I knew the bright red blood shouldn't be there. The day before, I'd discovered for certain I was six weeks pregnant. Now, as I stared at the widening stain of blood that soaked my pajamas, my stomach tightened and my neck burned.
No, God! I want to be a mother!
In a matter of seconds, I sprang from the bathroom, woke my husband, James, and dialed my physician. The diagnosis: spontaneous miscarriage.
"Is there anything we can do?" I squeaked.
"Unfortunately, no," my ob/gyn replied. "I'm sorry."
The date was March 9, 2003. I'd awoken, pregnant, at 6 A.M. I'd thanked God for answering my prayers, wondered whether the baby was a boy or a girl, and dreamed about what my child would look like at his or her birth in October.
When I hung up the phone, the clock read 7:30 A.M.
And my baby was dead.
WHEN GOD SAYS "NO"
My body recovered almost immediately. However, my spirit writhed during the months that followed. …