grieving with guinever

A guest post by Mackenzie Modjeski

My Ezekiel and River,

You were both so small when Heaven first knew your names. And somehow, I knew them too, before the world could confirm or deny what I felt stirring inside me.

Ezekiel, they called it a chemical pregnancy. A blip. A loss too early to matter to science. But to me? You’re my child. You were the first heartbeat I reached for that year, and when I lost you, it shattered something deep. Strangely, it opened something too.

I’ve always believed you were more than just a moment. I believe you were part of a pair. That maybe you and River were meant to grow together in my womb, but something wasn’t quite right, something in me needed healing.

And your name, Ezekiel, came with weight and wonder. In Scripture, Ezekiel was a prophet during exile, cast far from home but chosen by God to carry strength, vision, and a message of restoration. Your name means “God strengthens.” And that’s exactly what your brief life did for me.

You were taken far too soon, cast into the arms of Heaven before I could hold you on earth, but in that loss, God poured a strange kind of strength into me.

I named you for that strength. I named you for the beauty of a soul set apart. I named you because I believe God knew you by name before I did, and whispered it to me when my heart was breaking.

River came right after you, barely a pause between. And though they told me he was born at 38 weeks, my spirit said otherwise. I knew you were 42 weeks. Late by my count, but early according to the doctors. And when he arrived, strong, beautiful, and mysterious in his timing, the truth was written in the details.

A calcified placenta, aged and weary, as if it had been holding on too long. A marginal cord, stretched thin at the edges, the kind doctors often see in twin pregnancies, as if River’s body still bore the physical imprint of you, Ezekiel. The quiet echo of a brother who didn’t stay, but who had once been beside him. Things the ultrasounds never showed, but proof that my maternal instincts never lied.

River’s name, too, was chosen with care. In Scripture, the river is a symbol of life, flowing from Eden, from the temple, from Heaven itself. Rivers bring nourishment, movement, renewal. Psalm 46 says, “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God.” After so much stillness and sorrow, River was that stream of gladness for us. He came like living water after dry ground. He was God’s provision, gentle, constant, and full of grace. His name is a reminder that even after deep loss, God brings life that moves forward.

He didn’t erase you, Ezekiel. He flowed through the place you left behind.

I remember the pain of losing you, Ezekiel. It didn’t stay in my heart, it poured into my body. It was the kind of pain that dropped me to my knees, screaming and broken open. Not metaphorically, but physically.

Grief tore through me the way labor does. Only this time, there would be no baby to hold when it was over. That was the worst pain I’ve ever known.

And then, River came. Through a different kind of pain. I gave birth to him naturally, and yes, it hurt. But it was nothing compared to the pain of losing you. Because this time, I knew I would hold my baby. This time, I could feel joy waiting on the other side. And that knowing gave me strength I didn’t have before.

I believe River carried you with him. Maybe in memory, maybe in mystery. Maybe in spirit, woven into the very fabric of his life.

You made space, Ezekiel.

You softened the soil of my body, so that when God sowed life again, it could take root more deeply. You were the forerunner. The seed. The spark. And River? You were the fulfillment. The answer. The rising flood of mercy after a season of drought.

You are brothers, and I am the mother of you both, of the one who stayed, and the one who went ahead to the arms of God. And one day, when the veil lifts and the waiting ends, I will hold you both together. Until then, I carry you in every breath, every moment I hold River close, knowing I once held you too, if only for a little while.

Your grandpa said there’s a play date waiting in Heaven, one the angels have already penciled in. And oh, sweet boys… that’s one play date I won’t ever miss.

With all the love I have,
Mommy 💙