The Beasley Family

📖 In the Hands of God

Stephanie: 🌅 The morning of March 5, 2023 began in darkness and panic. I jolted awake just before dawn to a strange wetness and a deep, visceral fear. Throwing back the sheets, my trembling hands came away coated in warm, red blood. “Jeff!” I gasped, my voice cracking in the predawn silence. In an instant, my husband was at my side, eyes wide with alarm as he saw the sheets. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air. Our twins—I was eighteen weeks pregnant, and all I could think was Oh God, please, not the babies.

Jeff fumbled for the phone with one hand while steadying me with the other. A flurry of questions: “Are you in pain? How much is it?” I was too shocked to answer coherently. A dull ache had started low in my belly, and tears blurred my vision. This can’t be happening. We had just heard their heartbeats days ago, two steady whooshing rhythms. Now, please God, let them be okay. 🙏

We decided there was no time to wait for an ambulance. Jeff helped me into the truck, grabbing a towel for me to sit on. The world outside was still dark; a few stars pricked the sky. ✨ He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other gripping mine. I pressed his hand hard against my belly, desperate for some reassurance that our babies were still with us. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of terror through me. I whispered prayers under my breath, “Lord, be with us. Save our babies. Please, please.” ❤️

Jeff: 💔 My heart pounded wildly as I sped through the empty early-morning streets toward HonorHealth Scottsdale Shea Medical Center. Stephanie was in the passenger seat beside me, face ashen, eyes clenched shut in pain and prayer. I had never felt so helpless. One hand steadied the wheel at 80 mph, the other clutched her cold, sticky hand. Her blood had soaked through the towel and onto the seat. I dared not look too long at it; I needed to stay composed for her. Inside, I was screaming every prayer I knew. “Hang on, little ones… God, please, keep them safe.” 🙏

We screeched up to the hospital entrance, and I threw the truck in park, leaping out to yell for help. A nurse rushed out with a wheelchair. As they eased Stephanie into it, a sob escaped her lips. I grabbed her hand, running alongside as they rushed us through corridors bathed in harsh fluorescent light. 💨

In the maternity triage, nurses swarmed, their faces intent. Monitors were strapped to Stephanie’s belly. I stood by her head, stroking her hair, my pulse racing as the room filled with the swoosh-swoosh of fetal heart monitors. Two heartbeats — thank God! — I heard them, quick and fragile, but there. Stephanie and I exchanged a look of relief mingled with terror. Our twins were alive, for now. 💕

A nurse appeared at the foot of the bed, gentle but frank as she examined Stephanie. “You’re experiencing a significant bleed,” she said. “We need to find the source. It could be a placental abruption or an incompetent cervix.” Medical terms washed over us. Then she said quietly, “It appears labor may be starting.”

Labor — at just 18 weeks. The words hung in the air like a death sentence. No... no, they’re too small. I felt Stephanie’s hand go limp in mine, her strength momentarily deserting her. I leaned close to her ear, choking back tears, and whispered, “I’m here. I love you. Hold on, honey. Hold on.” 💞

Stephanie: The first doctor arrived quickly. He examined me, eyes grave, and spoke with the clean, merciless precision of someone who has delivered this news before. “Your cervix is dilated,” he said. “At eighteen weeks, there isn’t anything we can do to stop what’s coming. Labor will likely start soon, and at this gestational age… there is no chance of survival.” 😔

The room tilted. I gripped Jeff’s hand until our knuckles went white. I heard myself ask something—anything—but the words dissolved in the air. The nurse beside him only shook her head softly, eyes shining with the kindest kind of sorrow. It felt like a verdict. 💧

Jeff: As monitors beeped and nurses whispered orders, I bowed my head next to my wife’s. Together we closed our eyes. “Father, into Your hands,” I prayed silently. “Please save them. Thy will be done, but please… let them live.” 🙏

“Be strong and courageous… do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

I squeezed Stephanie’s hand, and she squeezed back. We had no strength of our own left — only faith. ✝️

We did the only thing we knew to do. We prayed. We asked God for what sounded impossible: that He would hold our babies in place, that He would write a different story than the one we’d just been given. While we prayed, we texted family and our church. Within minutes, phones pinged with replies. “We’re praying now.” “On our knees.” “Jesus, help.” 📱🙏

Stephanie: Hours passed like years. Then a second physician stepped in — another perinatologist, sleeves rolled, voice steady but compassionate. “There is one option,” she said. “It is not without risk.” She explained they could perform an amniocentesis to check for infection. If there was no infection, they could gently reduce the amniotic sac back through the cervix and attempt an emergency cervical cerclage to reinforce it. She didn’t sugarcoat it: the procedures could puncture the sac or trigger labor. The risks were real. The benefits, if we made it through, were time — precious days or weeks for our babies to grow. ⏳

Jeff and I looked at one another, the same answer forming on both faces. We would try. We would accept the risk, because “no chance” was no life at all. We signed, we prayed again, and I held still as a needle slid through my abdomen into our daughter’s sac. It felt like the quietest, holiest gamble in the world. 💉✨

The cultures would take time, but the initial checks were clear enough to proceed. They wheeled me to a room, hung me upside down while jamming to Van Halen 🎸. Slowly, carefully, they eased the bulging membranes back. Then the cerclage — stitches set like a guard at the gate. When it was done, the room exhaled. Two heartbeats still skittered on the monitor. Against the first prognosis, we’d bought something priceless: time. ⏰❤️

Jeff: The surgery for Stephanie was over, and she was carefully transferred to a maternal intensive care room — a space that felt less like recovery and more like the front lines of a battle. The beeping monitors, the low hum of machines, and the constant shuffle of nurses made it clear: we were not in a place for resting; we were in a place for fighting. ⚔️

The fear of immediate loss was replaced with hope, but danger still hovered over every breath, every heartbeat on the monitor. The contractions were quiet, yet the threat of losing both our babies remained. In that sterile room, with the weight of uncertainty pressing down, faith became our only option. 🙏

We prayed. We listened to the steady rhythm of two fragile heartbeats. We whispered to each other in the dim light, holding on to the belief that God could do what man said was impossible. The battle had just begun. 💗

In that moment, all we knew was that we had moved from nothing we can do to there is a way — and that we had asked God for a path through the sea, and a narrow one had opened. 🌊✨

💐 Dedication

Dedicated to Juniper Bradley Beasley, our precious daughter who graced our lives for too brief a time; to Stetson, our miraculous son who reminds us every day of the power of hope; and to our other beautiful children Kenadie, Taryn, and Caleb — you are the lights that guide our journey: one from heaven above and the others here in our arms. 🌈💖

We also dedicate this work to all the parents who have walked similar paths of joy, loss, and miracle. May our story honor the memory of the little ones gone too soon and celebrate the fighters who stay to inspire us. 🕊️

“Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him.”