As a young couple of 19 and 23 my wife, Louise, and I went to Tanzania in 1946 to serve as Lutheran missionaries. We were stationed at a remote, but beautiful, area called Kijota.

The nearest Americans lived 20 miles away as the crow flies, and 50 miles by road during the rainy season. We did not experience loneliness because of the warm hospitality of our African neighbors. Yet we desired the enrichment our lives would acquire if we were more than just husband and wife alone.

For several years we had prayed for a baby. One day my wife sparkled, "Howie, you're going to become a father!" Happy months of preparation followed with a flurry of activity - building a crib, decorating the baby's room, preparing clothes, juggling possible names, and planning clever birth announcements. The days winged by. Everything moved precisely on schedule. We soon would become a family instead of just a couple.

Each day we thanked God for answering our prayers. "Can the joy of fulfillment exceed that of anticipation?" we wondered. Even before its birth we dedicated our baby to our heavenly Father. The Kiomboi Mission Hospital was 85 miles from Kijota. Journeying during the rains was risky, because the roads were not graveled, and the wadis had no bridges. What were normally dry riverbeds could swell suddenly to become inundating floods.  Being the newest missionaries on the field we were issued the oldest car, a decrepit relic which hung together mostly from habit. Despite the fact that we had christened this chariot Martin Luther ("Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise."), it brought us safely to the hospital.

When the maternity room was ready the doctor asked, "Perhaps you would care to witness the delivery?" "A strange suggestion," I thought, for this was not customary in those days. "Why, ye-, yes, yes, of course," I replied clumsily trying to hide my surprise.

Before undertaking the delivery the doctor said to me, "Would you please lead us in prayer?" As I bowed my head my eyes fell on the forceps lying next to the maternity table. I tried to exclude the sight from my mind as I prayed, "O Lord, Giver of life, be present now to guide the doctor. Keep my dear wife safe in your hands. Grant that the baby may be born sound in mind and body." With confidence I added, "Your will be done, O Lord."

The doctor inserted the high forceps. As he applied pressure the veins stood out on his neck, and beads of perspiration on his forehead glistened in the light. When Louise stirred he ordered, "More anesthetic!"

The previous nine months had sped by, but now the minutes dragged on leaden feet. Finally the doctor sighed as steady tension achieved the retraction. Quickly he cleaned away the nasal mucus from the baby and injected a heart stimulant.

"Why doesn't the baby cry? Why doesn't it start breathing?" I thought.

Then the crushing blow fell. The doctor laid the baby on the table. Every impulse in me shrieked “Don’t give up! Pick up the baby again. Try another stimulant! How do you know it’s useless?” To this cascade of thoughts there was no response. Apparently realizing that the baby had been dead for some time the doctor said, "I am sorry, Howie. Your son is dead."

In a flash it all became clear. Now I knew why the nurse had leaned so intently over the fetuscope, why the doctor had asked me to witness the delivery, why he wanted me to pray instead of praying himself, as he usually did.

“And what about my wife?” I asked with concern. The doctor replied uncertainly, “I think she’ll be all right.”

When Louise regained consciousness she smiled at me through heavy eyelids, “Is it a boy or a girl?" "It's a boy, but now you should get some sleep and when you awake I'll tell you all about it," I said, brushing her hair of her cheek.

While she slept I sent the cablegram to loved ones in America: "Mother fine. Son dead. There is a balm in Gilead." This was Feb. 12, 1949.

When Louise awoke I told her the whole pitiful story She received the news bravely saying, “We can thank God for the joy we had for nine months. Now God has our baby for eternity.” We locked our hands in prayer to the One who does not break the bruised reed.

After that we decided on a verse for the grave marker. It was not a subject to which we had given any thought. Yet the inspiration came quickly to use these words of assurance from Psalm 139:18, “When I awake I am still with you.”

When I left my wife in bed to make arrangements for the funeral she sobbed softly, “It’s going to be hard to go home to an empty house. We’ll be reminded by all the things we prepared for the baby we didn't bring home.”

In Africa the reality of death is vivid and poignant. In the tropics burial is not delayed long. There are no professional morticians in the rural areas, but the mourners assume this responsibility as a loving last tribute. Helping make the coffin was painful. As each nail was pounded into this plain box it was as though it were driven into my heart.

While Louise lay alone, longing to caress her baby, we buried him in the shade of a giant mahogany tree. Schoolboys sang of triumph and peace. The African pastor read the sure promises of the Word of God. Friends prayed, pouring the oil of joy on my spirit of heaviness.

One African friend said gently, "When the grave is small the sorrow is great." Another added, "Now through your great loss you will be able more effectively to comfort the many Africans who have bidden farewell to their precious children."

Following the funeral I returned to Lou's bedside. Now we had time to ponder and pray. After praising God for sparing my beloved wife I prayed, "Please, Lord, teach us in the depth of our sorrow not to squander the lesson you want us to learn." And the Lord did.

In all candor I must confess that when Gary Marcus was stillborn a bitterness swept over me, because I feel proper medical care could have assured us a living, healthy son. I have prayed that God would keep me from resentment and anger, and help me to rejoice instead in our four fine adopted children. However, though there is now no bitterness, the pain remains, and there is no name for our diminished state. A child whose parents die is called an orphan. A man/woman whose spouse dies is called a widower/widow. But there is no name for the grief-stricken parent who has lost a child.

This is part of the letter I wrote to my parents on Feb. 15, 1949, that day after the delivery.  "I am writing this at Lou's bedside. We have waited here two weeks for the arrival of our baby which came much later than the doctor's date. Yesterday Gary Marcus was born dead. We have passed through the dark night of the soul, but God has been with us. For many months Lou was unable

to conceive, and then as with God's benediction conception took place, During those months of waiting we dedicated our anticipated child to God, never really believing that the dedication would take such a form.

“For 36 hours Lou was in labor, and then Dr. Bertil had to take the baby by high forceps. If he had not done so Lou would have died, for the baby was so high even after 36 hours that she could never have delivered. Therefore I thank God that my darling Lou has been preserved to me. All through the delivery I was at Lou's side, and saw the love and tenderness that the angels of mercy, our nurses and doctor, gave her. One can scarcely measure the burden of grief that our Christian doctor and nurses bore in this case. The doctor had expected a living baby, since both mother and child were perfect during pregnancy. We are reminded what tender grapes our vines have when a child comes into the world just on the other side of the fine line between life and death. Gary was normal in every way. He was a beautiful child. Mom Anderson said he looked like you, Dad. He was seven pounds and 21 inches.

"We cannot answer why, we just know that in this situation God will work for good to them that love him. Just as we would have loved to have Gary, so too, God will love the variety that an infant brings to heaven. The Christ who said of such is the kingdom of heaven" will delight to hear his little cry. If someone asks, "Why?" I simply reply "God." Even in a stillbirth we see the wonder of God. We talk knowingly about genes, r.h. factors, x and y chromosomes, DNA spermatozoa, ovum, etc., but at last we ask "And what is behind them?" until we have pushed our query to that, beyond which there is nothing - God. It is wonderful to know that even where we cannot explain, there we can yet believe.

“We have been told that Lou can have other babies. Now, however, our love must find a new outlet. Other children will become more our own " Tim and Alice Jeanne, Davie and Janice, Pam and Judy, together with many little African tots.

"Lou's spirit has been one of the most wonderful testimonies I have ever seen. With a sweet kindness she comforts those who come to console her. I'm sure I'll never fully appreciate how she would love to hold him in her arms, to nurse him to speak to him, to pray for him, to feel his small hands on her cheeks. She said that it will increase our brotherhood with the Africans who have lost so many children. Now our child lies in the warm earth that covers their own. There have been many of these African saints who have both comforted and prayed for us. Many of them have had only one child living out of ten who have been born to them.

"Yesterday I went to Kinampanda where we buried Gary alongside two other missionaries' children. Two of our Turu school boys who were studying there served as pall bearers. The whole group of Turu boys sang two songs as Dad Anderson officiated at the committal. "Everyone has been so very kind to us. Edythe Kjellin has brought beautiful flowers to Lou every day. Both the nurses have served Lou with utmost tenderness. It has meant a great deal to me to have Rube Pederson, my classmate, here to share the load with me.

“Well, it has been a bitter-sweet experience. To try to hide our sorrow would be shallow pretense - even Jesus wept. I know that it will be hard for Lou to come home and see the buggy and crib, and all the little things she so happily prepared for his homecoming, and to face the lonesome days that will follow Although we feel our loss keenly, God has taught us not to squander this sorrow. It has taught us to trust him more, and to love one another more deeply. We have shed tears, but a doxology has flowed with them. We have sorrow but it is undergirded by God's unshakeable peace. I thank God that Lou is recovering from the physical ordeal. We rejoice in the certainty of immortality.

Our sorrow is for the moment, but our joy is wrought of the stuff of which eternity is made. I forgot to mention what a wonderful comfort all the Andersons have been to both of us. They have been real parents and brothers to me too. Mom A. will come back home with us for a while to help Lou."   Love, Howie and Lou

As a moving sequel to this experience, our dear son, Howard Joseph, the first of our four adopted children wrote us, Feb. 12, 1999.

"Dear Mom and Dad,

Fifty years ago was such a special but tragic day. Poleni sana!

You might be surprised if you knew how often I think of little Gary Marcus. Over the years I have spent hours and hours trying to understand, but know I never will. I will always mourn that sad loss even though I understand that I would probably not know you, my dear parents, or know anything about the great country of Tanzania. As a child at Kiomboi when I could get to Kinampanda I would sit under the huge tree and wish my big brother were with me.

My children have taught us so much, but to think of losing them is unthinkable, so I mourn with you although your trust in God is undoubtedly stronger and more supportive of you. Your witness and strength are very powerful to me.

Our little Tadayo Gary is part of you too, you know. He will never replace Gary Marcus but it was the best tribute I could think of for that dearly beloved little baby.

I love you both dearly. "

Howard and Louise Olson served for 42 years as missionaries to Tanzinia. His translations of African hymns like  “Listen, God is Calling” and “Christ Has Arisen, Alleluia!” has introduced much of American Lutheranism to African hymnody. This selection is taken from his memoirs “Footprints” under consideration for publication by the ALPB, and is copyrighted by Howard Olson who has graciously granted permission for its posting here. Howard and Louise currently reside in Florida.