Our baby was called Anjou. Following a routine antenatal scan, we were told I needed to be referred to a specialist unit because of a foetal abnormality.

I was happily married to my husband Andy, and we already had a healthy two-year-old daughter. I was a junior doctor, and life was good. We felt that nothing could go wrong. In due course, the scans and various other tests confirmed that our baby had a rare condition called Trisomy 18 or Edwards Syndrome, a chromosome abnormality like Down's syndrome, but the condition is very much worse. Only 5-10% of babies survive the first year.

The news was devastating to us and sparked the inevitable discussion with medics about terminating the pregnancy. After all, what’s the point in continuing with the struggle and strife of a pregnancy where the child would not survive? But from the moment we heard the horrific news, Andy and I both felt that we wanted to continue with the pregnancy and care for our daughter until she died. We were absolutely clear that this was the right way forward because we believed that God was in control, and that this was a precious life that he had entrusted to us.

The pregnancy wasn’t easy. Sometimes I was able to be positive, but sometimes I despaired. Instead of the joy and hope of a new life it brought conversations about death to the centre of our family life.

Anjou was born on the 18 March 2002. Four days later, we took her home and cared for her until she died. We had an endless stream of visitors, many of whom cried as they held her. Sometimes it was for their own pain; sometimes for ours. One friend – a lovely Christian man in his 60s who was abandoned as a child and grew up in an orphanage – was a regular visitor. Each time he held her in his arms he looked at her with tears streaming down his face. And then there was an elderly lady who had had multiple miscarriages decades before and had never had the space or opportunity to mourn. Somehow, this tiny helpless child could reach deep within those places where perhaps the light had never shone to expose pain and bring healing.

I was shocked out of my comfortable life and forced to think seriously about my faith. I never doubted that God was in control, the truth of the Gospel or even God’s love for me, but the pain was all consuming. It was in that dark place that God met me, comforted me and kept me together as the condition ran its inevitable course.

I grew up in South Africa and at the same time that Andy and I lost Anjou, thousands of other African women were losing their babies because of HIV – a disease that was entirely preventable. So, we set up a charity that since 2002 has helped hundreds of thousands of  African children and their families.

Anjou, tiny and helpless, lived for only 47 days and yet she touched and changed the lives of our family and friends and catalysed deep healing and transformation. From a bedroom where she spent all her short life, she has made a difference to the lives of so many African children. The pain is still there, but what I find so miraculous is that out of something so painful God can do something so beautiful.