The Absence’s Saving Presence

Recently, as I strolled through the park, I was captivated by an episode of “Old School,” a podcast that has rapidly become one of my top picks. In this episode, Nick Cave, a talented Austrian musician and writer, shared his passion for reading “The Adventures of Pinocchio.” This timeless children's classic narrates the journey of a little puppet named Pinocchio, who leaves his creator and father, Geppetto, to embark on exciting adventures. While searching for his beloved puppet, Geppetto encounters danger and ends up in the belly of a giant fish. Ultimately, Pinocchio returns just in time to save his father.

Cave read his favorite passage of the book, where Pinocchio and his father reunited. Cave explained that he likes this passage because “the idea of the father searching for his son and the son, the lost son saving the father as deeply personal to me. You know, I read this book a lot around the death of my son (Cave’s son Arthur died after a hiking accident at the age of 15). And the idea that the missing child ends up being able to save the grieving father, the father who’s been sitting in the belly of the beast on his own, became extraordinarily moving to me. It’s an inversion of the way it should be..an absence can have its own saving presence.”

Cave’s explanation, especially the powerful statement “an absence can have its own saving presence,” resonated deeply with me because it captured my own experience.

After the heartbreak of losing our two children, Lucas (stillborn) and Allie (miscarriage), I found myself engulfed in darkness. No parent should have to bury their child. When children leave this world before their parents, it disrupts the expected order of life and shatters the natural rules we believe in. This violation creates a profound sense of loss that is difficult to bear. As Deborah Davis wrote in her insightful book, “Empty Cradle, Broken Heart,”

“When your baby dies, you never get the chance to know the baby in the way that we normally think of knowing someone. But your hopes and dreams for this child have already become a art of your life. You have not only lost a child, you have lost the chance to see your baby grow, become a vital part of the family, and realize his or her potential. Your baby’s death represents a deeply felt loss of a wished-for child, as well as a loss your fantasies, hopes and dreams. Indeed, it represents a denial of part of your future, part of yourself.”

Before I became pregnant, I found myself slowly drifting away from my faith. Like many, I mistakenly thought I was in complete control of my destiny. Life's tragedies, however, have a powerful way of humbling us. Through my experiences, I recognized that many events in life lie beyond my control. Initially, I returned to my Christian faith for one reason: I couldn't accept that my “goodbye” to my children might be eternal. My faith provides me with the hope that their absence is only temporary and that I will reunite with them one day.

Yet, as time has progressed, my understanding of Christianity has expanded. It’s no longer just about the future promise of seeing my children again; it has become about actively trusting in God's plan. Embracing this belief has instilled a profound confidence in me, empowering me to face life's challenges, knowing that He is by my side. I have moved beyond feeling sorry for my losses; instead, I express daily gratitude for the blessings I still have, including the precious moments shared with my children. Rather than wasting my time on self-pity, trivial disputes, and vanity, I actively choose to focus on how I can uplift and assist others.

Just as Cave mentioned, the physical absence of my children carries its own poignant significance: it prompted me to reconnect with my faith. In turn, this connection has helped me overcome grief and brokenness, allowing me to feel whole again.

I know many other parents who have lost their babies have experienced a similar journey. During the production of "The Due Time," a documentary film about stillbirth, I had the opportunity to interview Jenny and Justin. They lost their baby girl, Isabella, when Jenny was 37 weeks pregnant. Tragically, Isabella was stillborn.

Jenny and Justin chose the name Isabella for their baby girl not only because it is beautiful, but also because it translates to “a pledge to God” in Spanish. This choice was deeply meaningful for them. Jenny revealed that she had spent many years distancing herself from God before Isabella's birth. However, she believes that Isabella's presence in her life served as a catalyst, drawing her back to her faith. Jenny views Isabella as a true disciple of God and remarked, “Isabella gave me the greatest gift I could have ever imagined. It took time for me to see how everything connected and to grasp the purpose behind this profound loss.”

Jenny and Justin welcomed two more daughters after Isabella, and their journey has beautifully illustrated how even the most profound losses can lead to remarkable blessings. Their family has become a beacon of hope for the local pregnancy and infant loss community, transforming their grief into a mission of support for others facing similar heartaches. As some of the most passionate volunteers in the Denver infant loss community, Jenny and Justin can often be seen at events organized by Denver Share, a nonprofit dedicated to helping families navigate these painful experiences. Their story is a powerful reminder that the absence of a child can become a source of strength and healing for many.

Jenny is right that our children, who left this world too soon, have been guiding us all along. They are, without a doubt, the most extraordinary gifts from God.