April 25
I don’t think we talk enough about the kind of faith that feels like a fight.
The kind that doesn’t come with peace or certainty, but with trembling hands and tear-stained pillows.
The kind that shows up when prayers go unanswered—or worse, when they feel ignored.
This wasn’t the faith I was raised on.
Not the kind I heard about in testimonies that ended with miracles and clean resolutions.
This was the kind of faith that made me question everything—
even God.
I kept praying. But my prayers were no longer poetic.
They were short. Desperate. Honest.
“God, please.”
“God, this hurts.”
“God, are You even listening?”
Some days I whispered them.
Some days I screamed them inside my head while sitting in the NICU chair, pretending to be composed.
Some days… I said nothing at all.
Because how do you pray when you’ve already surrendered everything—and it still isn’t enough?
The thing is, I wasn’t angry. I was heartbroken.
I had done the “right” things.
Trusted. Obeyed. Prayed. Hoped.
And yet here we were, tangled in wires, breathing through machines, navigating numbers I didn’t understand and outcomes I couldn’t control.
My faith wasn’t loud anymore. It wasn’t confident.
It wasn’t the kind you write sermons about.
It was quiet. Bruised.
But it was still there.
Then something happened.
Family came to see her.
One by one, they walked in—shoulders slumped, hands full of love and nervous energy.
They stood over her isolette, whispering prayers and holding back tears.
Some couldn’t say anything. Some couldn’t stop saying everything.
And then—there was him.
Her big brother.
He was going to get to meet her for the first time.
The one who had asked questions, who had waited patiently through all the confusion.
The one who had prayed and hoped and held space for her long before she arrived.
There was something redemptive in that moment.
A big brother about to meet his baby sister.
Not the way we’d planned—but still… here.
And for the first time in days, I felt my chest lift just a little.
Like maybe God was still here.
Maybe not in the way I wanted—but in the way I needed.
The doctors came in shortly after, and—for once—they gave us reassuring news.
She was stable. Still critical, yes, but holding.
I stepped out of the room to visit with family.
Her dad stepped in to take my place at her bedside.
And then, just minutes later—three minutes, to be exact—
everything changed.
She flatlined.
I didn’t see it happen. I wasn’t standing there.
But I heard the urgency.
I felt the shift.
I knew—without anyone needing to say a word.
The comfort we’d just been given evaporated in an instant.
The hope I had just started to cling to was snatched away before I could even breathe it in.
Just like that, the hope we were finally beginning to breathe in was pulled from our lungs.
They tried to resuscitate her.
They moved fast—steady hands, calm urgency, calling out numbers, pushing medicine.
To us, it felt like hours.
But it was only minutes.
After ten minutes, her dad and I looked at each other, and somehow—we knew.
We made the call no parent should ever have to make.
The call to stop.
The room quieted.
And for the first time, they placed her in my arms.
She still had breath in her lungs.
Her heart was still beating.
And in that holy, unthinkable moment—I held her.
For the first time.
And for the last.
I had carried her for months.
Sat by her side for days.
Whispered to her through glass.
Prayed over her through wires.
But now… I held her against my chest.
Warm and weightless.
Beautiful and slipping.
I cried silent tears because I didn’t know what else to do.
I was too confused to scream.
Too shocked to speak.
Too hollow to feel anything all at once.
I just held her.
And let her go.
I sat with her for hours after.
Just the two of us.
Then family joined.
I stared at her face. Her fingers. Her peaceful, perfect stillness.
I memorized the details I hadn’t been allowed to touch before.
And I kept asking: Why?
Why did this happen to us?
Why did we end up here?
Why give her to us at all… just to take her back?
There were no answers. Only silence.
But I stayed. Because even in death—I couldn’t walk away from her.
The Story Between Storms 
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