Valentine's Day Miracle

Valentine’s Day is always a poignant time of year for me. It marks one of those life-changing, character-forming, life-will-never-be-the-same kind of experiences.

It was February 2019. I had been married for three years, and I had a seven-month-old keeping me busy. My husband Josh and I were both working hard, adjusting to life with a child in the picture. He was on a late shift one Wednesday evening. I was home with Avery and decided to do a workout in the house — trying to beat some of that baby weight.

Halfway through, I felt pain.

I remember thinking, How annoying. I’ve probably given myself a hernia or something.

I stopped the workout but carried on with life, assuming it would resolve itself, as most things do. I had a church meeting that evening and prepared for it while caring for Avery. But as the afternoon wore on, the pain intensified. I struggled to get upstairs to lie down, hoping rest would help — but it didn’t.

Eventually, I reluctantly text the team to say I wouldn’t make it, blaming a sporting injury with a joke.

I text Josh, but he was in work and couldn’t do much practically. After a while, I called 101 and waited for a call back. Because of the worsening abdominal pain, I was advised to go to A&E. My dad couldn’t drive us — his car was out of action — so my brother came instead. I struggled to get Avery into his car seat but somehow managed to clip him in safely.

We drove to a local hospital, which turned out to be the wrong one. They saw me anyway, and my mother-in-law came to collect Avery. They ran tests, asked questions, and then the on-call doctor looked at me and asked:

“How far along are you?”

How far along?

You mean… I’m pregnant?

The urine test confirmed it. Pregnant.

I burst into tears — not out of disappointment, and not even only out of shock (though it absolutely was a shock) — but because I knew something was wrong.

Josh came as soon as he could. He held me while I cried and laughed in that half-hysterical way you do when your emotions are too big to carry.

They told us I needed to be transferred to another hospital for proper assessment.

By now, the pain was increasing. I was woozy, sick, and afraid. Something was wrong.

An ambulance finally came — and to my surprise, the driver was an old youth leader of mine. It comforted me deeply to know that the person driving me was someone who prayed. I was sure he would be praying for me as he drove.

The paramedics told me they suspected an ectopic pregnancy. It was the first I’d heard of it, but the pain that had begun to reach my collarbone was a sign.

Fear rose again. Every jolt of the ambulance elevated the pain.

By the time I reached the ward, I could barely walk.

A doctor assessed me and said it might be ectopic. But it was nearing midnight; the sonographers were home. I was stable, she said. They would put me to bed and scan me in the morning.

Josh went home.

He later told me he brought Avery into bed with him that night, holding him in both comfort and fear.

But when the nurse came to move me, everything changed.

As she helped me stand, I felt the world go dark. I now know I had thrown a clot. I vaguely heard her calling for help. Through the haze, I remember the doctor saying, “What’s happened? This is a different patient from the one I just saw.”

There was panic. Several sets of hands on me. A call for the on-call surgeon.

I remember feeling the pull of the darkness and thinking, I should probably try to stay awake — they seem worried — but the darkness feels so nice.

They told me I needed surgery immediately.

They pulled off my earrings. Taped lines to my arms. Asked me questions I could barely answer. A form was put in front of me to sign. A gentle nurse stroked my hair as someone explained they might need to perform a hysterectomy.

Did I consent?

I attempted a signature, knowing they would have to do whatever was necessary to save my life.

Josh didn’t even know.

He was asleep at home.

By the time I reached theatre, I was barely conscious. The anaesthetist struggled to find a vein — they had collapsed.

Then the breathing mask was placed over my mouth.

I counted backwards from ten.

And I knew no more.

When I woke, questions plagued me:

What did they do?

Do I still have a womb?

Do I still have a baby?

The nurses wouldn’t answer. I had to wait for the surgeon.

When he came, he explained they had performed keyhole surgery — choosing the more complex route in an attempt to protect the pregnancy, which I was more grateful for than I could adequately express.

During my workout, I likely ruptured a large cyst. Positioned near the fallopian tube and major blood supply to the womb, it had caused catastrophic internal bleeding.

I had been bleeding into my abdomen for hours.

Litres of blood were gone. I needed transfusions.

Without surgery, I would not have survived. Had they put me to bed as planned, I would have died.

They undoubtedly saved my life.

And as I lay in that hospital bed, waiting for Josh to bring Avery — desperate to hold my husband and baby after the chaos of the last 24 hours — I felt something I can’t fully explain.

Peace.

I remembered the hymn It Is Well With My Soul.

I recited Psalm 23.

I found a Gideon Bible by my bedside and thanked God for whoever had placed it there. 

I read the Psalm again and again. I prayed. I listened to worship.

"When peace like a river attendeth my way,
when sorrows like sea billows roll;
whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul."

It turns out the nurse caring for me was a Christian too. She told me she had been in a literal cupboard, praying for me. Another doctor came and sat with me, explaining everything clearly — she loved Jesus too. I felt surrounded by people who were on divine assignment that day, whether they knew it or not. 

But soon, I began to bleed.

And I saw the sorrow in their faces before I was ready to accept what it meant. The trauma had been too much.

I was miscarrying. Still, I prayed for this baby. God can do anything, I reminded myself.

They helped me shower. They found me a breast pump so I could still feel like I was caring for Avery. Later, I learned Josh had been pouring the milk away because of my medication, and Avery had taken to the bottle just fine. Another small grief — I wasn’t ready to stop feeding him yet.

When I finally came home to recover, it was Valentine’s Day.

I couldn’t get to the shops, but I had ordered Josh a card. My best friend Rachel, who owns a coffee business, brought me coffee beans to give to him – because good coffee always helps.

Friends and family visited, brought meals. They ironed shirts, cleaned up, and cared for us. The church loved us tangibly.

And then I miscarried fully.

The grief gripped my heart like a vice as I doubled over in sorrow.

I loved God. I knew He had held me all along. His protection and provision marked every detail of the experience.

But I didn’t understand why He hadn’t saved the baby.

What a better story, I told Him, if You had rescued the baby too.

Josh held me and said something I will never forget:

“In a way, this baby has a gift. It won’t know any of the sorrow of this world. It will only know the arms of Jesus.”

And one day, we will know them too.

That hope held me.

Three months later, we conceived again. I had recovered well, and it was safe.

The pregnancy was smooth, and I was due in early February — but this baby was comfortable. He was late.

And yet, he was right on time.

At 9:14 am on the 14th of February 2020, Lucas Valentine was born.

A year to the day, our little gift from heaven arrived.

What a Valentine’s gift he was.

We named him in honour of St Valentine and to mark that day forever. Lucas is our daily reminder — and his birthday our annual reminder — that though we do not always understand… though life doesn’t unfold as we plan… though some prayers seem unanswered…God is still the One who works all things together for good.

He is faithful.

He is in the details — the micro and the macro. He had Lucas in mind, as well as the little one we will one day meet. 

He arranged the right shifts, the right surgeons, the right prayers. He ensured I received help just in time.

And He did not waste the experience.

It formed me.
Shaped me.
Deepened my faith.

It taught me about a peace that truly surpasses understanding.

And as the arms of peace held me in that hospital bed, I now held my newborn son in my arms. He was born on a stormy, blustery day, and it was well with my soul that day, as it had been a year before.

Though I would never wish miscarriage on anyone, it gave me a story to share. And whenever I do, women tell me, "That’s part of my story too."

A shared grief.

And one I can now hopefully offer some hope and insight into.

We may not have all the answers, but we know the One who does.

So this Valentine’s Day — whatever joy or grief you carry, whether you are in love or longing — look to Heaven. Look to the One who first loved us.

He’s got you.
He loves you.

And if we have Him, we lack nothing.

Jesus is our greatest Valentine’s gift.

‘For this is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us’ (1 John 3:16).

Images below are from the week: the screen I changed my phone background to, a selfie in the hospital bed, a FaceTime with Josh and Avery, and a year later: Lucas Valentine.