When Krystalle Wheeler went in for her 20-week sonogram, she thought it would be another joyful moment, another tiny heartbeat flickering on the screen. She even brought her 3-year-old daughter, thinking it would be sweet for her to meet her baby sister for the first time. But something uneasy was stirring in her chest, a whisper of mother’s intuition she couldn’t quite silence.
The sonographer smiled politely, the kind of smile that hides worry. Krystalle’s eyes searched the monitor, finding her baby’s heart beating steadily. Relief washed over her for a moment, but it was short-lived. What she didn’t see was the fluid building around her baby’s lungs. That night, instead of celebrating with dinner out, she and her husband sat quietly at the table, their fast food untouched, the air thick with fear.
A few days later, the perinatal specialist confirmed their worst nightmare. The baby girl, whom they would name Gracia, was dying. The fluid had spread everywhere, swelling her tiny body. Only two chambers of her heart were working. The doctor’s voice softened as she explained there was nothing more they could do. Krystalle prayed under her breath, trying to stay present and not collapse under the weight of it all. That night, she clung to a single line looping through her mind: You give and take away; blessed be Your name. It was both a prayer and a plea.
She began preparing for what no mother should ever prepare for — losing her baby. She picked out an ivory gown, so small it looked like it was made for a doll, and asked her father to build a tiny casket. He said no at first, unable to face the thought, but within three days, it was finished. Love finds its way through heartbreak, even when the hands that build are trembling.
On Sunday, they went cemetery shopping. There is no guidebook for that, no easy way to breathe while choosing a final resting place for a baby who never got to live. When they pulled into the cemetery, her daughter looked out the window and gasped, “Mama, it’s beautiful! Look at all the flowers.” Krystalle felt her stomach turn. Where her child saw beauty, she saw loss. At the next appointment, the doctor said they could only wait for a miracle. The word miracle cracked open something in her heart. Maybe, there was hope. For the first time in days, she prayed for strength and life.
But the days that followed were harder. Gracia’s movements slowed. Krystalle’s body ached with swelling, her nights restless. One morning, the nurse couldn’t find a heartbeat. The doctor came in quietly, placed a hand on Krystalle’s arm, and confirmed what she already knew in her soul — Gracia’s heart had stopped. The silence in that room was deafening. Heartache, she realized, isn’t just a phrase; it’s something you feel physically, like your chest is caving in.
They buried Gracia on a sunny December day. The sky was too bright for such sadness. Flowers surrounded her tiny casket, and her headstone read, “God chose Gracia for His glory.” Krystalle stood beside it, her husband’s arm around her, trying to believe there could still be purpose in such unbearable pain.
In the months that followed, she wrestled with grief and questions that had no answers. Why her baby? Why this story? But slowly, she began turning her pain into purpose. She started collecting small gifts, journals, candles, and keepsakes to comfort other women walking the same dark road of pregnancy loss. One month after she buried her daughter, she gave her first Lullaby of Hope gift.
Soon, other grieving mothers joined her, each one understanding the language of loss without needing words. Together, they created something beautiful from brokenness, assembling boxes for women facing infertility, miscarriage, or infant loss. What began with one grieving mother became a family of women who had all loved and lost and still chose to give.
Krystalle still carries Gracia’s name on her lips, her story stitched into everything she does. There is nothing normal about cemetery shopping for your baby, but there is something miraculous about choosing to live, to love, and to help others heal. Even in her sorrow, Krystalle found a way to sing her daughter’s lullaby, not in sound but in kindness, hope, and the quiet beauty of giving back.
