From Mason's Nana

One month ago today, I stood beside my 32-week pregnant daughter and her husband when we heard the words no one ever wants to hear:

“There is no heartbeat.”

I had the extraordinary honor of being present for Mason’s birth and spending eight sacred hours with his precious earthly body. I will forever be grateful for that sweet time—and for the incredible doctors and nurses who cared for us with such gentleness and compassion.

After induced labor, our sweet baby Mason was born during a Michigan winter storm. The unrelenting weather that followed for the next three weeks felt fitting for our raw and aching hearts. The skies seemed to grieve with us.

In those early days, Mason’s other grandma shared a picture with me—Jesus holding a tiny baby—with the words:

“…and to think the first thing you saw when you opened your little eyes was the face of Jesus.”

That image sustained us. We found deep comfort in the truth that Mason never knew anything but love in his short time on earth. And he will never know fear, pain, or heartbreak as he grows in Heaven.

The first seven days were filled with tears—but also laughter. As a family, we gathered closely and were together nearly full time. There is profound comfort in togetherness in the midst of grief. Love shows up in casseroles and long conversations, in shared memories and shared silence.

But eventually, “normal” began to creep back in. Work resumed. Responsibilities returned. The world kept moving.

And nothing felt normal anymore.

I felt like an imposter—going about daily life, acting like a “normal” person, when everything inside felt altered forever.

As a grandma, I grieve deeply for Mason, my first grandson. But even more, I grieve for my daughter—who has longed to be a mama since she was a tiny toddler herself. Watching her walk through this pain has been one of the hardest experiences of my life. There is a particular ache in seeing your child hurt in ways you cannot fix.

At one point, in conversation with God, I felt nudged to look up the meaning of Mason’s name. Unsurprisingly, it means “builder.”

In that quiet moment, I sensed the Lord whispering to my heart:

“I’m building something, Gwen. Watch Me.”

Later, when I joined a virtual support group with my daughter and son-in-law, I felt another nudge. A gentle calling. A sense that perhaps I am meant to come alongside others who may not have the kind of family support Eden and Ben have. That perhaps Mason’s life—brief but powerful—would help build something lasting. Something that offers peace. Something that offers hope.

And from that stirring, Named & Known began to take shape.

Named & Known exists because babies like Mason matter. Because their names deserve to be spoken. Because parents deserve support that is tender, steady, and grounded in hope.

We don’t know all that God is building yet. But we believe He is building something that honors our sweet boy and brings comfort to others walking this road.

I see Eden being drawn in similar ways. And that gives me even more assurance that God is at work.

So we are keeping our eyes open.

We are watching You, God.

Move, Lord, move—while holding our sweet boy tightly in Your mighty arms.

And if Named & Known becomes part of what You are building,we will walk forward in faith.