The silence was deafening. In the hospital, having just given birth to a baby who was already gone, the silence was deafening. I have never given birth to silence before. I have never given birth to sorrow before. There are details of that day I’d rather forget but I know I won’t. Trauma has a way of etching itself into our memories sometimes and while the intensity of the emotion may fade, the memories don’t. I’ll never forget the silence. Silence where there should have been sound. Grief where there should have been joy. Desperation where there should have been peace. Questions where there should have been answers. Loss where there should have been gain. Anguish where there should have been elation. Emptiness where there should have been fullness. And yet, through the silence, comes the faintest whisper - “I am with you.” I can barely hear it at the time, or maybe I don’t want to. But as the days turn into weeks, and there are moments of silence still, it gets louder - “I am with you”. And I can’t ignore the God who was with me in that room and is with me as I write this now and who has carried me and surrounded me with people acting as His hands and feet. He is with me. He never left. He isn’t gone. He holds Micah, restored to wholeness. And sometimes, even though it hurts, I long for the silence, just to hear those words - “I am with you”. And I know it to be true.