By Kat Silverglate © 2025

I missed more than a few steps in how I carried her.

Not because I didn’t care. More because I didn’t know how to carry. The frame of reference for this kind of crushing hadn’t been shipped to my frame shop. If it had, I most certainly would’ve rejected the package on the assumption that buyers would be put off by the weight.

When she shared the news of her miscarriage, I’d never been pregnant or known anybody intimately who’d walked that dark mile. So, while I most definitely felt sadness for my sister and grieved with her, weeks later when she was still struggling, my heart was a skoosh less patient. My compassion had a tincture less umph. A bit like a platform attendant at the end of her shift “encouraging” passengers to hurry because trains must always run on time.

Fast forward a few years. My sis has a second miscarriage in the rear-view mirror and a quiver full of beautiful children in her minivan. But now, the tissue subscription has been forwarded to my primary dwelling. She’s carrying me through an ectopic pregnancy and first miscarriage. Not just the early snot-slinging and teeth-gnashing phase, but the lonely long haul when everybody has boarded the life-goes-on train and the platform is eerily quiet. Grief upon grief comes when I finally understand the skim-coat level of attention I gave her way back when I was spit-balling on how to walk through the valley of the miscarry shadow. Now, I was involuntarily plunked there without a clue as to how long I’d be walking before I found the light flickering in the distance and grateful for the generous presence of someone who wasn’t afraid of the dark. My dark.

Fast forward a few years. I’ve birthed a healthy boy, made it through the grief of another miscarriage and I’m with a dear friend. The conversation goes something like this:

Her: “I hate to cut this short, but I promised to visit a friend who just had a miscarriage. I’ve never had one. I’m not sure what to say.”

Me: “I wanna go.”

Her: “Go where?”

Me: “With you to see her.”

Her: “But she doesn’t know you.”

Me: “I know. But, I know what to say.”

Looking back now, the whole scene seems completely bonkers. Laura, who wasn’t at all sure this was a very good idea, escorted me through the front door of grieving-Alma’s-house. There she sat on the couch braless in her ratty PJ’s with red swollen eyes drowning in a sea of gooey tissues and blankets. The look on her face communicated all we needed to know about the good-idea-ness of this visit:  

“Really? I’m going through hell and you bring a stranger with you?”

I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember this. I told her I had walked this dark mile. Felt this pain. That I simply wanted her to lay eyes on someone God and His emissaries had carried through the dark night of the miscarried soul. That I was there if she needed a friend. I asked permission to give her a hug before running out the door. That hug and this-sounds-made-up-but-true beginning resulted in a life-long friendship

Fast forward a few years.  Alma recovered. Conceived again. Birthed a beautiful boy. One Sunday, she shows up at the church where I’m about to deliver a sermon. Her face says it all. It is full, as are her arms.

Fast forward again. Alma has cancer. She’s experiencing extreme isolation during treatment. A group of friends take her for a sleep over at the beach. We bring scarves and silly PJ’s. Go to the grocery store in our jammies, buy junk food, try to fit on the Publix scale all at once to find our collective weight. Laugh till we hurt. We stay up too late and refuse to stop Alma from expressing her fears and doubts. We share some of ours. Cry till we hurt. We do a prayer walk on the beach the next morning with our hair covered in beautiful scarves. We ask a passer-by to take our picture. She asks us to pray for her. She’s in her own shadow valley. We pray.

Slow forward. I’m speaking at Alma’s funeral. The place is thick with the kind of grief that hovers when a mother dies young. I tell the stranger-shows-up-unannounced-miscarriage story. Laughter fills the anguished space. I bring grief equipping pieces [a 2x4 piece of wood cut into small sections] and suggest a when-you-get-home activity to some because I don’t know what else to do. I call it the 2x4 of grief because loss feels like someone hit you in the head with a 2x4. It’s disorienting. Confusing. Painful. Brutal. We want to run. Get as far away from it as possible. Do anything but walk through it. But grief is persistent. Grief is sticky. And the waves feel like blows that will crush us. But they don’t, so we brace when the next one comes.

The broad side of the 2x4 is meant for writing our ache when it comes. Giving a physical place to put it down. To acknowledge it. The things we will miss. The things we don’t understand. The things that make us angry, afraid, or confused. The narrow 2x4 side gives space to write our good memories, praises and hopes when they come. The things we love about this person. Gratitude to God for the gift of her life. Promises.

How this idea came, I have no recollection. But what happened later helps me realize, this practical action is grounded in something holy.

Slow forward again. I’m outside waiting for a baptism to begin. Men are lifting a man from his wheelchair into a giant tub of water. He has experienced homelessness. Some of his friends are there. I introduce myself to one of his pals.

Me: “Hey, I’m Kat, what’s your name.”

Her: “I’m Miriam... My son died last Sunday.”

My head goes down. Eyes slam shut. A woman next to her hears it and grabs the grieving mom in a bear hug. When they release, the mama-bear-hugger pulls out her phone. “I’m reading this book about lament. It’s helping me through a really hard time.” I ask if I can take a picture of the book cover displayed on her phone. It’s a book called Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy; Discovering the Grace of Lament by Mark Vroegop. I take a picture. I promptly forget about the book.

Slow forward again. I go to breakfast with one of my favorite seminary professors while the idea for this mobile mission is rolling around in my heart. His wife of decades died years ago while I was his student. Our whole class went to the funeral. We watched him preach and then weep with anguish. At breakfast, I talk about how much he must miss her. He whips out his phone. Shows me the cover of the same book on lament. Asks if I’ve read it. I tell him about the baptism and Miriam and the phone with the same book cover. “Now I’m definitely gonna read it.”

Inch forward with me. I’m preparing this month’s mission on lament. A member of our Packing Team asks us to pray for her son and his wife. They are pregnant with twins. One has miscarried. The other is healthy.

I don’t want to miss how we carry them.

Full stop. I’m in DC for my Granddaughter’s fourth birthday. I strike up a conversation with a mom at the party. “So, what was the path that led you to DC?” As she takes me on a journey of major touchdowns through her life, this bit lands like a nuclear flash. Her 30-year-old brother died. She still feels the ache. I tell her I’m reading “Dark Clouds…” She finishes my sentence, “Deep Mercy. I’ve read it. It’s a good book.”

I pick up the book. I’ve barely made it past the author’s rudimentary premise – it is crushing when we stunt lament. But we don’t know how to do it. How to grieve. How to grieve with others. How to be with others in pain. How to let others be with us. The author, a pastor, wrote the book out of a season of loss after his wife experienced multiple miscarriages including a days-from-delivery loss. He describes his reaction this way:

When he candidly shared some of the struggles of his soul, people of faith either move quickly to the “bright side” or distance themselves out of discomfort. As he read Psalms and Lamentations, he heard honest, unfiltered questions and cries directed to God in prayer. Cries similar to the ones coming out of him. When we shut down these cries, or treat them as a betrayal of faith, it can be crushing. If we cannot cry without fear of abandonment or fear of judgment, we will stifle our grief. We will feel crushed. Abandoned. Alone.

Through Psalms and Lamentations, he paints a practical picture of lament. One that sees grief as a platform, not a pit. A platform to face God authentically about life in a broken world while learning to speak the reality of Christ’s mercy in choosing to enter this broken place. Learning to include Mercy in the process prevents us from falling into despair.

Lament, he says, “is how you live between the poles of a hard life and trusting in God’s sovereignty.” He’s careful to emphasize the need for permission to engage in bold complaint without sacrificing the context of hope. Without both, grief becomes a spiral.

When the Apostle Paul writes his letter to the Corinthian church, he does not hide his lament. Instead, he describes circumstances so difficult, he “Despair[ed] of life itself.” His words as the letter progresses strike this chord of honesty and mercy.

When we lament in the context of hope, we are not crushed, not led to despair, know we will never be abandoned by God, and cannot be destroyed by grief. Lament as a prayer on a platform fully turned to God and who He truly is leads to mercy.

Perhaps the reason the 2x4 of grief exercise met the message of this book so squarely was the fact that the broad side of the board was made for honest questions and ache rather than the “bright side.” It emphasizes the part of loss we tend to avoid. Perhaps you are in a season of grief. Consider buying a real 2x4. When the ache comes, write on the front of the board. Give yourself a practical place to place your grief. On the narrow size, write God’s promises.

Our Mobile Mission this Month:

In your mission pack, you will find a pink sticker with an elephant standing on the words, “DO NOT CRUSH.”  Meditate on those times when your grief might have been stunted. Shut down by well-meaning friends who wanted to move you to the “bright side” without giving you permission to wrestle with loss. Or times when you might have felt abandoned by those who moved away from your difficult questions. Consider sitting with a Christian counselor, a pastor or a faith-filled friend and expressing honest lament.

Or, perhaps, your lament has led to feeling more crushed. Angry even. Perhaps an essential element of lament is missing? A context for hope in a fallen world? Place that sticker in a place where you can see it all month long. Don’t be afraid to turn full face toward God in your questions about the reason for hope in a fallen world.

Don’t be afraid to let your honest lament be met by Mercy. 

Amen? Amen!