Funny the things you start to recognize when you “grow up,” eh? Why do we become more and more aware of pain as we get older? Is it because there is more hurt, or because we are more aware of it? I know it’s the latter. The closer I grow to the heart of God, the more my heart truly bleeds for people. Yeah, I know, this is starting out pretty heavy. But my heart is pretty heavy now. . . so I guess that’s just what you’re going to get tonight.
Over the pats couple of years, I have known a handful of women that have gone through quite similar battles. The battle is called by different names, but to its core–the roots are identical. The indescribable pain of longing so deeply for child, but having to face the reality that stands before them instead. And in that battle–I have watched, groaned, and mourned (sometimes publicly, sometimes silently) right along with them. I have asked the questions, fought back the tears, and listened as I impatiently jumped to false conclusion about myself. What if I’m not able to have children? What if this happens to me? How will I handle it? Will I handle it?
A dear friend of mine has gone through two miscarriages in the past two years, and while I sat and cried with her as she told me her story–I could not help but hang on her words, “What’s wrong with me? Why do I see other women around me that can carry their children just fine, and I can’t make it past stage 1, 2, or 3?” What–seriously–what do you say to that? Nothing.
This past summer, Kyle and I got the news that we were going to be an aunt and uncle. Kyle’s brother and sister-in-law, Sean and Sheyenne, had tried to have a child for a long time, and had begun the process of adoption when they found out they were pregnant. So much joy filled our family–specifically Sean and Sheyenne, as they had been through the struggle for over a year.
Just before our wedding, Sean and Sheyenne found out that the child they were carrying was in fact a little girl. But along with joy came tremendous pain–the possibility that although she might survive the birth, she would not survive much longer. I won’t go into many more details than that, but needless to say, throughout the waiting, praying, and crying–Whitney Jill died two weeks ago.
Usually with birth, comes life. In Whitney’s case, with birth, came death. And to be painfully, scary honest–my heart hurts. I have made attempts over the past couple of weeks to suck it up, not ask questions, not to be in pain–because I know that none of those things will make any of this go away. Whitney will not survive the womb because of my questions. But the other night, after reading through Whitney’s birth story that Sheyenne wrote, I lost control.
For the past few weeks, my heart has been sort of numb. Numb in the good kind of way–not the kind where I’m isolated, alone. . . but the kind that is a survival-type of numb. Last night, though, the numbness sort of wore off. Finally. I’m not used to feeling numb. In fact, I can probably count on my hand the several times I have not worn my heart on my sleeve in the midst of trying circumstances. But these past few weeks just called for it, I suppose.
Losing composure is never fun. Because in truth, I’m not mad at God. Not for one minute have I been angry. I have been deeply saddened, burdened, but at the same time overcome with joy that Christ reigns SO MUCH IN THEIR HEARTS that in the midst of the most painful experience I could imagine or dream, Christ remained at the forefront. Even when I don’t mean it, even when I can hardly save it, I know that after all falls apart, He will repair.