Miscarriage and the Unexpected Path to Mercy

“Is Zion coming back home?” My son’s question caught me off guard. Zion the name we’d given our unborn child was a name that now echoed more in our dreams than in our home. I paused, not ready to answer. Instead, I drifted back into the memory of dreams unfulfilled.

What would it have been like to watch you grow, Zion? To hear your laugh echoing in the halls or see your small legs pedal the old red tricycle down the street? I imagined you singing along to hymns with the rest of us, tricking guests with your voice, so similar to your siblings. But the tricycle rides ended in my imagination. I blinked, and you were gone again.

Our miscarriage left no visible trace, but it opened up a well of grief we hadn’t known existed. Yet in that grief, we met Someone not at the end of our tunnel, but in the tunnel, as light itself. We met Jesus there. And in His presence, we discovered that miscarriage is not the end it’s an invitation to draw near.

Draw Near to the Throne

Hebrews 4:16 gently urges us “Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” That “time of need” can look a lot like a cold hospital room, an aching heart, or a bedroom filled with silence. But whether loud or quiet, Christ welcomes us in.

1. Draw Near in Freedom

Miscarriage can leave you numb or raging or silent. Jesus welcomes it all.

The throne of God is not a cold bench in a courtroom. It’s a mercy seat, where we are invited not as trembling beggars but as adopted children. Galatians 5:1 says, “For freedom Christ has set us free.” That includes the freedom to cry, to question, to grieve.

The Bible isn’t sanitized of sorrow. Hannah wept so hard in prayer that Eli thought she was drunk (1 Samuel 1:12–16). David poured out raw questions in his psalms. Even Jesus wept and cried out, “Why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). So many faithful saints expressed what we’re afraid to say.

And maybe heaven’s golden bowls (Revelation 5:8) aren’t filled with poetic words, but with the imperfect groans of grieving saints including those who’ve wept over children they never got to hold.

2. Draw Near for Mercy

After our miscarriage, I battled guilt. Was it my fault? Did I not grieve “correctly”? Would others misunderstand if we rejoiced too soon or mourned too long?

But God never asked me to sort all that out before coming to Him. Mercy isn’t a reward for the clean-hearted. It’s healing for the broken. “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love” (Psalm 103:8). Hebrews 4:16 reminds us we can receive mercy, even when we don't know what we need mercy for.

God’s mercy doesn’t wait for perfect prayers. It meets us in our questions and offers relief. It unburdens us from trying to untangle sorrow from sin and simply holds us in the storm.

3. Draw Near for Grace to Help

Some nights I sat at the edge of our bed, unable to form a single word. I didn’t cry. I didn’t pray. I simply sat and felt the nudge Sing.

So I sang. And in that moment, I encountered grace not the kind that answers every question, but the kind that sustains. The grace that says, “Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). The grace that doesn’t erase sorrow but transforms it.

This grace doesn’t just meet you in your miscarriage; it walks with you beyond it through joy, new pregnancies, or long seasons of waiting. And sometimes, grace surprises us in unexpected ways, like the arms of our community holding us up, or the innocent wisdom of a child.

Our daughter once wrote a story where Jesus took all the children including Zion to heaven. There, Zion hugged his siblings and laughed with joy. Jesus told them they’d all be together forever. She didn’t weep, but she dreamed. Her grief looked different from ours. And it was just as real.

Great Sorrow, Greater Mercy

Miscarriage is profoundly personal, often hidden. Yet it leaves a deep mark. Studies estimate that 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage. And while so many suffer quietly, the comfort of Christ is offered loudly in Scripture. He tracks our tears (Psalm 56:8). He bore our griefs (Isaiah 53:4). He knows what it is to be acquainted with sorrow.

God doesn’t promise we’ll always understand our pain, but He does promise His presence through it. And sometimes, the greatest grace is not having answers but knowing the One who holds them all.

Elisabeth Elliot once wrote, “Of one thing I am perfectly sure: God’s story never ends with ashes.” Miscarriage may mark the end of a pregnancy, but not the end of hope. Not the end of life. And certainly not the end of God’s plans.

A Final Word for Zion

“No, buddy, Zion is not coming back home,” I whispered as I hugged my son, fresh grief pressing in. “But we will go home to him one day.”

And that is the mercy miscarriage led us to not just the healing of our hearts, but the hope of heaven, where every tear will be wiped away. Where the babies we never held will run into our arms. Where the King will make all things new.

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