In the months that followed my first miscarriage, I discovered a deep comfort in creating. Crafting became a way to connect with God in the middle of my grief. I didn’t need the perfect words; I would blast worship music and simply make something with my hands. I began Bible journaling, painting, watercoloring, hand-lettering Scripture, and crafting macramé rainbows.

These quiet moments of creating became a worshipful way to pour out my heart when words felt insufficient. They forced me to slow down, to sit in God’s presence, and to lean into Him even when my grief felt too heavy to bear. In that stillness, I began to see God’s fingerprints everywhere—how even the sharpest pain could be woven into something redemptive.

Over time, I sensed the Lord gently leading me to share the work He was doing in my grief to encourage others walking a similar road.

On what would have been our baby Avery’s due date, I started a small online journal called Due to Joy. It began as a place where I could process my grief and share how God was restoring my joy in the midst of loss. The name reflects what God has done in my life—how He can meet us in our deepest sorrow and, in His mercy, restore a joy that endures even in the middle of heartbreak.

What started as personal healing soon began to grow in unexpected ways. A couple years later, when I became pregnant with my rainbow baby, my daughter Stella, I made a macramé rainbow for her nursery. Friends began asking for their own, and before long I had made over a thousand rainbows for people across the country. The muscles in my hands cramp just thinking about that craft-heavy season in my life! What began as a small creative outlet slowly became a way to connect with others who understood the complex mixture of grief, hope, and healing that comes after loss.

Then, one summer a few years ago, several dear friends of mine experienced devastating pregnancy losses at different stages. Watching them walk through such deep grief broke my heart. I knew I couldn’t take away their pain, but I wanted to offer something—anything—that might bring comfort.

That was when the idea for miscarriage care packages began to take shape.

I began prayerfully assembling simple gifts filled with Scripture, journals, keepsakes, and quiet reminders of hope—many of the things I wish I had received during my own miscarriage. My prayer for every box was that it would reach a grieving woman exactly when she needed it most, and that through it she would encounter the God of all comfort and be reminded that even in her sorrow she is not alone.

As my husband and I worked together assembling these gifts, 2 Corinthians 1:3–5 became a guiding truth for everything we were doing:

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

That is the heartbeat behind Due to Joy.

Comfort received becomes comfort shared.

Through our baby’s brief life—now cradled safely in the arms of Jesus—God has brought forth fruit that testifies to His faithfulness. What began in grief has become a way to care for others who are hurting and to gently point them toward the God who meets us in our sorrow.

Each care package carries a quiet whisper of redemption.

A Familiar Ache

Years after my first miscarriage, God blessed our family with two daughters who are now six and two years old. Holding them in my arms brought a joy I had longed for, yet it didn’t erase the grief I carry. Instead, those years of joy deepened my understanding that hope and sorrow can coexist.

You can deeply grieve what is lost and still have immense gratitude for the gifts God has given.

This past April, I experienced another miscarriage. This time, my grief looked so different than my first loss.

Physically, I was weary in a way I struggle to describe—so exhausted that I would lie flat on the warm concrete in my backyard, unable to lift my head.
In that season, Psalm 3:3 felt especially personal:

“But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.”

And truly, the Lord met me there.

Once again, I found comfort in creating—this time alongside my oldest daughter, Stella. Side by side, we’ve made bracelets, pressed wildflowers into bookmarks, garden stone mosaics, paintings, and magazine collages. What began as small crafts became quiet acts of praise and thanksgiving in a season where loss was heavy and the Lord carried me once again.

Spiritually, I carried this grief differently as well. I didn’t experience the same flood of tears or spirals of questions that marked my first loss. Instead, there was a deep, quiet sadness paired with an overwhelming sense of God’s nearness.

I struggle to put into words just how close His presence has felt.

In still moments of prayer.
While reading Scripture.
While worshiping at the top of my lungs in the car.
During the ordinary rhythms of parenting our daughters.
On walks with my sweet husband.
In the sound of my daughters’ laughter.

Through it all, I can feel His steady, sustaining hand guiding me.

A God Who Redeems

Scripture does not ask us to ignore our sorrow. Instead, it invites us to bring it all before a compassionate God who collects every tear and carries every burden.

God whispers a truth we can cling to: this suffering is not the end.

He is writing something eternal—something we cannot yet fully see, something far greater than the heartbreak we carry.

The God of all comfort meets us in the middle of our sorrow. He is not a distant Father wishing we would simply pull ourselves together. He sees us, weeps with us, and sustains us. He draws us to Himself and offers us true rest.

His grace is sufficient for us, and His power is made perfect in our weakness.

I don’t have all the answers, but having walked this path, I know this to be true:

God is near to the brokenhearted, and in Him we are never alone.

Whether you are in a season of waiting or sorrow, or a season of hope and healing, the Lord sees you. He is working in the waiting, moving in ways you may not even notice, and drawing you closer to Himself.

Keep your eyes fixed on Him, friend.

One day, all things will be made new.

Until then, I pray you experience His nearness in the waiting.