Remembering Mine Affliction: Zachariah’s Story

“Remembering mine affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall. My soul hath them still in remembrance, and is humbled in me. This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness. The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him. It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord” (Lamentations 3:19-26, KJV).

March 10, 2010, I think I was in shock. I stared at him, taking in his nearly translucent fingers and toes—perfect in every way. I yelled for my husband, but I couldn’t look away from our son. He struggled to breathe, his fragile body fighting for life. That moment is etched in my memory forever.

Just a year and a half earlier, we had been in a serious car accident that traumatized our family. The van flipped upside down, leaving us shaken—and my oldest daughter without part of her fingers and hand. 

And now this.

When I have felt hopeless and overwhelmed with grief, the only thing I can do is remind myself of the truths in God’s Word, because my hope is not in my circumstances but in His faithfulness and unfailing compassion. I so often need to learn—not just to trust what I can see—but to rest in God’s promises, even when the road is difficult and life feels overwhelming.

Zachariah’s story begins in November 2009, when I became pregnant with my ninth baby. My oldest was 14. How did I feel about being pregnant? Honestly, my heart was conflicted. Of course, I wanted this baby, but deep down, I was tired—and I felt guilty for even thinking that way.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, I began to feel movement. Joy replaced exhaustion, and I started preparing for this new life growing inside me. This one could be a boy! And lo and behold, an ultrasound confirmed a healthy, wiggly baby boy. My motherly love deepened. The sickness stage passed, and I fully embraced planning for this new baby.

By 15 weeks, we were convinced he was a boy and decided to name him Zachariah Benjamin. At the time, there was no particular reason for the first name, but the middle name honored my third brother.

Thursday, March 10th, was a beautiful, sunny early spring day in Ohio. My husband always took Thursdays off, and since we homeschooled, Thursdays became our “Saturdays.” That day, we planned a special trip to the city. Living in a small rural community in New Concord and going to Columbus, Ohio, was a treat! We packed our eight children into our 12-passenger van and took off, browsing shops and enjoying the day.

Later in the afternoon, we decided to eat at Culver’s—a rare treat for our family of ten. It was during this meal that I felt the first twinge of concern: I noticed a small amount of blood. Alarmed, I called my OB’s office on the hour-long drive home. They reassured me everything was probably fine, but deep down, I wondered.

When we arrived home, the kids jumped out and ran to play on the trampoline while I went inside to fix a snack. By then, I was spotting more. Suddenly, I heard a scream from the yard. Rushing outside, I found my five-year-old daughter had fallen backward off the edge of the trampoline and hurt her arm.

Michael stayed home with the other seven children while I drove Serenity 30 minutes to the local emergency room. As I sat there waiting, my concern about my own condition grew. This didn’t feel like just spotting anymore. It was close to 8:00 p.m., and I debated what to do.

Serenity, with her little black curls and sweet smile, won over the ER staff. Her injury turned out to be a small fracture. Meanwhile, I sat there, still cramping and bleeding, unsure of my next steps.

After driving back home and tucking Serenity into bed, I made another call to my OB’s on-call line. Finally, Michael and I decided to make the trek back to the ER—this time, for me.

It was 10:30 p.m. I was exhausted.

This was not how I had planned the day.

The cramping was worsening, and the bleeding was more than I was comfortable with. At 19 ½ weeks, I was evaluated at our local hospital. The ER doctor briefly checked me and assured me everything was fine, even after I voiced my concerns. A nurse listened for the heartbeat with a stethoscope and said it was strong. But no ultrasound was done.

Around 3:30 a.m., I was discharged with an “all clear.” But I didn’t feel all clear. Exhausted, I reassured myself that I would call my OB in the morning for an ultrasound.

By 7:00 a.m., I woke up to use the bathroom—and felt a pop.

Instinctively, I reached down, and in that instant, Zachariah was born.

I caught him in my hands—a fully formed, beautiful little boy. He was completely intact, his tiny heart beating.

I think I was in shock. I stared at him, taking in his nearly translucent fingers and toes—perfect in every way. I yelled for my husband, but I couldn’t look away from our son. He struggled to breathe, his fragile body fighting for life. Then, just as Michael entered the bathroom, Zachariah took his final breath in my arms.

The umbilical cord must have torn because suddenly, I began to hemorrhage. It was like a war zone. Michael scooped me up and rushed me toward the door.

In the chaos, I didn’t know what to do with the little baby in my hands. A part of me feared that if I took him to the hospital, they would take him away. Another part of me wanted to keep him close. In that last-second thought, I placed him in a small bowl and left the house.

Our oldest daughter, Autumn, was just 13. She had the presence of mind to put Zachariah’s body in the refrigerator, preserving him long enough for me to say goodbye.

On the way to the hospital, I called a friend, desperate for help with the kids. It was a 30-minute drive, and by the time we arrived, everything turned black. A strange sense of peace washed over me. The only thing I remember is looking up at a nurse and whispering, “I think I’m dead.”

She laughed gently and said, “Nope, you’re very much alive.”

After that, I don’t remember anything until I woke up from the D&C. And then, it all hit me.

God had allowed Zachariah Benjamin to be born and, in an instant, go to heaven with Him.

I remember thinking what a beautiful thing it was that God allowed us to name our little baby Zachariah just a week before he was born—not even knowing that his name means “God has remembered.”

What a comforting thought: God remembered this tiny baby enough to give him a name filled with meaning before he was even born.

Another wonderful thing God did was to perfectly time Zachariah’s birth. He was born on Friday morning, March 10th, at 7:00 a.m. That Sunday, March 12th, Tom Fuller and his family were scheduled to come for our spring discipleship conference. God had orchestrated it so my husband wouldn’t need to prepare a sermon and could spend more time with me.

Coming home Friday afternoon without a baby in my arms was heartbreaking. But perhaps even harder was seeing my baby in a bowl in the refrigerator. In my rush to leave for the hospital, I had made a split-second decision not to take him with me. To this day, I am thankful for that decision. Even at 13, Autumn realized that placing him in the refrigerator would preserve him long enough for me to say goodbye.

Honestly, we were very poor and had no burial options nearby. We had no idea who to turn to or what to do—so we held a small service on Saturday morning after my parents arrived, burying Zachariah next to the house.

After losing Zachariah, my world was shattered. He was born at 19 weeks of gestation, alive for those brief moments in my arms—but then he passed. I was powerless to stop it. I will never forget the pain of watching him leave this world, and then being rushed to the hospital, feeling like everything was slipping away.

That grief was overwhelming, and it took a deep toll on both my husband and me. We struggled in our own ways to cope, and instead of drawing closer together, we were drifting apart.

I was hormonal, emotionally wrecked, and trying to navigate grief in the midst of motherhood. One day, my husband went off to work, and I felt abandoned—like I was left to carry the weight of my pain alone. I didn’t know how to express my hurt in a healthy way.

The next day, I remember getting into an argument with him. Instead of showing grace or understanding, I raised my voice and lashed out. I was angry, frustrated, and lost. But the more I reflect on that moment, the more I realize how wrong I was.

After talking, I realized I hadn’t considered that my husband was grieving too, in his own way. I had become so focused on my own pain that I wasn’t thinking about how he felt. He wasn’t abandoning me; he was carrying his grief differently, but it was just as real.

Later, we were given a miniature lilac bush to commemorate his burial. The hardest part - that still grieves me to this day- was not having a permanent burial place. Even before moving to Wisconsin, my husband tried to dig up the small box he had made for Zachariah, but it had already disintegrated.

I know he is no longer there—that he is in heaven with Jesus—and that is a comfort. But the absence of a physical resting place is a grief I continue to bring to God whenever my heart grows heavy.

It took many weeks to recover from the blood loss. Looking back 15 years later, I am thankful for the privilege of carrying Zachariah for 19 weeks. I also reflect on the gift of my rainbow child, Charity Eliana, who brought joy back to our home after such a great loss.

Even in affliction, I am reminded of Lamentations 3:19–26: God’s mercies are new every morning. The Lord is my portion, and in Him, we find hope.

Life is not easy, but His faithfulness endures, and in Him, I continue to trust, hope, and wait.

And in that waiting, I cling to the promise of Isaiah 41:10-13: “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

God’s presence is my comfort. Even in the deepest grief, His Word is enough to sustain me.

The same God who held Zachariah in His arms holds me still. His work is perfect, His purposes good, and His presence unwavering.

In remembering both the sorrows and the mercies, I find peace, hope, and the courage to continue trusting Him, knowing that His presence and His Word are my true comfort—always.