Scribed In Light

“Where there is great love, there is always great loss.”

There are days that don’t fit neatly into words.

Days that split you open and fill you at the same time.
Days that hold both grief and gratitude in the very same breath.

Yesterday was one of those days.

And maybe this isn’t polished for approval.

Maybe it isn’t meant to be.

Maybe it’s simply lived.
Raw.
Faith under pressure… not faith in theory.

Our Bella—our sweet dachshund girl—went into labor, and like so many moments in life, it began with hope. Quiet anticipation. The kind that feels soft and full of promise.

But sometimes… things don’t go the way we expect.

Our first puppy, a beautiful little girl we named Dream, was stillborn. We did everything we could—worked her for twenty-five minutes, praying, hoping, asking God for a miracle like Lazarus. But she had already slipped away before she ever made it into our arms.

And nothing prepares you for that.

Not the stillness.
Not the silence.
Not the way your heart tries to make sense of something that simply doesn’t.

Bella, sweet Bella, didn’t understand. She stayed with her baby for hours—cleaning her, nudging her, trying in every way she knew how to call her back.

And there was a moment—one I know will stay with me forever.

I know that… because I’ve stood in a moment like that before.

When your heart is breaking…
when your spirit feels cracked open…
when you are quietly questioning your faith…

but someone you love more than yourself is lying there, needing you—

your presence,
your strength,
your steadiness…

you don’t get to fall apart the way you feel inside.

I remember standing with my daughter… supporting her through her own moment of pain and uncertainty with our grandbaby, Jude.

I didn’t have all the answers.
I didn’t always know what to do.

But I was there.

And I learned something then—

Presence is everything.

Because when your heart is breaking and your spirit is cracked…
and everything in you wants to collapse…

but someone you love more than yourself is depending on you—

something happens.

You rise anyway.

I saw it in my daughter’s eyes…
that place where fear, love, surrender, and strength all meet at once.

I held it then.

And I still do.

Very tenderly.

And in that moment with Bella and Dream…

I felt it again.

That same ache.
That same helpless love.
That same desperate desire to make it better… even when you can’t.

And I knew…

This was one of those moments.

The kind that doesn’t leave you.

Not loud. Not overwhelming.
But like a quiet whisper of grief that lingers…
the kind that gently holds on… and never quite lets go.

Maybe I carry it because I don’t want her to be forgotten.

Maybe some grief isn’t meant to be released…
but remembered.

Because she mattered.

“What we have once enjoyed deeply, we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” — Helen Keller

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

There was something else that happened in those moments—something I didn’t fully understand until I looked back.

In the middle of the grief… the brokenness… the sheer anxiety of those twenty-five minutes…

There were waves.

I could hear people talking around me.
I could see Bella scrambling—confused, desperate.
And there were moments… where I wanted to give up.

But something wouldn’t let me.

Like a lion’s last breath…
like nature’s final roar…

something kept rising up inside of me.

Something deeper than emotion.
Something stronger than fear.
Something I didn’t even feel fully in control of.

Just—keep going.

So I did.

I kept working that tiny body—trying to revive her, stimulate her, clear her airway, breathe for her, press life back into her with everything I had.

And when it would hit me… when the emotion would just take over and I’d start bawling…

I’d hand her to Alan.

And he’d pick right up where I left off.

Doing the same thing.
Trying everything he could.
Not giving up.

And then when it became too much for him…

he’d hand her back to me.

And we just kept going like that… back and forth…

for twenty-five minutes.

We dropped to our knees and prayed.
We called family, asking them to pray.
We anointed her with oil.
We spoke God’s Word.

We believed—fully—
that she would rise like Lazarus.

But God… saw what we could not.

And hindsight—clear, honest hindsight—has a way of revealing what we could never see in the moment.

We didn’t know it yet… but something far more serious was already unfolding beneath the surface.

All we knew was what was in front of us.

Loss.
Confusion.
Urgency.

And so we moved.

We rushed Bella to the vet—only knowing something wasn’t right.

An emergency C-section followed.

And it wasn’t until the surgeon came out afterward…
and explained everything…
that the full picture was finally revealed.

That the first puppy had already been lost before she ever arrived.

That her placenta had ruptured—
robbing her of oxygen before she ever entered the birth canal… before we ever had the chance to hold her.

She had already been gone.

And what we didn’t know—what we couldn’t have known in that moment—

was that part of that ruptured placenta remained attached inside Bella.

Something that, left unseen, would have turned septic.

We would have thought she was resting.
Recovering.
Grieving the loss of her litter.

We would have comforted her…
stayed close…
tried to give her peace…

never realizing that something far more dangerous was unfolding beneath the surface.

And we could have lost her too.

And the second puppy—

already compromised—
already at risk—

would have continued to be deprived of the oxygen she needed
had we allowed Bella to continue laboring at home.

She would not have made it.

None of it would have ended the way it did.

And that’s when it became clear—

that what had happened…

had already been done.

And suddenly… everything we had just walked through made sense in a way it couldn’t before.

And that’s when something deeper settled into me.

Because just like on the cross…
when Jesus had already given everything,
and those who loved Him were still pleading for a different outcome—

not yet understanding the fullness of what had already taken place—

that was us.

We were praying for restoration.
For reversal.
For life to return in the way we hoped for.

Not yet realizing…
that what had happened could not be undone.

Not because God wasn’t able—
but because there was a greater picture we couldn’t yet see.

And in that realization…

something shifted.

Because faith, in that moment, wasn’t about changing the outcome anymore.

It was about trusting the One
who already saw it from beginning to end.

And it brought me back to Scripture—

“Though a thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand…” — Psalm 91

But I understand it differently now.

Because it’s not about everything staying far away from you.

Sometimes… it comes very near.
Sometimes it unfolds right in front of you.
Sometimes…

it drops right into your hands.

And it did.

But Psalm 91 was never just about what happens around you—

it’s about where you dwell in the middle of it.

And maybe this is just the way it has always spoken to me…

As if, in those moments, you are called to put blinders on.

Not just to the words on the page—
but to everything around you.

To what you see.
To what you hear.
To what you feel.
Even to the chaos rising within you.

Because that’s what I had to do…
when I stood with my daughter…
and helped carry her through her own trench.

And it was what I had to do here.

To steady myself not in my emotions…
but in my faith.

To keep my focus on God…
even when everything around me was pulling for my attention.

Because in those moments—

that’s what carries you through.

Not the clarity.
Not the outcome.

But the focus.

And it was that same focus… that same faith…

that rose up in me again.

Standing there with Bella.
Holding Dream.
Fighting for what I could not control.

It was the same call—

to stay anchored.
to stay present.
to keep going…

even when my heart was breaking in my hands.

But… God.

When we reached the edge of what we could do…
God had the final say.

And in His grace, what could have been lost entirely…
was held.

“The righteous person may have many troubles, but the Lord delivers him from them all.” — Psalm 34:19

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him…” — Romans 8:28

And then…

there was her.

Our little dove—carrying peace, spirit, and promise.

The second baby—born alive, healthy, full of hope and life.

The surgeon told us she had made it—strong, breathing, wiggling… everything we had just fought so hard for, standing right there in front of us.

And I do know how to explain what that felt like.

When the surgeon came in and assured us that Bella was okay—truly okay—and that our little dove had been born healthy, sweet, wiggly, and full of promise…

I let go.

All of it.

Every emotion I had been holding back—every ounce of fear, grief, hope, and exhaustion—came rushing to the surface all at once, as if each one was trying to be felt first.

And I couldn’t stop crying.

I didn’t want to.

I just… let it come.

And the tears—the way they poured out of me—

I had to hide my face.

I pulled my knees up… wrapped my arms around myself… and just let it all out.

And somehow… in the middle of that release…

it cleansed me.

Like everything I had been carrying, everything I had been holding together in those moments of urgency and focus…

finally had a place to go.

And I realized…

I had been there before.

When I knew Alyssa was going to be okay…
that she was coming home…

my body did the very same thing.

I didn’t even think about it.

I just folded into myself—
wrapped my arms around my face,
braced against my knees…

and let everything break loose inside of me.

Like something in me knew—

this is where it’s safe to fall apart now.

This is where you can finally release
what you had to hold together to get through it.

The surgeon encouraged us to get Bella home as soon as possible—back into what was familiar, what was safe—so that nature could take its course.

So we did.

We brought her home…
back to her space…
back to what she knew.

And we hoped…

At first, we had to help her latch.

Those first hours were tense. We knew what was at stake—if she couldn’t nurse, we could lose her too.

Three times, we helped her latch. We even had to express Bella’s milk ourselves—which, on a lighter note, felt a little like that awkward “Can you milk me?” moment… except this wasn’t funny in the moment.

It was scary.

Because underneath it all… we knew what it meant if she didn’t figure it out.

And then…

About six hours later—

She finally latched on her own.

Not because we guided her.
Not because we placed her there.

But on her own… of her own doing.

And then again.
And again.

And suddenly… she knew exactly what to do.

And Bella?

Bella became a mother.

Not a broken one.
Not a confused one.
But a present, attentive, deeply nurturing mother.

She coos to her baby when she cries—soft, delicate sounds. She gently tucks her in with her nose, pulling her close. She won’t leave her side.

It is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed.

This… is what love does.

It grieves.
It breaks.
It questions.
It aches.

But it also…

Continues.

Even after loss.
Even after confusion.
Even after the moment that feels like it might undo you.

Bella came full circle.

Not because nothing happened…
but because something in her chose to keep going.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m sitting with today:

We don’t always get the outcome we prayed for.
We don’t always understand the moments that undo us.

But sometimes… in the very same space where something ends…

something else begins.

Dream was real. She mattered. She was held, named, and loved.

And this little life beside Bella now?

She is proof that not everything was lost.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls…” — Khalil Gibran

So if you ever find yourself there—
face down in the muck and the mire…
barely able to breathe…
feeling like giving up—

hold on.

Even if it’s by a thread.

Even if your faith feels quieter than your fear.

Put your blinders on.
Fix your focus.
And just… keep going.

You may not see it yet.

But God does.

And He is not absent in it.

Hugs, Love, and Grace,
Tina N. Campbell
Scribed in Light