The last day of March I went into my OBGYN’s office for my first baby appointment. I hadn’t been in the “sonogram room” in 15 years. I can’t say it had changed. Dr. Zielke’s décor is very lodge-like with log cabin walls and wilderness pastel paintings. Laying on the table, I remembered all the other times I had stared at those walls with anticipation waiting to see my babies. Each time was always as exciting as the time before. Squeezing the ultrasound gel on my abdomen, Dr. Zielke said, “Well let’s take a look,” in his usual goofy tone. Praying everything would look okay, I held my breath and tried to relax.

He started off by checking all the “usual sonogram stuff.” At 10 weeks, the baby was somewhere around 1 1/4 in and weighed around .14oz. Tiny buds of his/her hands and feet were formed and itty-bitty fingers were somewhat distinguishable as they gave the impression of waving at us.  The eyes appeared as little black holes set wide on each side of the face. Though I could not feel anything, you could see him/her fluttering around as the doctor moved the wand in slow, subtle motions. After a couple strokes on the keyboard, Dr. Zielke said, “Let’s take a listen to the heartbeat.” Then, just like that, there it was. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It measured around 169 beats per minute. My baby’s heartbeat.

Not hearing anything in the room that was being said for the next 30 seconds or so, my mind took me back to that day in November of 2014. Still not quite comprehending the emergency doctor’s words that Dalton was dead, I recalled walking into that cold room where he laid. After minutes passed and I could finally touch him, I had held his hand first. Cautiously, I had moved my hands up his arm and across his chest where I stopped. What if the doctors were wrong? What if his heart had started beating again because he knew how bad I was hurting? Sobbing, I held both hands over his heart and begged God to make it start again. I did the same thing right before they closed his casket for the last time. Nothing.

Back in the sonogram room, my thoughts turned quickly to the idea that I had three current heartbeats beating of my children at that moment. I never, ever thought that would happen again in my lifetime. It did not feel the same as when it was Colton, Keely and Dalton’s heart’s beating because those moments in my life will never be as they were. But a new feeling of hope had entered the scene. I now have four children. Three are here with me and one is in the presence of God. This new hope had made its debut in 169 beats per minute.

I am now 20 weeks along with my baby girl. Troy and I are anxious to meet her, but I don’t want to rush anything. The joy I feel every time she flips around and thumps my belly is a feeling I want to cherish longer. She is the life Troy and I created with God’s blessing and that knowledge hits me daily. For months I spoke to God in my quiet time and talked to Him about how we were trying to conceive. On a daily basis I said I would accept whatever His will was for our lives. The day the pregnancy test came back positive, I got my first message from God since I lost my son. He told me it was by my faith in Him that I was to become a mother again. I promised Him I would raise my new son or daughter to be a child of His. Every day since I have re-pledged that commitment.

 “Every pulse of your heartbeat is one liquid moment that flows through the veins of your being. Like a river of life flowing on since creation, approaching the sea with each new generation.” – Don McLean (lyrics from Tapestry)