Emma left us this morning. At 3:30 am the nurse noticed the heart rate lower than it should be. She spoke with the doctor and they were going to ease off on the inducing medication. Then at 4:00 she couldn't find the heart beat with the little belly monitor. She brought in the ultrasound machine and found that Emma's heart had slowed to about 40 beats per minute and the beats were only feeble attempts of the muscle to keep going. The pressures of labor were too much for her little heart, and Emma gave one parting kick to her mom.
Tiffany and I are heart-broken but peaceful. There isn't a lot to say, except that we thank our Father in Heaven, who is God of all, for the great blessing it has been to grow up a little with little baby Emma.
We want to thank everyone for their prayers; they are felt. They have not gone unheard or unanswered.
I found a poem the other day, for which I am also thankful, a portion of it I leave here now:
The Earth would be dreary without them,
The world all a desolate waste,
What wonder bright angels about them,
Call home to the Father in haste?
Oh mothers! Your treasures most holy
Which seem not a virtue to lack,
Almost like, “The Lamb” meek and lowly—
What wonder God wishes them back?
What wonder he chooses the purest,
The happiest, dearest, most blest?
In His home all things must be surest—
He wants but the truest and best.
He plans for us Immortal pleasures,
As emblems our babies are giv'n,
He kindly secures us our treasures—
He knows we should want them in heaven.
Oh! The children! Our light and our blessings,
Without them the world would be nought;
Through natures rich chambers and dressings
Would sweetness all vainly be sought:
Our hopes and delights were all riven,
We should know only doubt and despair—
Who would ask for a portion in heaven,
If children were not there?
And this snippet from another poem by the same author:
We can live though bereft of the blessings,
Which seem more than half of our lives;
The babies, the youths and the maidens,
Even parents and husbands and wives;
Our prophets indeed may be taken
And we bow ‘neath the chastening rod,
‘Till the blessed, sweet Comforter cometh—
We can do without all but our God!