We who mourn are their mothers.

The surprise of learning I was pregnant, many months ago now, swiftly turned to joy. With that joy came all the questions, plans and aspirations that every mother knows.

Even as the child is growing within you, vanishingly small and vulnerable, you are already wondering about the thousand things it will take to be a good parent. What sort of birth will I have? How will we decorate his room? His — goodness, what if it is a her? How will we arrange for school, for education? How will we childproof the home? What will we name him or her? Where will we live as this new little one grows up? How do we create a faith life that teaches and enriches our newest, most precious addition? How do we deserve this son, this daughter, this life we have made?

And on a less elevated note, but one every mother in media has considered: How am I going to be pregnant with everyone watching?

The expectation of a child drags you out of yourself and into a life not yours — yet for which you are responsible. For a brief moment, I had the privilege of seeing myself in the sisterhood of motherhood.

Knowing all the extraordinary mothers that I do — from my own, to my friends, to so many examples of women who have raised children in love and faith, in good times and bad — I knew I was prepared in at least one way.

I was prepared in the circle of women to whom I could turn for advice, for support, for love.

Then it all ended — as our child ended.

Since then, I have asked the same question every mother asks who loves and loses a child: Why? Why was this light and joy held before us, and then the world where this child drew breath cast into shadow? Why was an innocent life created in the image of God and then abruptly snuffed out?