When I was pregnant with Lydia, we had narrowed her name to two choices: Eliana Grace or Lydia Emmanuelle. I had suffered four miscarriages over the preceding year and a half and was sure that this pregnancy would end the same way. When it didn’t, I knew God had answered my cries, and I wanted our baby to have a strong biblical name that honored His faithfulness.

Eliana means “My God answered.” The biblical meaning of Grace is obvious, and Lydia, the “seller of purple cloth,” was a strong woman of faith who supported Paul’s ministry. Emmanuelle was derived from the Hebrew “Immanuel,” which means “God with us.”

We had always chosen our babies’ names well in advance of delivery, though we kept them secret. For some reason, we just could not decide between these two names and agreed to meet our newest daughter to see which fit her best before choosing. Perhaps all of the uncertainty we had felt during the pregnancy caused the indecisiveness? We knew there was a good chance that this baby would be born with Down syndrome, but we had refused all of the conclusive prenatal testing because it was too invasive. Various problems detected in the later part of the pregnancy left us with little doubt, but we would not know for sure until she was born.

On Columbus Day 2008, October 13, with her two oldest sisters present, our beautiful fifth child was born. We decided to name her Lydia Emmanuelle and shared the name with her grandma and siblings at home, who promptly started working on a Welcome Home sign.

Alone in my hospital room at the Portsmouth Naval Hospital in the wee hours of Lydia’s first night of life, I faced the reality of her diagnosis, wept, mourned, and then had a divine encounter I will never forget.

I was trying to nurse this newborn baby with her low muscle tone and imperfect heart when I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that she would struggle her whole life because of her chromosomal abnormality. I thought of her as a little broken-winged bird, and the tears I had held in all day began to fall freely and silently. In that moment, all self-pity I may have indulged in the preceding months was replaced by a fierce love and protective instinct toward her that has only grown with time.

Shortly after this personal catharsis, a nurse came into the room to check on us. She saw me weeping, and she sat down beside me. She began to tell me of her own baby born with a genetic condition, one that was fatal. Her child had eventually died. And then she shared that she was pregnant again, with a baby that likely had the same condition and would face the same outcome. She looked at Lydia, told me she was beautiful, and then told me how grateful she was for the baby she carried, regardless of how long it would live.

When this nurse left the room, she took with her every ounce of regret or sadness I would ever feel for my baby’s “defects.” In their place, she left me with gratitude for life—all life—a gratitude that turned into a personal mission and calling to place the highest regard and give the greatest opportunity to babies that others discard. I felt as though I had been visited by an angel.  As I sat there with tears streaming down my face, I heard the Lord telling me to change our baby’s name. I heard Him say, “Give her the two best names.” So the next morning, Lydia Emmanuelle became Lydia Eliana.

Even though her name didn’t end up being Emmanuelle, Lydia’s life introduced me to Immanuel as I had never known Him before. He was with me during my pregnancy, the week after I received my triple screen results that said 1 in 10 chance of Down syndrome; He told me that He knit her together in my womb and that whether she had this condition or not, she was perfectly made in His image for His purpose. And fear and despair were replaced with a deep, abiding peace that carried me the remaining nine months.

He was there the day our son Timothy died. As we sang and rocked our baby boy into heaven, I saw and felt Christ’s presence in that PICU room like I had never experienced before. He became real to me that day, and I have never been the same—one of many of the ways Timothy’s life changed the world.

He has walked each step of this recent, unwanted journey with me—providing everything I have needed along the way. He has caught my tears in His hands and returned them to me as peace and joy.

When I struggle daily with the harsh realities of life in a broken world filled with broken people, He reminds me that there is nothing I feel that He doesn’t understand. He knows injustice and abuse and betrayl, and He promises to redeem them all—in His time.

And when I experience the joys of life in a beautiful world, He reminds me that He too knows what it feels like to love a child so much that it hurts, to feel the closeness of a true friend, to fellowship and celebrate and teach. He sends sunsets and blue herons and playful ducks and gentle rains to remind me that He holds all things together—including me.

Because He is Immanuel, I am never alone, never forsaken, never without hope. God with us—God with me.

“All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: ‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us).” (Matthew 1:22-23, ESV)