gently thumbing the glossy paper as though cherishing a frail loved one. There are not words for a moment like that. The sun was shining, the wind whistled through the branches of the trees, the smell of pollen from the Shropshire fields in the summer sun, and yet a great darkness had fallen.

This being, this bundle of hopes and aspirations and dreams and joyful moments of the last few weeks had gone. What ever it had been it was no longer. Game over.

“Weeping may remain for a night” asserts the psalmist. We are still in the night, and there has been much weeping. If life is a journey, and this is part of our journey, this feels like a very dark and oppressive route. So it is here, in the night, that we want to reach out and find God, to touch the heart of the loving Father, to know Him and be known by Him, to see the light.

FACING MISCARRIAGE: PART ONE: Why tell our story?

I wrote this series of posts a couple of months ago. Now things are settled we want to share them, as an encouragement to others who may face similar experiences.

Life is journey, so they say. We often look back at our journey, with context and hindsight from what has happened. We analyse our experiences in the light of history.

I think the danger of waiting until time and future events vindicate and elucidate an experience is that sometimes you can get a more and more detached view.

The seminar on “singleness” at the conference is led by a man married for 35 years.

A father of 4.

A grandfather of 6.

Sure, they have insight, yes they have experience, of course their walk with God and discipleship has born fruit and they are worth listening to. But what it actually feels like, that empathy, the ability to actually reach out and touch what it feels like for someone in that situation, seems a bit distant. A lot of water has passed under the bridge, and it loses its rawness.

The book on Church planting is written by the pastor with a Church of 10,000 and massive international ministry. Of course it is a good story and God has used them and that is great but what if my Church doesn’t break the 10,000 barrier? What if it is more like 10, and one of them is me and I want to leave? Who writes that story? Who publishes that book?

Who sits there in the dark days, without growth and success and people and profile to make them worth listening to and just spills their guts about who they are and how they met with God in the darkness? I know some have, and this another attempt.

This is for people who don’t have it altogether. For those walking a stage in their journey which is difficult and who are clinging onto God by their finger nails. You see, we are not through it yet. I cannot point you to 25 years of post event happiness and an international ministry that proves I dealt with it well.

We are still in the darkness. That is why I want to share this now.

So it is here, in the evening gloom, bruised but not broken, hurting yet hoping, that we reach out for God.