Two days after Christmas, I found out that my first baby had died in my womb.
The sidewalks were thick with snow and the streets felt eerily calm as my husband and I drove to the emergency department at a nearby hospital. I shivered uncontrollably in a cold ultrasound room as the technician smeared goo on my stomach and took image after image in silence. Later, in a cramped hospital room, a harried doctor burst in, announced that there was no heartbeat, and told us to go home and wait for “it” to pass naturally—all within the span of a few minutes.
The shock and grief at receiving these four words—there is no heartbeat—have not diminished over time. Since then, we have gone on to experience two more pregnancy losses. In the aftermath of these precious, premature deaths, I have had to reckon with dashed dreams, unrelenting grief, fist-shaking anger, and, on top of it all, the stigma and shame surrounding miscarriage and infertility.
Questions would float unbidden into my mind: Was it my fault? Could I have done something to avoid these outcomes? Why did this have to happen to me, again and again? Is there something wrong with me?
Experiences of pregnancy loss and infertility are more prevalent than we might realize. Where I live in Canada, one in six people experience difficulty conceiving, and around a quarter of all pregnancies end in miscarriage.
These experiences often reflect an inability to have biological children or a failure to live up to traditional expectations of womanhood and motherhood. Some may even think that they are not “real” women until they give birth to or raise their own children.
Women in both developed and developing countries bear the brunt of the blame for being infertile and childless, leading to depression, anxiety, stress, guilt, and an overall decrease in their sense of well-being, a 2021 study in the International Journal of Fertility and Sterility observed. Some women also experience secondary infertility, a quieter grief, when a woman has children and desires more but is unable to get pregnant or carry a baby to term.
Well-meaning comments from fellow Christians can also inadvertently induce shame and guilt rather than provide comfort. We refrain from discussions about these topics because it can feel awkward, and tend toward privileging stories that celebrate victory over infertility. We honor families with large numbers of children without also comforting those who are silently suffering.
But Christians can be more proactive in eradicating stigma around infertility and pregnancy loss in the church. Hannah and Eli’s exchange in 1 Samuel 1 gives us insights into a more compassionate conversational ethic that encourages us to share or welcome such stories without shame.
Hannah is one of two wives to Elkanah of the tribe of Ephraim. She experiences great anguish at her prolonged season of barrenness, weeping and refusing to eat whenever she goes up to Shiloh to worship God with Elkanah and his other wife, Peninnah (vv. 6–8).
In ancient Israel, people viewed children as assets to ensure a family lineage’s survival, and women commonly experienced the pressure to bear children in a time when infant mortality rates were high and lifespans were short, notes Megan Klint at The Center for Bioethics and Human Dignity.
Glory to God in the Highest Calling
The Bible’s reference to barrenness as one of the curses for disobedience in Deuteronomy 28:18 also led to perspectives that often attributed the cause of the condition to “sinfulness or simply a lack of blessing from God,” Klint wrote.
These social expectations of women, coupled with perceptions of childlessness as divine punishment, may have contributed to why Hannah is so despondent. She brings her agony to God, weeping bitterly and making a vow that she would dedicate her son to him if only he would give her a child (vv. 10–11).
As Hannah prays, however, Eli the priest mistakenly thinks she is drunk and tells her to put away her wine (vv. 12–14). His negative assessment of Hannah praying in her heart and moving her lips without making a sound (v. 13) makes it seem as if her grief and pain are unwelcome in God’s presence. He shames her for her purportedly distasteful behavior when all Hannah is doing is beseeching God for help.
The attitudes that we bring into the church, and into our conversations with people who are suffering and grieving their babies’ deaths, may sometimes perpetuate shame and stigma like Eli’s actions did.
Brittany Lee Allen lost multiple children in utero and wrote for CT that she received comments from fellow believers like “At least it was early” or “You’ll have another baby.” My friend’s mom once asked her after she experienced a loss, “Why do so many women have miscarriages now?”
Comments and questions like these can inadvertently convey that a woman’s body has failed to do a good enough job in preserving her baby’s life. They can implicitly blame a woman for doing something wrong or not doing enough to ensure a healthy pregnancy.
Ultimately, they reinforce shame by placing the blame for infertility and pregnancy loss on a woman’s body or a woman’s decisions—akin to the kind of dismissive judgment that Eli makes of Hannah.
But Hannah is not ashamed of how she acts in God’s presence. Her reply to Eli’s remark tears her torment wide open for him to witness. She tells him that she is deeply troubled and that she is “pouring out” her soul to the Lord. She goes on to divulge the state of her heart to him: “I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief” (vv. 15–16).
Hannah’s prayers, while not recorded in Scripture, are likely raw, honest, and unfiltered—the kind of prayers that those of us who have experienced infertility and pregnancy loss are intimately acquainted with. She does not shame herself for acting in a supposedly unsavory fashion. Neither does she accept Eli’s shaming of her.
For those of us who have experienced infertility and pregnancy loss and wrestle with negative assumptions and sentiments about our experiences, Hannah’s response is helpful.
Being vulnerable about barrenness and loss in a Christian environment that celebrates victory and overcoming life’s obstacles may seem daunting and shame-inducing. Yet Hannah’s example shows us that there is no shame in articulating our distress and desires before the Lord and his people.
Like Hannah, we can be unafraid to share our stories of loss and grief in the church, even if they may invite discomfort and judgment. Doing so enables us to break these cycles of stigma and humiliation, for we know that God does not turn away from these soul-deep expressions of sorrow. We can remember the ways that God is loving and kind to all who experience these issues, recognizing that he hears Hannah and remembers her pleas (v. 19). We can place our hope in Christ, a firm and secure anchor for our souls (Heb. 6:19).
The end of Eli and Hannah’s exchange offers a shame-free vision for Christian conversations around infertility and pregnancy loss. After Hannah tells Eli her reasons for her behavior, Eli says: “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him” (1 Sam. 1:17).
These three words—go in peace—may seem ordinary, but they hold a wealth of meaning. In Hebrew, the phrase means to “walk in shalom.” The idea of walking here references a continuation of Hannah’s spiritual journey: All may not be well yet, and her prayers may still be unanswered, but she can live with the confidence that God’s shalom goes with her, surrounds her, and leads her.
The shalom of God breaks the destructive patterns of shame that take up space in our minds, bodies, and churches. It makes room for grief and loss to be expressed and acknowledged without condemnation. It is freeing and empowering: As Hannah departs, her face is “no longer downcast” (v. 18).
“In a broken world, trauma—and the attending shame—will continue to be with us,” pastor Rich Villodas writes. “But, by the grace of God, it doesn’t have to consume us. It can be redeemed.”
The winter after I received the gut-wrenching pronouncements that my baby’s heart was no longer beating, I longed to stay curled up in bed for the foreseeable future, hidden from the world and its horrendous realities. Everything around me lost its shine and luster; nothing seemed right in the world anymore.
But I got out of bed eventually. I hugged my bleeding, healing body. I went for counseling. I wept. I groaned. I spoke regularly about my baby—and later, the others I have lost since then—in conversations with family, friends at church, and strangers on social media. My husband mentioned them in sermons he preached from the pulpit.
We also picked names for them. For our first, God led us toward the name Shiloh, as it means “the peaceful one” in Hebrew. The name Shiloh reminds us that God’s shalom goes with us and carries us. But I still long to hear from my Christian family the words that dismantle stigma and shame, that welcome and accept my grief in its untamable wildness: Go in peace.
Isabel Ong is the Asia editor at Christianity Today.
