I never imagined I would have a premature baby.
Everything about pregnancy is supposed to be full of hope, the kind where you plan nursery colors, pick baby names, and dream about the first giggles and tiny fingers wrapped around yours. But when your baby comes too soon, the unknown becomes terrifying.
When Ezra was born prematurely, I wasn’t ready for the rollercoaster that followed. The days in the NICU felt endless, filled with beeping monitors, whispered prayers, and an unshakable fear of what could happen next. The doctors and nurses were incredible, but nothing could erase the uncertainty.
I found myself clinging to God’s Word like never before. I whispered Psalm 91:4 over my tiny son:
“He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings, you will find refuge.”
I believed. I hoped. I prayed.
Then, the night before Ezra was supposed to be discharged—the night I had waited for, the night I thought we were finally going home—he passed away. Just like that. The moment I had longed for shattered into silence.
My mind was flooded with questions that had no answers:
“Why, God? Why now? Why after everything?”
I couldn’t pray because I had no words left. But worship became my comfort. I played worship songs on repeat, letting the lyrics speak when I couldn’t. I let my hands move over paper, sketching and drawing, without even realising that art was becoming my way of healing.
Looking back, I see that even in those painful moments, God was still with me. I didn’t have answers. I never will. But I now know that the unknown isn’t something to fear—it’s a sacred place where we learn to trust God more deeply than ever before.
That trust became the foundation for Hope for the Unknown, a book I wrote to help other families facing loss. Because even when life doesn’t make sense, love never leaves, and hope remains.
