Miscarriage is a cruel betrayal of the body.
It’s a double-crossing rat.
It turns safe houses into torture chambers, mothers into hearses, wombs into tombs.
There is no earthly swindle so low as when that which is designed to keep and shield and warm and nurture turns on the most vulnerable of our loves.
There is no hour so long as when a mother watches her own flesh fail her own child.
There is no wail so loud.
No groan so deep.
No despair so close.
As that of a childless mother.
Except for one.
There is the wail from the cross. There is the groan and despair of our LORD as He took our wretched failings and miscarriages upon Himself and endured the ultimate horror, separation from the Father, so that we might never have to.
You see, He died to save us from the worst. He wailed and groaned and despaired and died that we might never be alone in our grief, that we might never have to live apart from Him, that we might have hope even in the face of death.
And He freely offers up his own crucified, risen flesh for us today in the bread and in the wine that we might be kept and shielded and warmed and nurtured in Him unto eternal life.
Go, mother. Go to the altar in your grief and be nurtured by Him who understands.
“My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me,
Love to the loveless shown
That they might lovely be.
Oh, who am I
That for my sake
My Lord should take Frail flesh and die?” (LSB 430: 1)