The unimaginable grief of losing a child breaks a couple in a way few other sorrows can, made all the heavier by a society that often refuses to speak of it. I never carried that empty crib home myself, but watching my daughter, Brooks, and her husband, Evan, navigate the shattering weight of their child’s stillbirth hollowed us all out. The vibrant anticipation of holding a new grandchild was replaced with a quiet, agonizing stillness that still echoes in every family gathering.
My husband Andrew and I were driving to the hospital brimming with joy to meet our new grandchild, only to be struck by utter disbelief when Brooks called in agony: “The baby didn’t live.” Our minds simply refused to accept it. “The doctors are wrong. It’s just the baby’s position, that’s why they can’t find a heartbeat,” my husband insisted, grasping in desperate reassurance. Denial felt safer than the truth, but the raw pain in my daughter’s voice shattered any room left for doubt.
I was in constant prayer as it seemed forever to get to the hospital. Evan met us in the lobby, distressed. He took us to Brooks’ room. I felt her sorrow as we held each other crying. I thought, “Where is God in this?”
In that quiet hospital room, a cruel wave of unlived futures washed over me. I pictured her walking to school in a little dress, and later, standing radiant in a wedding gown. I realized with a physical ache that we would never witness any of her milestones.
My mind drifted to her older brother, Braxton, and the companion he had so eagerly anticipated. They had wanted another child to fill their home with laughter. Now, that empty space felt heavier than ever. I panicked, thinking, “How do we get through this as a family? What do I even say to Brooks and Evan?”
I bowed my head silently crying, pleading and begging God to rescue us from the tragedy we had just stepped into. As I held Eve in my arms, a sudden and profound warmth broke through my numbness, the undeniable presence of the Holy Spirit descending upon us, clearing my mind with a singular, resolute purpose.
I turned to Brooks and Evan, my voice steadying with sudden grace. “We need to call a priest,” I said softly. “She needs a blessing.” I held my breath, fearing my request would be a bridge too far.
Yet, to my absolute amazement, they both agreed.
When the Catholic priest arrived to administer the blessing, the initial crushing darkness of the room gave way to a sacred stillness. The Holy Spirit filled that space entirely, turning our deepest agony into a holy, tender sanctuary where our little girl was finally and truly welcomed into the hands of God.
Leaving the hospital was the hardest part of all. My protective instincts screamed against the reality of walking away, leaving me paralyzed by the thought: How do we leave the baby? She can’t stay here alone! As a mother, every protective instinct screamed that I had to fix this for them. I was still trapped in the fog of absolute shock, where logic had completely vanished.
Looking back, I carry one regret. I wish I had known that the Catholic Church offers sacred funeral liturgies for children who die before birth. Instead, we held a celebration of life at a non-denominational church. While well-meaning, it felt incomplete compared to the traditions of our faith. Friends wrote notes and placed them in a jar like guarded secrets, offering quick goodbyes rather than anchoring our grief in shared prayer.
Stillborn infants are beloved children of God, entitled to proper funeral rites and burial as we entrust them to God’s mercy. They are entitled to communal mourning, wrapping the grieving family in the enduring grace of the Church.
A Catholic vigil for a stillborn baby is a tender, sacred evening of prayer. Family and friends gather intimately around the tiny casket to entrust the child to God’s mercy and find true solace in community.
Our family’s faith is stronger because of Eve. She has taught us how to deeply love, respect, and remember her. I treat her as though she is right here with us.
When I go for walks, I see her in the beauty all around me. When I hear the wind rushing by, I picture her running ahead of me. When I think of my husband, who has since passed, I envision him pushing her in a baby carriage. But now that she is older in our hearts, he is holding her hand because she wants to walk.
Every birthday, we offer Mass in honour of Eve, commending her to God’s merciful love for eternal salvation. All Souls’ Day is our shared commitment to attend Mass and walk through a cemetery, a tradition that has become the most healing and peaceful experience we have ever known.
We honour Eve and give her dignity as though she’s living here on earth. Through our grief, we are still learning how to pay homage to her by praying, playing, laughing, and sharing food, like eating birthday cake in her honour!
Family reactions to honouring Eve vary widely. Some readily embrace celebrations and remembrance, while others choose silence because visiting a gravesite or attending a memorial Mass is too painful.
We need not be afraid. Instead, with tenderness and respect, we can boldly come together in shared grief, hope, and healing. Through the sharp edges of our grief, our faith was refined into something unshakeable. We now feel her vibrant spirit woven into the fabric of everyday life: in the rushing wind, the beauty of the outdoors, and the enduring grace of our family.
Most miraculous of all, we have watched that grace ripple outward, breathing new life into Brooks and Evan’s home, drawing them back to the Church with a renewed, living devotion. Eve ultimately brought us closer to God, turning our deepest heartbreak into a sacred bridge toward an eternal hope and the promised day when we are called home to finally meet her.
Eve, until we meet in God’s time, I look forward to finally holding you as you were always meant to be held.
V. Elaine Yacyshyn is an active member of St. Peter’s Catholic Church in Mackenzie, BC, in the Diocese of Prince George, where she serves as choir director and volunteers with the St. Vincent de Paul Society pantry. Married since 1970, she is a devoted mother of four and grandmother to six.
All are invited to the Gardens of Gethsemani on Saturday, October 24 for the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Mass. Learn more here.
