It suddenly occurs to me.

I scroll through my phone looking for a text message conversation with him. I can't find one. There's inquiries about horses for sale. Someone wants to sell us hay. Our employee texted her hours and the sister assured me our little man slept fine last night. A brother needs information for the website, the cousin is praying for us. Someone wants to know how their horse is taking to training. The conversation with Lover is at the very bottom of the list.

I pause.

Have I texted all of these people but not him? Of course not...he's been beside me; hasn't budged through two days of severe hemorrhaging, two emergency room visits, a dozen nurses and doctors and another ultrasound of an empty womb. He was holding my hand when the doctor decided on another D&C. His face was full of compassion when he told me he was sorry I hurt so.very.badly, like the pain of giving birth to a baby but there's no baby, only some part of it left in me that my body is desperate to be done with.

The nurse turns up the pain medication and I ask him to stay with me in case I lose my bearings. He promises he won't leave and I know he won't because he never has.

I'm wheeled back to surgery and the doctor asks how I am and I can't stop crying from pain. That blessed anesthesiologist gives me oxygen and makes me too tired to feel anymore and I wake up to the sound of that all-familiar husband's voice. I can't force my eyes open. He squeezes my hand, tells me it's ok. The cell phone is beeping with new texts. The nurse writes her number on the board and tells us to page her if we need anything. But I don't have to page him because he's always here.

And it suddenly occurs to me.

The only time you need someone's phone number is if they leave you. Only if they aren't sitting inches from you, holding your hand, soothing you with their voice, stilling the chaos with comfort.

The nurse tries to help me up but I collapse and she catches me. The doctor says I need to stay overnight. That Lover-man settles into a nylon-covered recliner with one pillow and a flimsy blanket, still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. Another text rings on the phone but it's not from him because he's close enough for me to hear him whisper that he loves me.

And the whole world is silent and I hear God say, "I don't need a phone number because I never leave."

Suddenly, that verse about God never leaving me -- the one I memorized as a child over two decades ago -- it travels from my head to my heart with a sigh of relief. And I know I can do this. I can grieve a child, I can make it through surgery, I can bear the pain and survive the recovery. Just so long as God never leaves. Just so long as he's here, as close as that all-faithful man; close enough that I can touch his skin while I sleep and hear him breathe next to me. 

I pull the blankets up to my chin and close my eyes and thank God for all I'm worth that he never needs a phone number.

There's that moment when you don't think you can handle one more day of being nauseous from morning 'til night.

That one day when you listen to his deep, familiar voice talk about baby names as you drift to sleep beside him.

The morning you force yourself to cook for the toddler even though you may throw up at the smell. And you tell yourself one more week and it'll be second trimester and the sickness will fade away.

Then there's a spontaneous ultrasound just to see the little sick-causing, wreaking-havoc, can't-wait-to-hold-you little one who doesn't have a heartbeat.

And the waiting. Waiting for the joke to be over, the next ultrasound to prove technology isn't always right. 

The day you're still so sick that all-compassionate man is giving you water while you throw up, and all for nothing. Because that little baby's heart stopped beating and it's not growing and there's not going to be a newborn at the end of this.

There's the sister who cleans the house, the mom who washes the laundry, the friend who visits, the cousins who cheer up the toddler. There's phone calls and texts and "any news?" and "don't lose hope" and somewhere there's God, but I'm not sure where.

Then the second ultrasound and that tiny body that didn't grow and the heart that just.won't.beat. and you look away from the screen. 

There's the day for the surgery to deliver the baby and the doctor who calls it a tissue. Text messages with "let us know how it goes" and "praying for you" and I wish God would send a text. 

There's "all went well" and "next time you get pregnant" and tears on his shoulder because this was supposed to end six months from now with a bundle in our arms and that special name we can't wait to use.

The toddler doesn't understand and he cries at night so we let him sleep with us.

People bring food and Mom stays overnight and Grandma sends a card with memorial money. There are notes on Facebook and texts and calls and I wish God had a Facebook.

The day comes when you buy quilt material because you always make your babies a quilt and your sister goes with you because you know you're gonna cry.

And there's that little sunshine who still wants to play and giggle and sit on your hip even though you're not supposed to pick him up.

That engulf-you-in-comfort man feeds the animals in the bitter cold and tells you to give yourself a break and takes the day off so you don't have to pick up the toddler. He gives you your medicine and compliments that body that is now a little softer with an empty baby bump. Maybe he's a glimpse of God.

All those Bible verses and scripture promises and everything you know you believe come back to you but you're not sure how to get them from your head to that aching heart.

Maybe there's a reason the baby died or maybe it's all part of the fallen world because Jesus promised comfort, not immunity.

Someday maybe you'll understand and maybe you never will. Maybe the clean house and the meals and the visits and the laundry and the texts and notes and calls and those arms that hold you at night when you start to cry...maybe those are God making sure you're okay. 

At the end of the day, the tears still fall and the womb is still empty and the heartbeat is still gone. There's no spiritual answer, no magic healing, no churchy phrase to make everything okay again. 

For all I'm worth, I wish God had a phone number.