Our whole family was on the way to dinner with friends—I was behind the wheel. Andrew rode shotgun, exhausted from work, and our crew almost filled the back of the van.

Almost.

Its eight-passenger occupancy accommodates our family of seven with room for the occasional tag-along. With my oldest approaching 15 and my youngest two months shy of eight, the days of shoe tying and car seat buckling are long over. Much like our current cruise on the highway, the logistics of family life are now smooth sailing.

“Will you do some math for me?” I asked Andrew. Confused, he took out his phone and counted the number of days between two dates I gave him.

“Thirty-three. Why?” I laughed, beaming and waiting for him to catch on. “No way!” he retorted. “You’re not having a baby.”

Those two little lines on my pregnancy test said otherwise. It was very early—I was just four weeks along—but everything was different. That very night we talked about where the baby would sleep, how to rearrange kids’ bedrooms and the fact that we weren’t going to be empty nesters in 10 years like we thought.
We told the kids the news the next day, and, after we convinced them that we weren’t joking, they were over the moon. Life was new. What a thrill knowing a new soul had joined our family—a person who was already changing everything.

Andrew stood in the kitchen stirring dinner. “I like Eleanor,” he said to me. I smiled.

“We’ll call her Nora. Nora Clare.”

Almost as soon as we knew she existed, Nora Clare was gone. The signs were there while I sobbed, praying against the odds and the reality. I texted the same friends who had shared our happiness just days before, knowing they would be with us in our grief. Their responses have been powerful support as our family continues to cope.

My best friend was at the ready when I told her I miscarried. The way she rallied even acquaintances to bring us dinner was a huge relief. I confess to a tinge of guilt for accepting such generosity. I was physically capable of making dinner myself, but grief overwhelmed me. The friends who supported us this way wanted to do so, and accepting was truly good for my family and me.

We shared our news of life and death with my neighbor down the street. She doesn’t talk much about faith, so her calls and messages telling me she’s praying for us give my heart so much hope. My priest offered up his terrible bout of Influenza A for us. Another friend hugged me and said so sincerely, “I’m praying for you all in my Rosary.” The cloistered nuns who live near me, the Poor Clares, reached out with promises of prayer, too. So many souls talking to the Lord on our behalf, asking for comfort, healing and joy. Above everything else, this is the support my family needs most and what gives me the most consolation.
Among the prayers and pans of lasagna, we also received the gift of empathy. The friends who shared their own stories of miscarriage gave us a new kind of strength. Death touches us all, even while we live.

In time, we’ll have more joy over Nora Clare being with the Lord. Praying for us. Waiting for us to join her. Right now, though, the pain of loss is still very near. Miscarriage is a heartache that is all too common, too vulnerable, and it pierces the heart of a family.

Nora Clare, pray for us. We are praying for you.

This article appeared in the April 2025 edition of The Catholic Telegraph Magazine. For your complimentary subscription, click here