Samuel (shâma + êl): ‘Heard of God.’ From stillbirths to the NICU; From whispers of grief to the word of witness (mártys)

“No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.”

– C.S. Lewis

Samuel

That line has lived in the back of my mind for a long time.

On May 2nd, Jessica and I welcomed our baby boy, Samuel, into the world, a moment we had prayed for, hoped for, and fought for.

Two hours later, he was in the NICU.

Eventually he was surrounded by machines, his tiny chest rose and fell with the help of a ventilator. Tubes. Monitors. Beeping. A room filled with life-saving equipment, and yet, in that moment, it felt like hope was slipping through our fingers.

Twelve days later, by the grace of God, we brought our son home. Those twelve days weren’t just a medical journey, they were a spiritual battle. A collision of past heartbreak and present fear.

This wasn’t our first trip through the valley.

Evelyn and Gabriel

On August 14, 2021, we held our daughter, Evelyn, in our arms and said goodbye before we ever got to say hello. She was stillborn. Then, on February 2, 2024, we laid her brother Gabriel to rest beside her, after he, too, was stillborn.

Losing one child breaks your heart. Losing two shakes your soul. It rewrites everything you thought you knew about faith, about hope, about what it means to trust.

We never stopped believing in God. But we did begin to wonder, as C.S. Lewis wrote, “how painful the best would turn out to be.”

From “grief whispering” to “pain roaring”

So when Samuel was born and taken from us, and when we heard the words “critically stable” from Dr. Pole, our hearts weren’t starting from zero. They were already bruised. Fear didn’t creep in. It roared. Every beeping monitor echoed what we’d already lost. Every hour waiting for answers felt like reliving old grief in real time.

Grief doesn’t just revisit you in times of loss, it follows you like a shadow into moments of joy, whispering,

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

I watched Jess walk through it with a kind of strength I still can’t explain: steady, rooted, calm.

I was afraid.

Afraid to love our little newborn fully.

Afraid to believe we’d get to keep him.

Afraid to hope, because hope had hurt us before.

Fear clouds what you know to be true. It makes you question what God has already said.

The name revealed

Weeks before Samuel was born, I was driving to Tupelo, praying and asking God what we should name him. My Bible reading plan was playing through the speakers when I heard these words:

“Moses and Aaron were among His priests, and Samuel was among those who called upon His name; they called upon the Lord, and He answered them” (Ps 99:6).

Right then, I knew. His name was Samuel.

My name is Aaron.

My son’s name is Moses.

And now, we were getting our Samuel.

Samuel means “God has heard.”

The name wasn’t just meaningful; it was a promise. A promise we didn’t know yet how much we’d need to hold onto.

A different whisper from a different place

During those long NICU days, I clung to that.

As I watched Samuel fight for each breath, I kept going back to that verse, that moment, that whisper from heaven: God has heard us. He is still hearing us.

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us” (1 John 5:14).

When fear tried to take over, I held onto what I knew before the storm began. Because sometimes, that’s what faith is — not a feeling, but a choice to remember.

Life will wear you down.

Grief will scar you.

Fear will try to steal the peace God gave you.

If you can return to those moments when God spoke, when He moved, when He made Himself known, they can anchor you through even the fiercest storms.

And today, as we hold Samuel — healthy and home — we do so with tears in our eyes and thankfulness in our hearts. Not just because he’s here. But because even in the terrifying moments, God was faithful.

Holding fast the confession: A mártys

We are not the same people we were a year ago.

We’re softer.

We’re more scarred.

But somehow, we’re stronger.

We are more convinced than ever that God is good, not because everything went the way we wanted, but because He never left us in the pain.

“Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful” (Heb 10:23).

So today, we’re not just celebrating; we’re testifying.

To every one of you who prayed, called, or visited: you were the hands and feet of Jesus to us.

To the NMMC Women’s Hospital Labor and Delivery, Postpartum, and entire staff: Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. You were simply incredible.

To the entire NICU team—the nurses, respiratory therapists, nurse practitioners, and especially Dr. Pole—your compassion and commitment meant more than you know.

To Dr. Bennett McGehee, who has been on this journey with us for the past few years: Your expertise and friendship have been Heaven-sent.

To Dr. Brewer, who has encouraged us along our journey as well: Your guidance and reassurance have helped quiet our anxious minds.

And most of all: to honor our God. Who heard us. Who still hears us. Who held us through every moment of this story. Even in the valleys, He is good.

We want you to know the hope that has sustained us: the good news of Jesus Christ.

That while we were still sinners, Christ died for us (Rom 5:8). Through His death and resurrection, we have been given life, peace, and a hope that does not fade.

He is faithful. He is near. He is our anchor.

You can trust Him.

The following story was composed by Aaron Robert Hight, a native of Tupelo MS, whose OB-Gyn physician is a part of our network. Thank you, Aaron and Bennett!