God Doesn't Make Mistakes

Author's Note: This post discusses pregnancy loss, disability, grief, and abortion. While some readers may disagree with my perspective, my intention is not to debate politics but to share my personal testimony and the lessons God has taught me through loss, motherhood, and faith.

I don't think anyone can log into social media right now without seeing posts about the recent decision by an influencer to terminate a viable pregnancy after learning their unborn child likely had Down syndrome.

What struck me most wasn't the outrage or the debate.

It was the stories.

Story after story from parents who never expected the life they were given, yet found themselves blessed beyond measure by a child with special needs.

But there was another thought I couldn't shake.

As I listened to the conversations unfolding, I kept coming back to the same realization: none of us are guaranteed freedom from hardship, uncertainty, or suffering.

You are not guaranteed a healthy child.

You are not guaranteed your own health.

You are not guaranteed tomorrow.

The only thing promised to every single one of us is death.

As I sat with my thoughts, I realized this story was stirring up much more than I expected. I wasn't just viewing it through a personal lens. I was viewing it through the eyes of a mother, a nurse practitioner, and a woman whose own life has been shaped by loss, trauma, and grace.

Before I can explain why this has weighed so heavily on my heart, I need to start at the beginning.

I was raised believing abortion was never an option, regardless of the circumstances.

My entire life I heard things like, "Don't come home if you get pregnant."

I was taught there was no room for mistakes.

No sex before marriage.

No questioning authority.

No voice.

I was raised in a home marked by judgment, addiction, violence, abuse, and beliefs that I would later spend years untangling.

Over the past several months, God has been peeling back layers of childhood trauma I didn't even realize I was carrying. Memories I buried long ago have begun resurfacing.

Some of them weren't even my own.

It wasn't until after I had children that I learned my mother had an abortion just months before becoming pregnant with me.

Then came another revelation.

I was the unplanned pregnancy that followed.

The pregnancy that led to a shotgun wedding.

My whole life I had been told what was right and what was wrong, only to discover that some of the biggest truths about my own story had been kept from me.

Hidden beneath years of preaching about how abortion was a sin and how people who chose it would go to hell.

The abortion itself wasn't what hurt me.

The hypocrisy did.

The lies did.

The realization that I had an older sibling I never knew existed did.

And then there was the strange, complicated grief of realizing that had that pregnancy continued, I may not be here at all.

That truth has left me wrestling with God more than once.

Questions about purpose.

Questions about sovereignty.

Questions about how one decision can alter the course of so many lives.

Yet throughout Scripture, I kept finding the same message repeated over and over again.

That God is intentional.

That He is present.

That He has purpose even when we cannot see it.

Ephesians 2:10 tells us that we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus for good works prepared in advance for us.

Psalm 139 reminds us that He knit us together in our mother's womb and that we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that His plans are to give us hope and a future.

Before Jeremiah was ever born, God declared, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I set you apart."

And even in seasons of unimaginable grief, Romans 8:28 reminds us that God works all things together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.

These verses would become anchors in seasons when nothing else made sense.

Having worked as an operating room nurse for more than ten years, I witnessed countless D&C and D&E procedures.

From a medical standpoint, I did my job.

My responsibility wasn't to judge.

My responsibility was to care for the patient in front of me with dignity and compassion, regardless of my personal beliefs.

Many of those procedures were heartbreaking because the babies were deeply wanted.

Prayed for.

Dreamed about.

Longed for.

One case involved a mother whose baby was growing outside the uterus. The pregnancy was not viable, and both her life and the baby's life were in danger.

I still remember standing beside her.

I remember the tears streaming down her face as I fought to hold my own tears back.

I remember holding her hand as she drifted off to sleep.

She wasn't choosing between good and bad.

She was facing an impossible decision.

And impossible decisions leave scars.

There are two operating room experiences that have stayed with me all these years.

Not because of the procedures themselves.

Because of what they taught me.

The first involved a woman who had undergone multiple procedures for unintended pregnancies. 

 The day I cared for her was her twelfth.

She already had several children at home.

She stated this was her form of birth control. 

As a young nurse, I remember feeling confused.

Not because I was judging her.

Because I couldn't understand why nobody seemed interested in helping her find another way.

Why wasn't someone asking deeper questions?

Why wasn't someone helping her prevent finding herself back in the same situation again and again?

When I asked the surgeon about it, she simply shrugged.

The procedure was completed.

The chart was closed.

Everyone moved on.

But something about that never sat right with me.

Looking back, I think what bothered me most wasn't the patient.

It was the realization that healthcare often addresses the immediate problem while ignoring the deeper story underneath.

The second experience stayed with me for an entirely different reason.

I was still the "new nurse" at the hospital, which meant I often received assignments others didn't want.

This particular patient was carrying a baby who had been "diagnosed" with Down syndrome.

As part of my responsibilities, I reviewed the chart before surgery.

I remember reading the diagnosis.

I remember reading the reason for the procedure.

I remember reading the gestational age: 18 weeks.

And I remember feeling a heaviness settle over me that I couldn't quite explain.

What struck me most wasn't the diagnosis itself.

It was the certainty.

The belief that a diagnosis could determine the value of a life or the worthiness of a future.

At the time, I didn't have the words for what I was feeling.

I simply did my job.

I cared for the patient.

I helped my team.

And when the day was over, I tried to leave it behind.

But I couldn't.

That experience stayed with me.

Not because of the procedure.

Not because of the diagnosis.

Because it forced me to wrestle with questions I didn't yet have answers for.

Questions about purpose.

Questions about value.

Questions about how much a diagnosis can truly tell us about a person's future.

Looking back now, I think God was showing me something long before I was ready to understand it.

At the time, I couldn't have articulated it.

I was just a young nurse trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Treat the diagnosis.

Perform the procedure.

Discharge the patient.

Move on to the next room.

That was healthcare.

Or at least that's what I thought healthcare was.

But something about those experiences planted seeds that would take years to fully grow.

What I was beginning to see was that every diagnosis had a story.

Every symptom had a story.

Every person had a story.

And more often than not, the story mattered just as much as the diagnosis.

Years later, through my own losses, my children's health journeys, and the work God would eventually call me into, those seeds would begin to take root.

Because real healing isn't found by simply addressing the symptom.

Real healing begins when we are willing to look beneath the surface.

To understand the story.

The pain.

The trauma.

The loss.

The circumstances that shaped the person sitting in front of us.

Healing isn't just about asking, "What's wrong with you?"

It's having the courage to ask, "What happened to you?"

And sometimes the answer changes everything.

What I didn't know then was that those questions were about to become deeply personal.

A story that would move me from the operating room to the exam room.

From the nurse reviewing the chart to the mother waiting for answers.

From caring for someone else's child to fearing for my own.

It wasn't until 2017 that I gained an entirely different perspective on not only pregnancy, but parenthood.

For months, we anxiously waited for our first ultrasound.

Right before the appointment, we drove to South Carolina to surprise my in-laws with the news. We gave them a glass vase filled with Hershey kisses. Each kiss represented one day until the baby's due date. Every day they ate one was one day closer to getting to "kiss" their grandbaby.

Logan was seven.

Addie was four.

They had nicknamed the baby "Carrot Sprout" and could hardly contain their excitement.

The sonographer was kind and patient as she prepared for the scan. The kids stood nearby asking questions and watching the monitor.

I knew within minutes something was wrong.

Maybe it was the years of nursing.

Maybe it was a mother's intuition.

Maybe it was both.

I watched her pause.

I watched her scan the same area repeatedly.

Take the same measurements.

Hesitate.

I had been sicker during that pregnancy than I had ever been before, and somewhere deep down I had already begun wondering if something wasn't right.

Eventually she told me she needed to get the doctor.

I asked her to tell me what she was seeing.

She quietly pointed to the screen while making sure the kids couldn't hear.

The nasal bone was measuring differently.

The nuchal fold was thickened.

I knew exactly what she was trying to tell me.

Everything after that felt like a blur.

Doctors.

Statistics.

Possibilities.

Down syndrome was one of several potential diagnoses.

We were offered additional testing.

Declined the amniocentesis.

More answers.

More uncertainty.

More waiting.

Two days later we were supposed to leave for vacation.

As we walked out of the office, Logan and Addie excitedly asked if they could finally tell everyone our secret.

How do you explain that kind of fear to a child?

How do you explain that your world has just tilted on its axis?

That night Andrew held me while I cried in our kitchen.

I remember telling him that I couldn't be this sick for nothing.

That somehow all the nausea and vomiting had to mean something.

After the kids went to bed, we sat together and talked through every possibility we had been given.

The uncertainty.

The fear.

The questions.

The things we knew.

The things we didn't.

But one thing was never in question.

That baby was loved.

That baby was wanted.

Whatever the future held, we would face it together.

Just weeks earlier, our pastor had shared the story of his daughter Emma, who was born with Down syndrome.

He spoke honestly about the fear, uncertainty, and wrestling with God that came with that journey.

At a time when nothing felt certain, that story brought a measure of peace.

And if your lucky enough to know Emma, her heart is bigger than her smile.

While on vacation, we received reassuring bloodwork results. We weren't out of the woods, but we had enough hope to take our pregnancy announcement photos.

The first and only photos we would ever take as a family of five.

A few weeks later, I was at work when I started bleeding.

My heart sank.

As Andrew and I drove to the OB's office, I already knew enough to understand that bleeding during the second trimester was not a good sign.

I prayed for a miracle.

As my doctor scanned my belly, I watched the screen.

I knew what he was looking for.

I knew what he couldn't find.

When he sent us to the hospital, blaming outdated equipment, I looked at Andrew in the parking lot and quietly said the words neither of us wanted to hear.

"The baby is gone."

He tried to reassure me.

I couldn't be reassured.

I knew.

The long hallway.

The cold room.

The ultrasound.

The confirmation.

Our baby had died.

As we waited for the doctors to return, I collapsed into Andrew's arms.

How is this possible?

How are we here?

How do we tell our children?

Why is life so unfair?

We had never looked at the genetic testing results because they included the baby's gender.

We always waited until birth to find out.

Now, suddenly, that information mattered.

If we would never hold our baby.

Never hear her cry.

Never watch her grow.

Then at least we could know who she was.

We had a daughter who was already in the arms of Jesus.

At some point, my womb became the place where heaven and earth collided.

Savannah Lin Childs was placed in the arms of our Savior.

Nothing has ever prepared me for the conversation that followed.

Sitting Logan and Addie down.

Explaining that their baby sister's heart had stopped.

Watching Logan try to understand why Jesus needed her in heaven.

Why he couldn't hold her.

Why he couldn't see her.

Why her heart had stopped.

His old soul, wise beyond his years, gently placing his hand on my belly and telling her how much he loved her.

For two days, I carried my daughter knowing she was gone.

Those were the longest two days of my life.

I was angry.

Heartbroken.

Numb.

I felt like I was crawling out of my skin.

I never got to hear her heartbeat.

I never got to feel her move.

I never got to bring her home.

How could this be happening?

How could I have been so sick for months only to have nothing to show for it?

But God.

He had other plans, as He always does.

I've thought a lot about that season.

How it changed me.

How it changed our family.

Six months after losing Savannah, we got pregnant again and lost that baby the same week we found out.

Six months later, we found ourselves on another roller coaster of uncertainty.

For eleven weeks, no one could tell us whether I was carrying a viable pregnancy.

Eventually, enough time had passed that I was dismissed and told by the same physician who mishandled Savannah's pregnancy to go to the ER and figure it out.

I found myself walking down the same hallway.

Past the same rooms.

Toward the same uncertainty.

This time, I was alone.

Andrew stayed home with the kids.

I remember feeling emotionally numb.

Not because I didn't care.

Because I cared so much that my nervous system simply couldn't carry any more.

I just needed to get through the next few hours.

But that night, God provided something I didn't even realize I needed.

Healing.

Not from the loss itself.

But from some of the wounds left behind by the experience.

A fellow who was specializing in high-risk pregnancies and happened to pick up an extra shift moonlighting.

A nurse who sat beside me and held my hand.

People who took the time to answer questions that had gone unanswered for more than a year.

Questions about Savannah.

Questions about the statistics we had been given.

Questions about the reality of what we had faced.

That night I learned something I wasn't prepared to hear.

Savannah had less than a ten percent chance of surviving to term.

As painful as those words were, they also revealed a different perspective.

God had spared us from a road that may have held even greater suffering.

A month later, I became pregnant with Jax.

His birth story is one for another day.

But today, after spending the day in specialists' office with him, I want to explain why this story has weighed so heavily on my heart. 

We have six children.

Three here on earth.

Three with Jesus.

And God didn't just give us three children.

He set them apart.

Most people know Logan's story.

Some know that Addie is hearing impaired, has auditory processing disorder, was speech delayed, and wears hearing aids.

Just six weeks ago, we learned that Jax is losing his hearing.

The same little boy who struggled with ear infections.

The same little boy who needed ear tubes.

The same little boy who was speech delayed.

Over the last several weeks we have sat through appointments, evaluations, consultations, and discussions about genetic testing as we try to understand what the future may hold for him.

As Andrew likes to say, God didn't give us boring kids.

As all of this unfolded, I couldn't stop thinking about the conversations surrounding that influencer's pregnancy.

Because I have lived on both sides of uncertainty.

I had a healthy pregnancy and uncomplicated delivery with Logan.

There were no warning signs.

No concerning ultrasounds.

No high-risk labels.

By every measure, everything looked exactly as it should.

Yet Logan would become our most medically complex child and one of our three special needs children.

His health journey would challenge our family in ways we never could have imagined.

It would force us to become advocates.

It would deepen our faith.

It would expose the gaps in our healthcare system.

It would teach us to look beyond symptoms and search for root causes.

In many ways, Logan's story became the catalyst that shifted our family toward ministry, healing, and the work God would eventually call us into through family wellness.

What once felt like an obstacle became part of our testimony.

The very journey I once wished we didn't have to walk became the journey God used to shape our calling.

I had early complications with Addie's pregnancy that, if unresolved by delivery, placed me at significant risk of dying.

Yet she arrived healthy, on her own terms and without complications.

Years later, we would learn she was hearing impaired, had an auditory processing disorder, was speech delayed, and would eventually need hearing aids.

Jax's pregnancy was high-risk and complicated from the start.

He entered the world not breathing and spent his first week in the NICU.

Over the years, he would face speech delays, chronic ear issues, and now the uncertainty of progressive hearing loss as we search for answers through genetic testing.

Three very different pregnancies.

Three very different birth stories.

Diagnosis after diagnosis.

Challenge after challenge.

And through all of it, I have learned the same lesson.

A diagnosis is not a destiny.

Nothing is guaranteed.

Not health.

Not ease.

Not certainty.

Not tomorrow.

I have lost.

I have grieved.

I have loved harder because of it.

Having loved children I hold in my arms and children I hold only in my heart, I have learned that every life carries a story we cannot fully see in the moment.

And I have become a fierce advocate for family wellness because I know how profoundly one diagnosis can alter the course of a family.

For years, if I am being honest, there was a question I carried quietly with me.

A question I wasn't sure I wanted answered.

Where was God when Savannah died?

I knew the Scriptures.

I knew the theology.

I knew all the right answers.

But there was still a wounded part of me that wondered where He was when my heart was breaking.

Years later, on our wedding anniversary—the same anniversary that had become forever intertwined with the day we lost Savannah—Andrew surprised me with a visit to a float spa.

Alone in the silence, I found myself praying.

Not the polished prayers.

Not the prayers I would pray in front of other people.

The raw ones.

The honest ones.

The kind that come from a place that is still healing.

And I finally asked Him.

"Where were You when Savannah died?"

In that moment, God gave me a picture I have never forgotten.

I saw Jesus standing across from me holding our daughter.

Not as a memory.

Not as an idea.

As a Father holding a child He loved.

And behind Andrew sat God the Father with His hand resting on Andrew's shoulder.

A reminder that He was carrying him too.

And suddenly I understood something that years of grief had prevented me from seeing.

He never abandoned us.

Not in the ultrasound room.

Not in the hospital.

Not in the operating room.

Not during the endless questions.

Not during the grief.

He was there all along.

Holding Savannah.

Holding us.

Even when we couldn't feel it.

The anniversary that had carried so much grief became the place where God finally answered a question I had been carrying for years.

Maybe that's what God was doing all along.

Refining me as a mother.

Refining me as a wife.

Refining me as a practitioner.

Breaking generational strongholds that had shaped my family for generations.

Teaching me that healing requires us to look beyond the diagnosis and into the story.

Teaching me that purpose is often forged through pressing and crushing.

Teaching me that every life has value because every life was created by Him.

Because after everything we have walked through, one truth remains:

God doesn't make mistakes.