(The day after Ethan was born)

The night was short, and the morning came quickly.

Around 4 a.m., I was woken for a blood draw to check how my numbers were doing. From there, the morning slowly began to unfold. There was some confusion about the room I would be moved into, which took a little time to sort out after the morning shift change. But despite that, the morning itself felt surprisingly peaceful.

After the blood draw, I got out of bed for the first time. The nurse helped me take a few steps, get into fresh clothes, and feel just a little more like myself again before I returned to bed to continue healing and wait for more updates.

All the while, Ethan was with me, either in my arms or resting beside me in the cooling bassinet the hospital provided, allowing him to stay with us longer.

There was a surrealness to it all. That we had met him. That we were still getting this time. That we didn’t have to rush our moments with him.

That morning, I spent some time going over the words I had written for Ethan’s celebration of life service. I had drafted most of it ahead of time, but I made a few small updates now that we knew more of his story.

And as I read through those words, I was reminded of something that had been true from the very beginning.

I had been his voice.

And I don’t believe that was by accident.

In my work, I have the privilege of being a voice for the preborn. I understand the weight of that. I understand the responsibility of speaking on behalf of a life that cannot speak for itself.

But nothing could have prepared me for what it meant to be the voice for my own child.

Looking back now, I can see the Lord’s hand even in that calling.

He entrusted Ethan to me.

He chose me to carry him, to love him, and to speak for him…when the world so quickly offered a different path.

I think back to that first appointment with the maternal fetal medicine doctor, when I was told that Ethan’s condition was not compatible with life. That if he made it to birth, he would have a zero percent chance of survival. Termination was presented as the recommendation.

But Ethan was so deeply wanted. So deeply loved.

And through the fear, through the unknowns, through all the questions that followed, the Lord gently made it clear:

This was my son.

And I was his voice.

Even when it came with questions.

Even when it came with weight.

Even when it meant long nights lying awake, wrestling with what was right, asking God to hold the things I didn’t understand.

For the next 17 almost 18 weeks, I carried that calling.

Not just physically, but spiritually.

I was his voice.

And now, even after his short but deeply impactful life, I still felt that same responsibility to speak for him, to represent him well, to make sure that he was known.

To share the little things.

The way he nestled in, just like he always had.

The quiet, steady presence he carried.

The way he changed me.

No matter how hard it was going to be, I wanted to speak for him.

As the morning continued, the doctors came in and checked on me, and eventually I was able to be taken off the monitors. The constant beeping stopped, and for the first time, things felt quiet. Slower.

My family came in, and we spent some time just being together, talking through the night before, catching everyone up, and hearing what the next steps might look like. There was mention of transfusions, but overall, things were moving in a good direction.

Eventually, we packed up and moved into my new room, where I would stay for the remainder of my recovery. Once we were settled, the focus began to shift toward preparing for Ethan’s celebration of life.

My in-laws had brought a small outfit for him to wear. It’s harder than you might expect to find something for a tiny 3-pound, 8-ounce baby, but with a little creativity and a lot of love, my mom and his mom made it work beautifully.

My friend Rachel and her husband had quickly put together food for after the service, such a thoughtful and generous gift. Everything came together in a way that only God could have orchestrated.

When it was time, our care team helped escort us down to the hospital chapel. It was a unique experience, even requiring security to walk with us, but our nurse handled every detail with such care and compassion.

The service itself was simple and sweet.

My dad spoke about Ethan’s 19 minutes of life and what a profound gift those minutes were, not just to us, but in different ways to everyone there.

Then it was my turn.

I read what I had written for Ethan.

I almost made it through without crying, but not quite.

And that felt okay.

Because more than anything, I had the honor of being his voice.

My dad closed by sharing the gospel, and just like that, the service came to a close. It was short, intimate, and exactly what we needed, a beautiful way to honor the life and impact of our son.

Afterward, we returned to our room, where everyone gathered for a small time together. We ate, talked, and simply sat in the sweetness of being together. It wasn’t anything elaborate just a quiet, meaningful time with family.

Not long after, a photographer arrived from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. He was incredible so gentle, and intentional in the way he cared for us. He took his time, never rushing us, and helped capture moments we hope to hold onto forever. We haven’t seen the photos yet, but I already know they will be treasured deeply.

As the evening went on, things began to quiet down.

Family slowly headed home, and eventually it was just the three of us again Ethan, Ben, and me.

The nurse came in to start an infusion, and I settled back into bed with Ethan resting on my chest, wrapped in a soft blanket my aunt had made for him, with his name stitched into it.

It was such a tender, sacred time.

No rushing.

No interruptions.

Just us.

Holding him.

Loving him.

Taking him in, slowly.

Letting the moment stay just a little longer.

Grateful for the time we were given to simply be with him.

And as the room grew quiet and the day came to an end, that is what I remember most.

Not the monitors.

Not the movement between rooms.

Not even the timeline of the day.

But the gift of being his mom.

The honor of holding him.

Of knowing him.

Of loving him.

And of being his voice.

From the very beginning…

to the very end…

and even now.