It was a Friday unlike any other.
I had begun my duties for the morning, and as I toiled in the brutal heat, my ear caught the triumphant jeers of a crowd nearby. Dusting my knees, I dirtied my clumsy two left feet as I ventured to explore the commotion.
Elbows were flying in my face. Their taunts deafening my ears. Pushing and prodding my way through the relieved sweat of a multitude feeling justified, I finally caught sight of the crowd's genesis.
A crucifixion, I muttered.
It had been a while since our quiet streets had had one, and the throng shouted with a vengeance to make up for lost time.
I had never seen one, and my eyes perked with curiosity.
I watched as a group of armored guards stood mockingly over the criminal, who lay draped and handcuffed to a post in the center of their circle. He was dripping with perspiration and bloodied from a good beating. He hung his head low, letting his chestnut locks fall freely across his brow.
The guards smiled cruelly at their cat-o-nine tails, waiting for the fun to commence. As the criminal took quick, anticipatory breaths, the first guard slashed his whip across the man's bare back. The man gave an unearthly wail as his fresh wounds began to seep. Before he could catch another breath, the second guard followed suit to the first. Their whipping accelerated with each turn. It became a game of sorts.
I began to count the lashes.
Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...
They knew they had to stop at thirty-nine. By the time they had reached thirty, I choked with empathy.
I don't know if he's going to make it to thirty-nine.
As the last lash scraped fervently across his back, he collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. I gasped at the sight.
There's no skin left on his back, I thought. How can he stand that?
Nonetheless, as my mother had always taught me, I reminded myself that these people are criminals. They get what they deserve. He must have done something terrible to deserve this.
As the man arched his back to let out a desperate cry, I finally caught a glimpse of his face. He almost didn't look human. His cheeks were bruised, his eyes bloodshot. Dirt speckled his forehead. Inadvertant wounds from the flogging had stained his face. And as he wept, I caught his eye.
He looks familiar, I thought. Yes, he's the one. The one they call this "Messiah." But this didn't make any sense. Just days earlier, I was here for the parade that welcomed him to town. I had waved a palm branch to celebrate his arrival. I looked around me. So had these other people.
My eyes welled.
I nudged the woman next to me who was screaming obscenities at this poor man.
"Isn't he the one they call 'Messiah?' Isn't his name Jesus?" I asked her pensively.
She pushed me out of her way and further back into the crowd. Suddenly afraid of the scene around me, I watched as those who had stood singing his praises just a week earlier spat vulgarities in his blood-tinged face.
As I looked hopelessly at him, the guards drew near with a thorny bush cradled horribly in their hands.
It looks like a crown, I thought. Please don't put that on his head.
But it was too late. The guards adorned his bloodied brow with their crass creation. They shoved it harder, harder onto his head, as if to make some petty point. The man opened his mouth and screamed at the pain that was inflicted anew.
Before a tear could fall from my wide eyes, they began to push him, urging him toward the hill where he would be crucified. They paused briefly to saddle his scarred shoulders with an enormous wooden beam.
That must be it. That must be the cross.
He trudged achingly along the stony path, all while insults and spit stung his saddened frame. I moved quickly to keep up with the crowd as we followed the procession.
His steps became heavy and burdened until he fell flat on his face. This stole the breath from my body, and I felt my heart telling my feet to move near to his side. Before my feet could get the message to run to him, a young gentleman had helped the man back to his feet and lovingly carried the beam the rest of the way.
We reached the top of the hill they call Calvary, and the guards shoved the man angrily to the ground, roping his arms to the rough wooden beam. A nearby guard brought over a handful of rusty spikes.
What is he going to do with those nails? I thought. He's had enough. Please don't hurt him anymore.
But my wistful thoughts were in vain. My eyes couldn't tear themselves away as the guard centered the spike on the man's palm. Raising a mallet to the sky, he cracked forcefully upon the nail, sending it shooting into his hand.
I turned and looked away while he finished. But the sound of the mallet hitting the metal is forever engraved in my memory.
Once he had been sufficiently fastened to the beam, they began to raise the cross until he hung high above the crowds that continued to hurl hatred at him.
And as he bore insult after insult, I finally heard his voice, sweet like honey, emerge from his raw and bloodied lips.
"Father, forgive them. They don't know what they're doing."
I erupted into sobs. I looked incredulously at the seemingly clueless onlookers who surrounded me.
But he couldn't have done anything! He's innocent! I know he is! He doesn't deserve this!
His breathing became labored and uneven. I prayed, hoping for a miracle that somehow he would come down, free himself and save us all.
Exhausted, he spoke once more.
"It is finished."
His head dropped. His body lifeless, save for his dirtied locks that rustled in the breeze.
I fell to my face wondering why it had to be him. Why him. Thunderous clouds began to ominously loom overhead, and as the first raindrop landed painfully against my cheek, I knew.
Surely, this was the Son of God.
**********
I wish this was a made-up story; a fictional tale that was limited only to the imagination.
But it isn't.
That guard didn't nail Jesus to the cross. I did.
The thorns didn't pierce his brow. I did.
The whips didn't tear across his back. I did.
No, he didn't deserve it. I did.
But because He loved me and because He loved you, He did.
Every lie, every bit of hate, every obscenity, every sin was taken to the cross that day. And it was settled. It was forgiven. It was finished.
But praise Jesus, because He didn't remain in the grave, neither do we. Neither do we.
Believe, friends. Believe He wasn't a criminal. Believe He wasn't just a prophet. Believe He wasn't just a good man.
Believe.
Surely, this was the Son of God.
"But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed." ~Isaiah 53:5
Learning to Soar for Jesus
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Cup
An age-old question is often used to determine our attitude toward life:
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Now, I don't know about you, but my answer often depends on the day (and the beverage involved), but generally if you see it as half empty, you're a pessimist, and if you see it as half full, you're an optimist.
Admittedly, I've been having a "glass-half-empty" time lately. Yeah, I'm down, a little discouraged. And because this weekend brought a great deal of joy for a number of others in my life, I emptied my glass to help fill theirs.
And now, I'm frustrated.
Why isn't anyone filling my cup?
I'm not asking for a full glass, here. Just a swig. A sip. A sampling of the good stuff.
Their cups are overflowing, I think to myself. Can't they spare a little?
Because our human nature is to be selfish and to think that when we give something, we're due something in return, we often find ourselves feeling a bit bankrupt.
Yes, it's good to encourage one another. To fill each others' cups with love and celebration.
But the stuff we pass out to each other runs dry.
It's not an all-you-can-drink buffet of sorts. We can't give of ourselves when our own glasses are empty.
So, you ask, where can I get an endless supply so I never run out?
In the book of John, Jesus meets with a Samaritan woman at a well. She's minding her own business, drawing her own water, when Jesus asks her for a drink.
Because Samaritans didn't associate with Jews, she responds with something such as, "You talking to me?"
His fervent reply, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life" (John 4: 1-26).
It's easy to let our joy and our satisfaction stem from what others give us. But when they inevitably stop giving, we're left pining. Yearning.
Thirsty.
For years, whenever I would begin to feel empty like this, my mother would always ask me if I had been in the Word lately. No, of course I hadn't.
"Then fill your tank," she'd say.
I would often resist, at first. Because I was too "busy" or what not. But as soon as I recharged my life with His Word, I began to care less about what I could scrape up from others. I don't need their water.
I have Living Water. Water that never runs dry.
Are you thirsty? Parched? Waiting for a trickle of someone's happiness to spill into your life?
Don't settle for sips of the good stuff. Fill your tank. Dig deep into His Word and let His marvelous grace pour into your life. Your glass won't just be full.
It'll downright overflow.
![]()
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Now, I don't know about you, but my answer often depends on the day (and the beverage involved), but generally if you see it as half empty, you're a pessimist, and if you see it as half full, you're an optimist.
Admittedly, I've been having a "glass-half-empty" time lately. Yeah, I'm down, a little discouraged. And because this weekend brought a great deal of joy for a number of others in my life, I emptied my glass to help fill theirs.
And now, I'm frustrated.
Why isn't anyone filling my cup?
I'm not asking for a full glass, here. Just a swig. A sip. A sampling of the good stuff.
Their cups are overflowing, I think to myself. Can't they spare a little?
Because our human nature is to be selfish and to think that when we give something, we're due something in return, we often find ourselves feeling a bit bankrupt.
Yes, it's good to encourage one another. To fill each others' cups with love and celebration.
But the stuff we pass out to each other runs dry.
It's not an all-you-can-drink buffet of sorts. We can't give of ourselves when our own glasses are empty.
So, you ask, where can I get an endless supply so I never run out?
In the book of John, Jesus meets with a Samaritan woman at a well. She's minding her own business, drawing her own water, when Jesus asks her for a drink.
Because Samaritans didn't associate with Jews, she responds with something such as, "You talking to me?"
His fervent reply, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life" (John 4: 1-26).
It's easy to let our joy and our satisfaction stem from what others give us. But when they inevitably stop giving, we're left pining. Yearning.
Thirsty.
For years, whenever I would begin to feel empty like this, my mother would always ask me if I had been in the Word lately. No, of course I hadn't.
"Then fill your tank," she'd say.
I would often resist, at first. Because I was too "busy" or what not. But as soon as I recharged my life with His Word, I began to care less about what I could scrape up from others. I don't need their water.
I have Living Water. Water that never runs dry.
Are you thirsty? Parched? Waiting for a trickle of someone's happiness to spill into your life?
Don't settle for sips of the good stuff. Fill your tank. Dig deep into His Word and let His marvelous grace pour into your life. Your glass won't just be full.
It'll downright overflow.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The Down Comforter
Our itty bitty (yet somehow hefty) pup Zoey is quite the character. A troublemaker, really. She may come off as sweet and quiet (and she is most of the time), but too often she poops under the bed, makes off with my socks and underwear, and somehow becomes deaf whenever we go outside.
She's such a stinker. And, I'll admit, spoiled rotten.
Lately, she's developed this interesting new habit. Normally, she likes to snuggle against my back when I'm sleeping at night, but when I woke up one morning and couldn't find her, I began to panic that she had fallen off the bed.
Strangely, I noticed that our down comforter felt extra heavy.
Our little peanut had not just crawled under the covers...
She had buried herself inside the duvet at the foot of the bed. I'm not sure how she managed to get in there in the first place, but I had to unbutton it and literally drag her out of there.
Ever since, when it's time for bed, she dives head first under the covers. It seems to be the only way she can sleep. Of course, I'm afraid she's going to smother and frequently try to coax her back out so she can breathe.
But my efforts are in vain. There she is. Every morning. Still breathing. Buried in the comforter.
Days later, I had called my mother to talk to her on my way home from work, and I laughingly told her about Zoey's new favorite place to sleep (read: snore). She chuckled and then paused.
"That reminds me," she said. "I came across this verse today and I thought of you. It's a psalm that talks about 'singing under the shadow of his wings.'" She went on to explain that as I go through this difficult time in my life, He protects me like a baby bird under His wings. "Just like Zoey feels safe by hiding under the covers," she said, "you can hide yourself in Him."
I thought about that as I got home. And I laughed out loud as I truly made the connection. It makes perfect sense.
Zoey feels safe in the comforter.
Why do we seek comfort on a daily basis? We use medicine to comfort our aches. Comfort food to satisfy our hunger. Hugs to comfort our hurts.
We seek comfort to free ourselves from pain.
The Bible speaks often of the Lord being our Comforter. He can bring us comfort. He can free us from our pain.
And what's more, He can turn that pain into something beautiful.
In the time of David, a horrible plague swept through Israel as a punishment for his wrongdoing. As He saw how Israel hurt, the Lord had mercy on David and his people and removed their pain.
It is believed that Psalm 30 was written by David in response to the Lord's comfort:
1 I will exalt you, LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 LORD my God, I called to you for help,
and you healed me.
3 You, LORD, brought me up from the realm of the dead;
you spared me from going down to the pit.
4 Sing the praises of the LORD, you his faithful people;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may stay for the night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."
7 LORD, when you favored me,
you made my royal mountain stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What is gained if I am silenced,
if I go down to the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, LORD, and be merciful to me;
LORD, be my help."
11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
LORD my God, I will praise you forever.
Praise God, we don't have to hurt forever. He is good. He is faithful. Not only will He comfort your pain, He will redeem it.
Let Him fashion beauty from your ashes. Let Him turn your mourning into dancing. Your sorrow into joy.
It's been a long trip, my friend. You must be exhausted.
Come and rest.
Like Zoey, hide yourself in The Comforter.
![]()
She's such a stinker. And, I'll admit, spoiled rotten.
Lately, she's developed this interesting new habit. Normally, she likes to snuggle against my back when I'm sleeping at night, but when I woke up one morning and couldn't find her, I began to panic that she had fallen off the bed.
Strangely, I noticed that our down comforter felt extra heavy.
Our little peanut had not just crawled under the covers...
She had buried herself inside the duvet at the foot of the bed. I'm not sure how she managed to get in there in the first place, but I had to unbutton it and literally drag her out of there.
Ever since, when it's time for bed, she dives head first under the covers. It seems to be the only way she can sleep. Of course, I'm afraid she's going to smother and frequently try to coax her back out so she can breathe.
But my efforts are in vain. There she is. Every morning. Still breathing. Buried in the comforter.
Days later, I had called my mother to talk to her on my way home from work, and I laughingly told her about Zoey's new favorite place to sleep (read: snore). She chuckled and then paused.
"That reminds me," she said. "I came across this verse today and I thought of you. It's a psalm that talks about 'singing under the shadow of his wings.'" She went on to explain that as I go through this difficult time in my life, He protects me like a baby bird under His wings. "Just like Zoey feels safe by hiding under the covers," she said, "you can hide yourself in Him."
I thought about that as I got home. And I laughed out loud as I truly made the connection. It makes perfect sense.
Zoey feels safe in the comforter.
Why do we seek comfort on a daily basis? We use medicine to comfort our aches. Comfort food to satisfy our hunger. Hugs to comfort our hurts.
We seek comfort to free ourselves from pain.
The Bible speaks often of the Lord being our Comforter. He can bring us comfort. He can free us from our pain.
And what's more, He can turn that pain into something beautiful.
In the time of David, a horrible plague swept through Israel as a punishment for his wrongdoing. As He saw how Israel hurt, the Lord had mercy on David and his people and removed their pain.
It is believed that Psalm 30 was written by David in response to the Lord's comfort:
1 I will exalt you, LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 LORD my God, I called to you for help,
and you healed me.
3 You, LORD, brought me up from the realm of the dead;
you spared me from going down to the pit.
4 Sing the praises of the LORD, you his faithful people;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may stay for the night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."
7 LORD, when you favored me,
you made my royal mountain stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What is gained if I am silenced,
if I go down to the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, LORD, and be merciful to me;
LORD, be my help."
11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
LORD my God, I will praise you forever.
Praise God, we don't have to hurt forever. He is good. He is faithful. Not only will He comfort your pain, He will redeem it.
Let Him fashion beauty from your ashes. Let Him turn your mourning into dancing. Your sorrow into joy.
It's been a long trip, my friend. You must be exhausted.
Come and rest.
Like Zoey, hide yourself in The Comforter.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Tin Foil, Peanut Butter, and Really Long Words
Xanthophobia: fear of the color yellow or the word yellow
Lachanophobia: fear of vegetables
Kathisophobia: fear of sitting down
Psellismophobia: fear of stuttering (I think this one is downright mean)
Ablutophobia: fear of washing or bathing
Bromidrosiphobia: fear of body smells (I'm guessing these guys can't be friends with the ablutophobics...)
Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia: fear of the number 666
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia: fear of long words (my, my, someone has a sense of humor)
Phobophobia: fear of phobias
I can't make this stuff up. Really.
When I was younger, I was watching an episode of Maury Povich (pretend you didn't hear that), and a woman was being interviewed about her fear of tin foil. Halfway through her talk with Maury, a stagehand ran onstage with a sheet of tin foil and chased her up into the audience. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.
Sure, we can laugh about "silly" fears like those. I'm sure these phobias all stem from some sort of past harrowing situation, but when you take it at face value, you think, "People are really afraid of getting peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths? That's. Messed. Up."
When I was a kid, I was afraid of the normal stuff. Thunderstorms. Snakes. Spiders. The dark. My rocking chair.
What? You mean you weren't scared of your rocking chair?
Okay, okay. I had a nightmare one time that my rocking chair came to life and tried to come and get me. After that, I kept a close eye on it. I was sure it was moving closer and closer every evening.
I swear I was a very normal child.
But let's throw out some other fears here, shall we?
Eremophobia: fear of loneliness.
Carcinophobia: fear of cancer.
Algophobia: fear of pain.
Necrophobia: fear of death.
Not so funny, now. These are pretty common. And you know what? I'll bet most of the phobias out there boil down to a fear of pain or death (although I'm not sure what the color yellow could ever do to you. But I digress...).
We don't see these fears as being abnormal. We should be afraid of these things. They're truly scary.
Right?
I'll admit, right now I'm developing a phobia of the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet. They're there, waiting for me to start taking them again. To provide a daily reminder that it hasn't happened yet. And that there's a chance it never will.
I fear it because I know that another miscarriage is a real possibility for me. And another loss means pain.
And death.
Everybody keeps asking us when we're going to start trying again. Dru and I have decided that we will keep it to ourselves when we do. But frankly, I have no earthly idea because I'm scared out of my mind.
Just like little girls fantasize about their dream weddings, as they get older, they start to think about having the perfect pregnancy: no real "trying," carry to term, cute little baby bump, and a healthy baby to take home.
Sigh. It just doesn't work that way sometimes. And I'll admit that I feel extra discouraged lately because I've had some friends confide in me about their recent struggles to get and/or stay pregnant. Misfortune feels rampant at the moment, just as I was starting to get the slightest spark of excitement at the thought of trying again.
I feel cheated. If we are blessed with another positive pregnancy test, it won't be as happy an experience as it could be. We don't think about saving for cribs or private schools or college. We think about saving for D&Cs, should I need one or two in the future.
I wish I could be ignorant; I wish I could think that two pink lines mean I'm getting a baby.
But as I sit here and put these thoughts into print, I see doubt woven in each sentence. I doubt that we'll get pregnant. I doubt that we'll stay pregnant. I doubt that we'll be parents.
Dare I say, perhaps these doubts reflect a doubt in...God?
Think about it. As I said earlier, most of our fears boil down to a fear of pain or death. If you are a believer, you simply can't fear these things.
Because your God is greater.
He is greater than any pain that can be inflicted on your body. He is greater than the loneliness you feel after a divorce. He is greater than any sickness.
He is greater than death.
He conquered death. It's over. It's finished. We don't have to fear it anymore.
So ask yourself: why do you still fear it?
Do you doubt Him? Do you doubt what He did for you on the cross? Do you doubt that He is King? That He is in control?
Only you can answer that.
Truthfully, friends, the only thing we should be absolutely terrified of is permanent separation from God. If you've given your life to Him, then your fears have no place here.
No place here.
In fact, they're just as ridiculous as being afraid of tin foil or peanut butter.
Suddenly, the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet seem a little less menacing. There may be more losses in store for me. Maybe not. But I can't be afraid to try. I can't be afraid to try.
I can't be afraid.
I won't be afraid.
Sigh.
Bottoms up.
"When I am afraid, I will trust in you." ~Psalm 56:3
Lachanophobia: fear of vegetables
Kathisophobia: fear of sitting down
Psellismophobia: fear of stuttering (I think this one is downright mean)
Ablutophobia: fear of washing or bathing
Bromidrosiphobia: fear of body smells (I'm guessing these guys can't be friends with the ablutophobics...)
Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia: fear of the number 666
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia: fear of long words (my, my, someone has a sense of humor)
Phobophobia: fear of phobias
I can't make this stuff up. Really.
When I was younger, I was watching an episode of Maury Povich (pretend you didn't hear that), and a woman was being interviewed about her fear of tin foil. Halfway through her talk with Maury, a stagehand ran onstage with a sheet of tin foil and chased her up into the audience. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.
Sure, we can laugh about "silly" fears like those. I'm sure these phobias all stem from some sort of past harrowing situation, but when you take it at face value, you think, "People are really afraid of getting peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths? That's. Messed. Up."
When I was a kid, I was afraid of the normal stuff. Thunderstorms. Snakes. Spiders. The dark. My rocking chair.
What? You mean you weren't scared of your rocking chair?
Okay, okay. I had a nightmare one time that my rocking chair came to life and tried to come and get me. After that, I kept a close eye on it. I was sure it was moving closer and closer every evening.
I swear I was a very normal child.
But let's throw out some other fears here, shall we?
Eremophobia: fear of loneliness.
Carcinophobia: fear of cancer.
Algophobia: fear of pain.
Necrophobia: fear of death.
Not so funny, now. These are pretty common. And you know what? I'll bet most of the phobias out there boil down to a fear of pain or death (although I'm not sure what the color yellow could ever do to you. But I digress...).
We don't see these fears as being abnormal. We should be afraid of these things. They're truly scary.
Right?
I'll admit, right now I'm developing a phobia of the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet. They're there, waiting for me to start taking them again. To provide a daily reminder that it hasn't happened yet. And that there's a chance it never will.
I fear it because I know that another miscarriage is a real possibility for me. And another loss means pain.
And death.
Everybody keeps asking us when we're going to start trying again. Dru and I have decided that we will keep it to ourselves when we do. But frankly, I have no earthly idea because I'm scared out of my mind.
Just like little girls fantasize about their dream weddings, as they get older, they start to think about having the perfect pregnancy: no real "trying," carry to term, cute little baby bump, and a healthy baby to take home.
Sigh. It just doesn't work that way sometimes. And I'll admit that I feel extra discouraged lately because I've had some friends confide in me about their recent struggles to get and/or stay pregnant. Misfortune feels rampant at the moment, just as I was starting to get the slightest spark of excitement at the thought of trying again.
I feel cheated. If we are blessed with another positive pregnancy test, it won't be as happy an experience as it could be. We don't think about saving for cribs or private schools or college. We think about saving for D&Cs, should I need one or two in the future.
I wish I could be ignorant; I wish I could think that two pink lines mean I'm getting a baby.
But as I sit here and put these thoughts into print, I see doubt woven in each sentence. I doubt that we'll get pregnant. I doubt that we'll stay pregnant. I doubt that we'll be parents.
Dare I say, perhaps these doubts reflect a doubt in...God?
Think about it. As I said earlier, most of our fears boil down to a fear of pain or death. If you are a believer, you simply can't fear these things.
Because your God is greater.
He is greater than any pain that can be inflicted on your body. He is greater than the loneliness you feel after a divorce. He is greater than any sickness.
He is greater than death.
He conquered death. It's over. It's finished. We don't have to fear it anymore.
So ask yourself: why do you still fear it?
Do you doubt Him? Do you doubt what He did for you on the cross? Do you doubt that He is King? That He is in control?
Only you can answer that.
Truthfully, friends, the only thing we should be absolutely terrified of is permanent separation from God. If you've given your life to Him, then your fears have no place here.
No place here.
In fact, they're just as ridiculous as being afraid of tin foil or peanut butter.
Suddenly, the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet seem a little less menacing. There may be more losses in store for me. Maybe not. But I can't be afraid to try. I can't be afraid to try.
I can't be afraid.
I won't be afraid.
Sigh.
Bottoms up.
"When I am afraid, I will trust in you." ~Psalm 56:3
Monday, June 20, 2011
Prayer Needed
Good afternoon, friends.
This has been weighing heavily on my heart today. I woke up to an email from my mother saying that a sweet couple from their Sunday School class had sent them an urgent prayer request. Their daughter was experiencing problems with her pregnancy (lost all of her amniotic fluid), and the doctors didn't feel like she would be able to continue with the pregnancy. She was far enough along to have to deliver the baby last night.
The baby passed away this morning.
Please be in prayer for grandparents Paul and Bonnie and mom Karyn (I am unsure of dad's name) as they grieve the loss of this little baby. If you are reading this and know the family, please reach out to them in some way when you see them. They are devastated but have peace knowing that the baby is safe in the arms of Jesus.
I also wanted to let you know that if you have any prayer requests at all (not just pregnancy or baby related), you can email them to me at dandcchildress@gmail.com or post them in a comment here, if you feel comfortable doing so. I would love to have the opportunity to pray for whatever is going on in your life.
Hope that you all enjoy the rest of this sunny afternoon.
This has been weighing heavily on my heart today. I woke up to an email from my mother saying that a sweet couple from their Sunday School class had sent them an urgent prayer request. Their daughter was experiencing problems with her pregnancy (lost all of her amniotic fluid), and the doctors didn't feel like she would be able to continue with the pregnancy. She was far enough along to have to deliver the baby last night.
The baby passed away this morning.
Please be in prayer for grandparents Paul and Bonnie and mom Karyn (I am unsure of dad's name) as they grieve the loss of this little baby. If you are reading this and know the family, please reach out to them in some way when you see them. They are devastated but have peace knowing that the baby is safe in the arms of Jesus.
I also wanted to let you know that if you have any prayer requests at all (not just pregnancy or baby related), you can email them to me at dandcchildress@gmail.com or post them in a comment here, if you feel comfortable doing so. I would love to have the opportunity to pray for whatever is going on in your life.
Hope that you all enjoy the rest of this sunny afternoon.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Little Give and Take
It was a sunny morning at the end of a grueling semester in nursing school. Still wiping the sleep from my eyes, I trudged over to my student mailbox, as I would any other morning.
Smith... Smith... Smith! There I was.
I opened the folder looking for old papers that might have been graded, take home tests, homework.
But...what was this?
A curious packet sat regally amidst my pharmacology essay and my Mental Health assignment.
It was a notice that I had received a scholarship. A big scholarship.
I tried to knock the sleep from my brain as I stared wide-eyed at the acceptance letter. A smile crept across my lips, and I fumbled for my cell phone to let my parents (who were footing the bill for my college education) in on the good news.
"Mom!" I exclaimed. "You're never going to believe this! I got a scholarship! A big one!" She squealed with delight as I dished the details.
"And the funny thing is, I don't even remember applying for it!"
Well, that's because I hadn't.
It had my name on it, all right. But there was another nursing student by the name of Chelsea Smith.
And the scholarship was meant for her.
Yuck.
My spirit crashed as quickly as it had soared when I realized what had happened. I messaged the other Chelsea Smith to give her the good news before sitting down to write a furious email to the people who hadn't bothered to make sure they were giving the scholarship to the right girl. I believe I said something along the lines that the "5 rights" should have been applied in this situation, much as it should in a hospital setting.
But how could I be mad, right? Yes, the scholarship was in my name. And it was in my hands.
But did it ever really belong to me?
Life is full of this sort of stuff. A little give. A little take. It often seems that as soon as a good thing occurs, something terrible is on its heels, and we're left feeling robbed. Neglected. Poor.
Let's journey back to the book of Job for a little more exploration on this subject, shall we? (I told you this would happen :))
As I shared with you last time, Job was a good man, and so God gave. And gave. And gave.
Satan enters with a proposition, and God allows him to take. And take. And take.
Job was literally left with no one. Nothing. Well, excpet for his wife--and she's quite a winner. (I'm wondering if leaving her alive was perhaps the worst torture Satan could afflict on him. Yeesh. But I digress...)
He had, and then he had not.
And again, when his oh-so-wonderful wife tells him to curse God and die, how does he respond?
"The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord! Shall we receive good at the hand of God and not receive evil?"
I don't know about you, but this is hardly how I feel when something I cherish is ripped from my grasp. If it's ever been in my hands, then it's mine. I want it. I need it. And you can't have it back.
I think we can get into an interesting conversation here about whether God actually takes away the good things in our lives. I read a blog recently that said she felt that the notion of "God gives and takes away" is rubbish because "God would never want His children to hurt."
Something needs to be made very clear, though. God is not your magic genie who is only on stand-by to grant you your wishes. He isn't a waiter who brings you items as you please.
He's not concerned with your gratification. He's concerned with your growth.
And He very well will allow a subtraction from our possessions if it means that we will forsake a life of comfort for a deeper connection with Him.
He doesn't remove things to be mean or spiteful. Certainly, there are consequences for poor decisions, but I don't believe God allows miscarriage or cancer or death because He wants to make you upset.
He doesn't want you to hurt, but He wants your heart. And unfortunately, sometimes the hurt is what it takes to get your heart.
He wants you. All of you. He never says that a life with Him will be simple. It's not supposed to be.
But He promises that He'll be with you. That you won't be alone. And He promises that He won't quit until this work in you is finished.
I don't know why God allowed the passing of Maria Chapman or Audrey Caroline Smith. I don't know why He allowed the passing of Eli and Sarah.
But I know that God is good. So good. And I know that He's up to something greater.
So, please. Take a good look around you. Your home. Your spouse. Your family. Your children. Your job.
Everything.
Yes, they may have your name on them. They may be in your hands. But just like that scholarship, they don't really belong to you.
Loosen your grasp and believe.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.
Smith... Smith... Smith! There I was.
I opened the folder looking for old papers that might have been graded, take home tests, homework.
But...what was this?
A curious packet sat regally amidst my pharmacology essay and my Mental Health assignment.
It was a notice that I had received a scholarship. A big scholarship.
I tried to knock the sleep from my brain as I stared wide-eyed at the acceptance letter. A smile crept across my lips, and I fumbled for my cell phone to let my parents (who were footing the bill for my college education) in on the good news.
"Mom!" I exclaimed. "You're never going to believe this! I got a scholarship! A big one!" She squealed with delight as I dished the details.
"And the funny thing is, I don't even remember applying for it!"
Well, that's because I hadn't.
It had my name on it, all right. But there was another nursing student by the name of Chelsea Smith.
And the scholarship was meant for her.
Yuck.
My spirit crashed as quickly as it had soared when I realized what had happened. I messaged the other Chelsea Smith to give her the good news before sitting down to write a furious email to the people who hadn't bothered to make sure they were giving the scholarship to the right girl. I believe I said something along the lines that the "5 rights" should have been applied in this situation, much as it should in a hospital setting.
But how could I be mad, right? Yes, the scholarship was in my name. And it was in my hands.
But did it ever really belong to me?
Life is full of this sort of stuff. A little give. A little take. It often seems that as soon as a good thing occurs, something terrible is on its heels, and we're left feeling robbed. Neglected. Poor.
Let's journey back to the book of Job for a little more exploration on this subject, shall we? (I told you this would happen :))
As I shared with you last time, Job was a good man, and so God gave. And gave. And gave.
Satan enters with a proposition, and God allows him to take. And take. And take.
Job was literally left with no one. Nothing. Well, excpet for his wife--and she's quite a winner. (I'm wondering if leaving her alive was perhaps the worst torture Satan could afflict on him. Yeesh. But I digress...)
He had, and then he had not.
And again, when his oh-so-wonderful wife tells him to curse God and die, how does he respond?
"The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord! Shall we receive good at the hand of God and not receive evil?"
I don't know about you, but this is hardly how I feel when something I cherish is ripped from my grasp. If it's ever been in my hands, then it's mine. I want it. I need it. And you can't have it back.
I think we can get into an interesting conversation here about whether God actually takes away the good things in our lives. I read a blog recently that said she felt that the notion of "God gives and takes away" is rubbish because "God would never want His children to hurt."
Something needs to be made very clear, though. God is not your magic genie who is only on stand-by to grant you your wishes. He isn't a waiter who brings you items as you please.
He's not concerned with your gratification. He's concerned with your growth.
And He very well will allow a subtraction from our possessions if it means that we will forsake a life of comfort for a deeper connection with Him.
He doesn't remove things to be mean or spiteful. Certainly, there are consequences for poor decisions, but I don't believe God allows miscarriage or cancer or death because He wants to make you upset.
He doesn't want you to hurt, but He wants your heart. And unfortunately, sometimes the hurt is what it takes to get your heart.
He wants you. All of you. He never says that a life with Him will be simple. It's not supposed to be.
But He promises that He'll be with you. That you won't be alone. And He promises that He won't quit until this work in you is finished.
I don't know why God allowed the passing of Maria Chapman or Audrey Caroline Smith. I don't know why He allowed the passing of Eli and Sarah.
But I know that God is good. So good. And I know that He's up to something greater.
So, please. Take a good look around you. Your home. Your spouse. Your family. Your children. Your job.
Everything.
Yes, they may have your name on them. They may be in your hands. But just like that scholarship, they don't really belong to you.
Loosen your grasp and believe.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Knees
It was a Saturday. Just a regular old Saturday. April 5, 2008 to be exact. I had just turned the magical age of 21, and my dear boyfriend of five years was taking me out for a ho-hum, run-of-the-mill date night at The Old Spaghetti Factory in Downtown Nashville.
It was only 4:30 in the afternoon.
Normally, he worked until 5, but for some apparent reason, he was in a huge hurry to get me to dinner. Right then. It couldn't wait.
He was so antsy that I thought I was going to have to slip him a Xanax.
So there we sat. A couple of twentysomethings getting the blue-haired special at 4:30 on a Saturday "night."
I curiously watched him as I munched on my salad. Legs shaking under the table. Picking at his food. Constantly looking at those around him (yes, there were actually other people eating at 4:30 besides us).
And as I sat there with a mouthful of lettuce, it happened.
"I can't wait any longer," he declared. With one simple move, he slid out from the booth and onto his knees with a red box in hand. The box opened to reveal a gorgeous diamond and my choice for the future.
"Will you marry me?"
Mouth still brimming with lettuce and eyes watering, I nodded and watched as he adorned my left hand with his undying commitment.
I love marriage proposals. I've been fortunate enough to witness a few of them in my day, including one during a beauty pageant at Samford University and one during the pre-show of the Indiana Jones stunt show at DisneyWorld.
And just like in the movies, before offering himself and his ring to the woman, the man always falls to his knees.
Sure, kneeling is classic stance for proposing, but we kneel for lots of reasons. We kneel to pick things up, to rest, when working. We might even kneel when exercising (hello, yoga).
We kneel in church. Or at least, sometimes we do.
I think kneeling in worship is a lost art. Take a look around on a Sunday (at least at a Baptist church), and you'll rarely see a bent knee. Just standing. Blank stares. Maybe singing.
Kneeling isn't that big of a deal, you might say. There's no reason I have to. It's really not that comfortable. So why on earth should I do it?
These past nine months have kept me looking back to the book of Job. If you haven't read it, and you're currently experiencing a rough time in your life (and even if you aren't), I highly recommend flipping to it. It's one of the most poignant books in the Bible and a favorite of mine, so you might hear me reference it from time to time.
Need a recap?
Job is a fabulous, upright man who avoids all things evil. Because he stands in such favor with the Lord, the Lord blesses him. He gives Job a wife, 10 children, and more animals than he can count. He loves the Lord. And the Lord loves Job.
Enter: the villain. Satan has had his eye on Job, and he goes to speak with God regarding this "perfect, upright" fellow. Satan is itching for Job to curse God and tells God that if Job wasn't quite so blessed, he might just do it.
God grants Satan the permission he asks.
And so, tragedy strikes Job's household. All of his children are killed. All of his livestock, gone. Most of his servants, save a few who are able to report back to Job, also gone. Job is stricken from his head to his feet with boils. Oddly enough, the only person who escapes unscathed is his wife, who tells him to curse God and die.
And so what does he do?
He falls to his knees and worships.
Kneeling is such an intimate way of giving praise to God, isn't it? In biblical times, a person knelt to the Lord when they were in such awe of His glory. His presence. His goodness. It's a way of saying, "I can't even get to my feet, Lord, because I am so struck by Your greatness." It acknowledges Him as King, and you as His faithful servant. It displays how small and unworthy you are and how perfect and sovereign He is.
It's worshipful.
I think it's interesting, though, because when you've been a believer for quite some time, there's a tendency to "get used to" the notion of His holiness. We become numb to it. Yeah, we know. Been there, done that.
But He will always find a way to bring you back.
The question is, what is it going to take?
For some, it may take losing a job. For others, it may take losing their homes. Cancer. Divorce. Death.
It took losing two children to bring me back to my knees. And I hate that. I hate that it took a huge shove of painful reality to bring me back to a place of worship. To a place of recognizing that I'm not in control. To a place of knowing that He is God.
It certainly got my attention. And it's sad that that's what it took.
May it not be that way for you, my friend. May the trials that come your way not be a necessity in bringing you back into His presence. May the storms of your life be merely opportunities to know Him more. To love Him more. To worship Him more.
May we be like eager bridegrooms who can't wait to offer ourselves by falling to our knees.
If you think you won't bow, you are sorely mistaken. The Bible tells us that, one day, every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.
So what's it going to take to bring you to your knees? A nudge and the utterance of His name? Or a shove into the depths of reality?
It's up to you.
Come, friend. Right now. It can't wait.
Bend your knees. And worship.
"Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshiped." ~Job 1:20
It was only 4:30 in the afternoon.
Normally, he worked until 5, but for some apparent reason, he was in a huge hurry to get me to dinner. Right then. It couldn't wait.
He was so antsy that I thought I was going to have to slip him a Xanax.
So there we sat. A couple of twentysomethings getting the blue-haired special at 4:30 on a Saturday "night."
I curiously watched him as I munched on my salad. Legs shaking under the table. Picking at his food. Constantly looking at those around him (yes, there were actually other people eating at 4:30 besides us).
And as I sat there with a mouthful of lettuce, it happened.
"I can't wait any longer," he declared. With one simple move, he slid out from the booth and onto his knees with a red box in hand. The box opened to reveal a gorgeous diamond and my choice for the future.
"Will you marry me?"
Mouth still brimming with lettuce and eyes watering, I nodded and watched as he adorned my left hand with his undying commitment.
I love marriage proposals. I've been fortunate enough to witness a few of them in my day, including one during a beauty pageant at Samford University and one during the pre-show of the Indiana Jones stunt show at DisneyWorld.
And just like in the movies, before offering himself and his ring to the woman, the man always falls to his knees.
Sure, kneeling is classic stance for proposing, but we kneel for lots of reasons. We kneel to pick things up, to rest, when working. We might even kneel when exercising (hello, yoga).
We kneel in church. Or at least, sometimes we do.
I think kneeling in worship is a lost art. Take a look around on a Sunday (at least at a Baptist church), and you'll rarely see a bent knee. Just standing. Blank stares. Maybe singing.
Kneeling isn't that big of a deal, you might say. There's no reason I have to. It's really not that comfortable. So why on earth should I do it?
These past nine months have kept me looking back to the book of Job. If you haven't read it, and you're currently experiencing a rough time in your life (and even if you aren't), I highly recommend flipping to it. It's one of the most poignant books in the Bible and a favorite of mine, so you might hear me reference it from time to time.
Need a recap?
Job is a fabulous, upright man who avoids all things evil. Because he stands in such favor with the Lord, the Lord blesses him. He gives Job a wife, 10 children, and more animals than he can count. He loves the Lord. And the Lord loves Job.
Enter: the villain. Satan has had his eye on Job, and he goes to speak with God regarding this "perfect, upright" fellow. Satan is itching for Job to curse God and tells God that if Job wasn't quite so blessed, he might just do it.
God grants Satan the permission he asks.
And so, tragedy strikes Job's household. All of his children are killed. All of his livestock, gone. Most of his servants, save a few who are able to report back to Job, also gone. Job is stricken from his head to his feet with boils. Oddly enough, the only person who escapes unscathed is his wife, who tells him to curse God and die.
And so what does he do?
He falls to his knees and worships.
Kneeling is such an intimate way of giving praise to God, isn't it? In biblical times, a person knelt to the Lord when they were in such awe of His glory. His presence. His goodness. It's a way of saying, "I can't even get to my feet, Lord, because I am so struck by Your greatness." It acknowledges Him as King, and you as His faithful servant. It displays how small and unworthy you are and how perfect and sovereign He is.
It's worshipful.
I think it's interesting, though, because when you've been a believer for quite some time, there's a tendency to "get used to" the notion of His holiness. We become numb to it. Yeah, we know. Been there, done that.
But He will always find a way to bring you back.
The question is, what is it going to take?
For some, it may take losing a job. For others, it may take losing their homes. Cancer. Divorce. Death.
It took losing two children to bring me back to my knees. And I hate that. I hate that it took a huge shove of painful reality to bring me back to a place of worship. To a place of recognizing that I'm not in control. To a place of knowing that He is God.
It certainly got my attention. And it's sad that that's what it took.
May it not be that way for you, my friend. May the trials that come your way not be a necessity in bringing you back into His presence. May the storms of your life be merely opportunities to know Him more. To love Him more. To worship Him more.
May we be like eager bridegrooms who can't wait to offer ourselves by falling to our knees.
If you think you won't bow, you are sorely mistaken. The Bible tells us that, one day, every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.
So what's it going to take to bring you to your knees? A nudge and the utterance of His name? Or a shove into the depths of reality?
It's up to you.
Come, friend. Right now. It can't wait.
Bend your knees. And worship.
"Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshiped." ~Job 1:20
Showered
When I was on vacation at the beach a couple of weeks ago--minding my own business and thoroughly relishing my time away from all things pregnancy-related--my Blackberry bing-bonged whilst my toes wiggled in the sand.
An email. Asking me to throw a baby shower. For someone who shares one of my due dates.
Ouch.
Now, this wouldn't be such a big deal, except that the person who sent the message is aware of my situation and how difficult it has been to watch this pregnancy progress.
I had already given this mother-to-be a baby gift a few weeks prior because I knew that going to her shower might be too much to handle.
I think some people don't understand how difficult it is to shop in the baby section for baby clothes when you've recently lost a child. It was my third attempt in 6 months at buying a baby gift for someone, and I finally bit the bullet and carefully chose several outfits for the baby-to-be.
As I sat wrapping each dress for her future daughter, I was overcome with sadness.
I wept over the last one, seemingly unable to finish covering it with the pink tissue paper because it sealed the fate that this wouldn't be for my little girl.
Baby showers are hard for those who have experienced pregnancy loss or infertility. Yes, I know. It's a happy time to love on the mother or parents-to-be and celebrate the new life that they are welcoming.
But you know what that means. Babies are on everyone's minds. There are the baby clothes that you have to oooh and aaah over. Toys. Diapers. Pacifiers. Pregnant belly worshiping. Baby games. Baby cakes. Sometimes even baby food (ew).
Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.
So yes. Please explain to me how a woman struggling to be a mother avoids thinking about the one thing that makes her burst into tears at a baby shower?
I've been to a few baby showers since we lost our little ones. I probably shouldn't have gone to one of them because not only did the baby's due date coincide with my first one, she named the baby what we named our first. That was surreal. And unbelievably hard. I stayed five minutes at the back of the room before I quietly left.
Another, I had originally planned to skip. The mother-to-be had been so kind to me throughout my miscarriages--she was there with me at work the night I lost our first and constantly checked up on me to see how I was doing--and so I really wanted to get her a baby gift. I told her that I wasn't sure I was going to be able to make it to her shower, and she completely understood, so I gave her the gift beforehand.
But somehow, I got a second wind. And I went to the shower. And I didn't cry or have a terrible time. It was still hard to fully enjoy the experience, but the mother-to-be made it easier by being so understanding about my situation. So it made me want to celebrate with her.
Since people aren't going to stop having babies and baby showers, and since some people are always going to struggle with their fertility, here are some helpful hints when including the reproductively challenged in a baby shower.
1. Do include her. I've done a lot of internet research concerning this subject, and it seems that mothers-to-be tend to be hesitant in inviting an "infertile" woman to her baby shower because she fears it will be too hard for her. If she is your friend, invite her. Don't exclude her because you assume that she won't be able to handle it. You don't know what she is capable of handling. Getting a baby shower invitation may be a hard pill to swallow if there's been a recent pregnancy loss (or perhaps at any time for a woman struggling with infertility), but excluding her would be more hurtful. Don't make the decision for her; let her decide what she wants to do.
2. Do let her know that you understand if she isn't up to attending. This right here is what makes all the difference. If you know she's struggling to become a mother, let her know following the invitation--either by email or phone call or however--that you understand that she's going through a tough time, that you understand if she doesn't feel like she can attend, but that you care about her and wanted to make sure she was included. If she has openly dealt with infertility/pregnancy loss, and you send out a mass email/invitation with no regard for how this might make her feel, she's less likely to attend, and she is likely to feel as though you don't care about her.
3. Do respect whatever decision she makes. If she decides not to attend, be oh so supportive of this. Baby showers can feel like pouring salt in a wound if the timing is just right. She loves you and cares about you, but it just might be too hard right now. Love her no less for this; she probably feels horrible that she can't make herself feel up to going.
4. Do cherish a gift if she sends one. Know that she braved a baby section of a department store to get you that. It was probably more difficult than you'll (hopefully) ever understand.
5. Do reach out to her if she attends. Especially if she doesn't know anyone there. The only way I was able to go to any baby showers at all is because I had a friend who knew my situation go with me. She let me know that the second I needed to go, we would go. You don't have to make this a huge deal, but quietly ask her how she's doing from time to time, and if she leaves early, understand that it probably just got to be too much for her.
And I can't believe this one has to be spelled out...
6. Do NOT ask her to throw the shower. There are some women who are capable of doing this following infertility/pregnancy loss, especially if it's a close friend. But it's completely insensitive to ask. If she wants to, she will offer. Throwing a shower involves lots of energy, time, effort, and money, and grieving the loss of a child along with that may drain her of everything she's got. Include her, but don't make her feel at all obligated to put on the show.
To all of you super fertile Myrtles out there, please love on your fertility-challenged friends. They aren't trying to be selfish and steal your thunder; and they don't think that you should feel bad about having a successful pregnancy.
But this stuff is hard, hard, hard.
Both of you are going through life-changing experiences here. Your pregnancy affects your day-to-day life and your future, and pregnancy loss and infertility does the same for her. Grieve and celebrate together. Lean on each other. Be there for each other.
And shower the people you love with love.
An email. Asking me to throw a baby shower. For someone who shares one of my due dates.
Ouch.
Now, this wouldn't be such a big deal, except that the person who sent the message is aware of my situation and how difficult it has been to watch this pregnancy progress.
I had already given this mother-to-be a baby gift a few weeks prior because I knew that going to her shower might be too much to handle.
I think some people don't understand how difficult it is to shop in the baby section for baby clothes when you've recently lost a child. It was my third attempt in 6 months at buying a baby gift for someone, and I finally bit the bullet and carefully chose several outfits for the baby-to-be.
As I sat wrapping each dress for her future daughter, I was overcome with sadness.
I wept over the last one, seemingly unable to finish covering it with the pink tissue paper because it sealed the fate that this wouldn't be for my little girl.
Baby showers are hard for those who have experienced pregnancy loss or infertility. Yes, I know. It's a happy time to love on the mother or parents-to-be and celebrate the new life that they are welcoming.
But you know what that means. Babies are on everyone's minds. There are the baby clothes that you have to oooh and aaah over. Toys. Diapers. Pacifiers. Pregnant belly worshiping. Baby games. Baby cakes. Sometimes even baby food (ew).
Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.
So yes. Please explain to me how a woman struggling to be a mother avoids thinking about the one thing that makes her burst into tears at a baby shower?
I've been to a few baby showers since we lost our little ones. I probably shouldn't have gone to one of them because not only did the baby's due date coincide with my first one, she named the baby what we named our first. That was surreal. And unbelievably hard. I stayed five minutes at the back of the room before I quietly left.
Another, I had originally planned to skip. The mother-to-be had been so kind to me throughout my miscarriages--she was there with me at work the night I lost our first and constantly checked up on me to see how I was doing--and so I really wanted to get her a baby gift. I told her that I wasn't sure I was going to be able to make it to her shower, and she completely understood, so I gave her the gift beforehand.
But somehow, I got a second wind. And I went to the shower. And I didn't cry or have a terrible time. It was still hard to fully enjoy the experience, but the mother-to-be made it easier by being so understanding about my situation. So it made me want to celebrate with her.
Since people aren't going to stop having babies and baby showers, and since some people are always going to struggle with their fertility, here are some helpful hints when including the reproductively challenged in a baby shower.
1. Do include her. I've done a lot of internet research concerning this subject, and it seems that mothers-to-be tend to be hesitant in inviting an "infertile" woman to her baby shower because she fears it will be too hard for her. If she is your friend, invite her. Don't exclude her because you assume that she won't be able to handle it. You don't know what she is capable of handling. Getting a baby shower invitation may be a hard pill to swallow if there's been a recent pregnancy loss (or perhaps at any time for a woman struggling with infertility), but excluding her would be more hurtful. Don't make the decision for her; let her decide what she wants to do.
2. Do let her know that you understand if she isn't up to attending. This right here is what makes all the difference. If you know she's struggling to become a mother, let her know following the invitation--either by email or phone call or however--that you understand that she's going through a tough time, that you understand if she doesn't feel like she can attend, but that you care about her and wanted to make sure she was included. If she has openly dealt with infertility/pregnancy loss, and you send out a mass email/invitation with no regard for how this might make her feel, she's less likely to attend, and she is likely to feel as though you don't care about her.
3. Do respect whatever decision she makes. If she decides not to attend, be oh so supportive of this. Baby showers can feel like pouring salt in a wound if the timing is just right. She loves you and cares about you, but it just might be too hard right now. Love her no less for this; she probably feels horrible that she can't make herself feel up to going.
4. Do cherish a gift if she sends one. Know that she braved a baby section of a department store to get you that. It was probably more difficult than you'll (hopefully) ever understand.
5. Do reach out to her if she attends. Especially if she doesn't know anyone there. The only way I was able to go to any baby showers at all is because I had a friend who knew my situation go with me. She let me know that the second I needed to go, we would go. You don't have to make this a huge deal, but quietly ask her how she's doing from time to time, and if she leaves early, understand that it probably just got to be too much for her.
And I can't believe this one has to be spelled out...
6. Do NOT ask her to throw the shower. There are some women who are capable of doing this following infertility/pregnancy loss, especially if it's a close friend. But it's completely insensitive to ask. If she wants to, she will offer. Throwing a shower involves lots of energy, time, effort, and money, and grieving the loss of a child along with that may drain her of everything she's got. Include her, but don't make her feel at all obligated to put on the show.
To all of you super fertile Myrtles out there, please love on your fertility-challenged friends. They aren't trying to be selfish and steal your thunder; and they don't think that you should feel bad about having a successful pregnancy.
But this stuff is hard, hard, hard.
Both of you are going through life-changing experiences here. Your pregnancy affects your day-to-day life and your future, and pregnancy loss and infertility does the same for her. Grieve and celebrate together. Lean on each other. Be there for each other.
And shower the people you love with love.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Great Big List of What to Do When the Unthinkable Happens
Misunderstanding after misunderstanding occurs when tragedy strikes; people clam up because they're afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. So they do something worse--they say or do nothing. Whether it's a loss of a family member, a pregnancy, a job, or a dream, here are some guidelines for how to handle responding to the hard stuff.
1. Do make it a point to go up to them the next time you see them. They aren't diseased, they're hurting. You can rationalize that the reason you're "staying away" is to "give them space," but let's be honest--you just don't know what to say, and that makes you uncomfortable. Be a friend and be there physically for them.
2. Don't say something profound. Really. Don't. Because what you think is "profound" is probably nothing but a platitude that they have likely heard 9000 times already. Don't tell them "it was for the best" or "they're in a better place" or "you've still got time" etc. True or not, they aren't helpful, especially if the event has happened recently.
3. Do tell them how sorry you are. Plain and simple. No bells, no whistles. There's nothing you can do or say to make it better, but chances are, this little phrase will be more comforting than the most philosophical thing you can think of.
4. When some time has passed, do check up on them. It's easy for people to be mindful of someone going through a tragedy when it's fresh. It takes a thoughtful person to remember that deep hurts don't pass quickly. Just because a funeral/D&C/etc. is over doesn't mean that they are "over" it. They may be putting on a pretty face, but that's because they don't want to be a "downer." If you're really friends with them, let them know that you're there for them no matter how much they may still be hurting and no matter how long it takes for them to starting feeling some semblance of "normalcy" again.
5. Do be sensitive if you gain something that they have lost. For instance, if someone loses a job, and then you get a promotion at work, don't brag about it in front of them. Don't expect a woman who has experienced infertility or miscarriage to plan (attend even?) your baby shower. Be respectful if they don't respond how you think they should, especially if you've never been in their position.
6. If a baby was lost, don't repeatedly ask if they're trying for another. Chances are, any future pregnancies are going to be kept strictly under wraps until the couple feels comfortable enough to share it with others. Assume that if nothing's been said, there's nothing to tell.
7. Do listen. And listen well. Let the person vent if he or she wants because sometimes, that is the best therapy. But don't let their words fall on deaf ears; concentrate. Focus on what they are saying.
8. Don't try to "fix" it. Often, there's nothing you can do to "fix" it. Don't formulate all sorts of plans for them to put into action. It's admirable that you want to help, but ask them for specific ways that you can be of support. This may include bringing a meal, helping to babysit children if a parent needs to go out on an interview, or simply providing them with an afternoon of company.
9. Don't talk about them behind their backs. This should not provide an opportunity to gossip. Talk to them, not about them.
10. Do recognize that certain dates will be difficult if a family member or child was lost. These can include Mother's Day/Father's Day, birthdays, anniversaries, death dates, Christmas, etc. And then some days will be difficult for no reason at all. If you sense they are having a difficult time, give them a hug or a sweet message. If you would like to do something to honor the deceased person, that is always appropriate and would likely be cherished.
11. Do be a trustworthy friend. Grief can bring to light ugly thoughts and feelings and those are to remain private. It's not your position to share that information with anyone else. Realize that you are protecting fragile emotions.
12. Don't think that if you haven't been in their shoes that you can't provide comfort and support. You don't need to have all the answers. Learn with them how to cope with the situation, and who knows? You might be unwittingly preparing yourself for a future hardship.
13. Don't support numbing the pain with alcohol, partying, or reckless behavior. This only delays dealing with the issue at hand and prolongs the person's grief process.
14. Do recognize that every person grieves at his or her own pace. Two people can go through similar losses, and one may move on much more quickly than the other, but it doesn't mean one is more "normal" than the other. Don't be alarmed by this; be patient.
15. Don't assume that their loss is the only thing that they want to discuss. Sometimes, the person may need a break from all things sad and heavy. Go with where the personal leads conversationally, and don't be afraid to outright ask if they want to talk about it. Most people will appreciate this.
16. Don't assume that they are depressed because you feel that they are taking too long to grieve. Sad does not necessarily equal depressed.
17. Don't tell someone who has miscarried to "relax" or "adopt first" or "quit trying so hard" so that a successful pregnancy will magically manifest. You are not a doctor, and those reasons are not only incorrect, they're just plain ridiculous.
18. Do let them cry. It may make you uncomfortable, but it is a great release when going through a tough time. Encourage it, don't stifle it. And please, please, please don't tell a person how ugly she looks because she has mascara running down her cheeks. That's just mean.
19. Do be the kind of friend that you would want during a difficult time. They are likely to pay you back in full when you inevitably face a tragedy.
20. Don't tell them that you "know how they feel." You may have experienced something similar, but you don't truly know how they feel. This can invalidate a person's feelings.
21. Don't use a person's tragedy as a springboard to talk about yourself. Frankly, it's not comforting when people want to go on and on about how the same thing happened to them. It makes you seem selfish; the person is hurting and needs your focus. If they are aware that you have been through a similar situation, they will come to you for your advice when they are ready.
22. Do help them remember how to have fun. Go out for lunch dates, go shopping, take them to a ballgame--whatever is enjoyable for them. Make it a time where you only talk about positive things. Make them laugh! It helps remind them that things won't be terrible forever.
23. If a baby was lost, do refer to the child by his or her name, if the parents named the baby. Constantly referring to it as a "miscarriage" or "stillbirth"skirts the issue that a person passed away. Let the parents know that you recognize that they lost a child, not that they suffered a medical abnormality.
24. Do continue to be a presence in their lives, even when the grieving process seems to have come to an end.
25. Do pray for them, especially if you tell them that you will.
This list is not exhaustive, but it's definitely a start. I know that being a friend to someone going through a tragedy can leave you feeling helpless. It's hard to see someone you love hurting that much. But if you provide them with love, support, and plenty of time, your friend will hopefully regain his or her spirit.
Until next time...
1. Do make it a point to go up to them the next time you see them. They aren't diseased, they're hurting. You can rationalize that the reason you're "staying away" is to "give them space," but let's be honest--you just don't know what to say, and that makes you uncomfortable. Be a friend and be there physically for them.
2. Don't say something profound. Really. Don't. Because what you think is "profound" is probably nothing but a platitude that they have likely heard 9000 times already. Don't tell them "it was for the best" or "they're in a better place" or "you've still got time" etc. True or not, they aren't helpful, especially if the event has happened recently.
3. Do tell them how sorry you are. Plain and simple. No bells, no whistles. There's nothing you can do or say to make it better, but chances are, this little phrase will be more comforting than the most philosophical thing you can think of.
4. When some time has passed, do check up on them. It's easy for people to be mindful of someone going through a tragedy when it's fresh. It takes a thoughtful person to remember that deep hurts don't pass quickly. Just because a funeral/D&C/etc. is over doesn't mean that they are "over" it. They may be putting on a pretty face, but that's because they don't want to be a "downer." If you're really friends with them, let them know that you're there for them no matter how much they may still be hurting and no matter how long it takes for them to starting feeling some semblance of "normalcy" again.
5. Do be sensitive if you gain something that they have lost. For instance, if someone loses a job, and then you get a promotion at work, don't brag about it in front of them. Don't expect a woman who has experienced infertility or miscarriage to plan (attend even?) your baby shower. Be respectful if they don't respond how you think they should, especially if you've never been in their position.
6. If a baby was lost, don't repeatedly ask if they're trying for another. Chances are, any future pregnancies are going to be kept strictly under wraps until the couple feels comfortable enough to share it with others. Assume that if nothing's been said, there's nothing to tell.
7. Do listen. And listen well. Let the person vent if he or she wants because sometimes, that is the best therapy. But don't let their words fall on deaf ears; concentrate. Focus on what they are saying.
8. Don't try to "fix" it. Often, there's nothing you can do to "fix" it. Don't formulate all sorts of plans for them to put into action. It's admirable that you want to help, but ask them for specific ways that you can be of support. This may include bringing a meal, helping to babysit children if a parent needs to go out on an interview, or simply providing them with an afternoon of company.
9. Don't talk about them behind their backs. This should not provide an opportunity to gossip. Talk to them, not about them.
10. Do recognize that certain dates will be difficult if a family member or child was lost. These can include Mother's Day/Father's Day, birthdays, anniversaries, death dates, Christmas, etc. And then some days will be difficult for no reason at all. If you sense they are having a difficult time, give them a hug or a sweet message. If you would like to do something to honor the deceased person, that is always appropriate and would likely be cherished.
11. Do be a trustworthy friend. Grief can bring to light ugly thoughts and feelings and those are to remain private. It's not your position to share that information with anyone else. Realize that you are protecting fragile emotions.
12. Don't think that if you haven't been in their shoes that you can't provide comfort and support. You don't need to have all the answers. Learn with them how to cope with the situation, and who knows? You might be unwittingly preparing yourself for a future hardship.
13. Don't support numbing the pain with alcohol, partying, or reckless behavior. This only delays dealing with the issue at hand and prolongs the person's grief process.
14. Do recognize that every person grieves at his or her own pace. Two people can go through similar losses, and one may move on much more quickly than the other, but it doesn't mean one is more "normal" than the other. Don't be alarmed by this; be patient.
15. Don't assume that their loss is the only thing that they want to discuss. Sometimes, the person may need a break from all things sad and heavy. Go with where the personal leads conversationally, and don't be afraid to outright ask if they want to talk about it. Most people will appreciate this.
16. Don't assume that they are depressed because you feel that they are taking too long to grieve. Sad does not necessarily equal depressed.
17. Don't tell someone who has miscarried to "relax" or "adopt first" or "quit trying so hard" so that a successful pregnancy will magically manifest. You are not a doctor, and those reasons are not only incorrect, they're just plain ridiculous.
18. Do let them cry. It may make you uncomfortable, but it is a great release when going through a tough time. Encourage it, don't stifle it. And please, please, please don't tell a person how ugly she looks because she has mascara running down her cheeks. That's just mean.
19. Do be the kind of friend that you would want during a difficult time. They are likely to pay you back in full when you inevitably face a tragedy.
20. Don't tell them that you "know how they feel." You may have experienced something similar, but you don't truly know how they feel. This can invalidate a person's feelings.
21. Don't use a person's tragedy as a springboard to talk about yourself. Frankly, it's not comforting when people want to go on and on about how the same thing happened to them. It makes you seem selfish; the person is hurting and needs your focus. If they are aware that you have been through a similar situation, they will come to you for your advice when they are ready.
22. Do help them remember how to have fun. Go out for lunch dates, go shopping, take them to a ballgame--whatever is enjoyable for them. Make it a time where you only talk about positive things. Make them laugh! It helps remind them that things won't be terrible forever.
23. If a baby was lost, do refer to the child by his or her name, if the parents named the baby. Constantly referring to it as a "miscarriage" or "stillbirth"skirts the issue that a person passed away. Let the parents know that you recognize that they lost a child, not that they suffered a medical abnormality.
24. Do continue to be a presence in their lives, even when the grieving process seems to have come to an end.
25. Do pray for them, especially if you tell them that you will.
This list is not exhaustive, but it's definitely a start. I know that being a friend to someone going through a tragedy can leave you feeling helpless. It's hard to see someone you love hurting that much. But if you provide them with love, support, and plenty of time, your friend will hopefully regain his or her spirit.
Until next time...
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
When Cliques Attack
Were you one of those semi-awkward people in high school? I know I was.
Okay, if I'm being honest, I was totally awkward.
No, I wasn't one of the stereotypical "geeky" characters as seen on TV--glasses, snorty laugh, and a persistent need to wear highwaters--but I certainly wasn't "popular." I was lucky enough to have a small group of great gal pals, so I was never without a lunch buddy.
But sometimes, I would find myself in a classroom sans my best buds. I would be stuck with...them. You know. The popular kids. The cheerleaders. The jocks. And those who somehow feel the need to wear a North Face jacket no matter the climate because, well, they can. They had their group, and while I was never blatantly ostracized, I was always aware when I wasn't "in."
Inside jokes. Sitting together. Dressing alike. Talking alike. Inseparable.
The Clique.
It's painfully uncomfortable to feel like the odd man out. Much like you have a disease that no one wants to catch. It's not that you're awful. It's just that, well, you're not part of the group.
Moving on from high school, I hoped that I would never have to feel like an outsider again. College, of course, had its own versions of the cliques (girls'-jeans-wearing emo guys, sorority girls, the music education crowd), and often summer jobs I had would bear sprinklings of cliques.
But one place you never expect to find The Clique is in church. Unfortunately, the one place you will always find The Clique is in church.
Now, I grew up in church. I became a Christian when I was six years old, and I love the Lord with all my heart. I love going to church. Every church I've ever been a member of has brought precious people into my life (including my husband), and I'm grateful that I had parents who made sure church was a significant part of my life. Since I was in the womb, Sundays and Wednesdays were church days. And other days allotted for VBS, concerts, programs, service projects, etc. were often included.
But because I've been in church my whole life, I've learned a thing or two about how things "work." Bear with me; I would like to clear my parents' names and say that they did not teach me these, nor would they see these "rules" as appropriate for how a church should function. These are merely observations I have made of the churches I have attended.
(1) You always put a smile on your face. No matter if you've just fought with your brother or sister or parents in the car ride over, and no matter if you've just lost your dog or run over a cat in the driveway, as soon as your sweetly sandaled foot hits the pavement, those pearly whites had better be showing. Churchgoers are happy people. And they ought to look so.
(2) When someone asks how you are, you say, "Fine." People ask to be polite. Not because they really care to know. Again, no matter what is going on in your life, your response must indicate contentedness and peace. Turmoil isn't supposed to get us Christians down. An optional tag to your one-word reply is "Very good Lord's Day to you." Please use sparingly.
(3) Speak to the new people--a good hand shake is always appropriate--but don't sit with them. We "regulars" have to stick together, don't you know.
(4) When something bad happens, bake a casserole--but don't stay to listen to the person vent or grieve. You did your duty with the food thing. Your work is done. After all, if the grieving person is playing by the rules, all they will say is, "Fine" (see #2).
(5) Juicy gossip can always be shared in the form of a "prayer request." Why, it's not that you're wanting to blab the news; you just want to make sure it's covered in prayer (and that you're the first one to "request" it).
(6) When the pastor's voice gets really loud during the sermon, feel free to insert a hearty "Amen." It never
hurts. And then you can go back to doodling on your bulletin.
Sigh. I know, I know. Not all churches are like this. And that's a good thing! But unfortunately, I see a lot of this "expected behavior" far too often in the church. There's a routine. Unspoken but understood rules. Things you have to do to keep up an "appearance" and a "reputation" within the church.
And one of the biggest routines is that of the Church Clique.
The Church Clique is often comprised of a group of "regulars"--perhaps 4 to 6 members (usually couples)--who will smile and nod and follow all of the rules but will only connect with other members of the clique. They will speak to you and may even ask for updates on your prayer requests. But they will never invite you to go to lunch with them. They won't invite you to their parties or Friday night get-togethers. You won't ever give a knowing chuckle when one of their inside jokes is recalled.
Yup. You can sit in the same row, the same pew, the same classroom with these people, and they will never get to know you because, well, you aren't familiar to them.
Perhaps they relished their popularity as teens and now, as adults, find it hard to break away from a caste system of sorts. Perhaps they feel that being a "regular" or being a Christian for an extended period of time somehow entitles you to be in a group that is "far above" the rest. Perhaps they are just as insecure as you are about meeting new people, but they hide it in a different manner. Perhaps they're just flat out stinking unaware of it (which I'm sure is rarely the case).
I don't know. But what I do know is how destructive the Church Clique can be. You see, the Church Clique is worse than any other because it can divide the body of Christ instead of bringing it together.
I read a blog recently that commented how interesting it was that we, as churchgoers and Christians, will often put up with a lot of things at a church, but as soon as we feel isolated or disconnected from our peers, it sends us straight out the door looking for somewhere else to worship. In the same way, frivolity and fluff may be overlooked by a churchgoer because of relationships formed within the church family. Neither situation is sound. But it does bring to light how significantly the Church Clique can affect the church body.
It can keep people in a church or prompt them to leave.
Cliques are cancerous. They eat away at a group of peers and do a disservice to both sides. Neither the outsiders nor the insiders will ever really get to know each other. And there's a good chance that both sides are missing out. It's especially pertinent when "newer" Christians are thrown into the mix because the "regulars"--who often possess more wisdom and biblical knowledge than others--might be missing out on an opportunity to mentor the newbies.
And when an outsider goes through something difficult, they often don't get the adequate support they need from those involved in the Church Clique.
Why do we feel the need to separate? Why do we feel that certain people can only befriend each other? The Lord tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves--but how can we do that if we won't give our neighbor a passing thought?
It's time we bend the rules and the routines. Branch out. Befriend someone new. Take off your mask and be real. Get the heck out of that stupid clique.
Oh. And a very good Lord's Day to you.
"Behold! How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!" ~Psalm 133:1
Okay, if I'm being honest, I was totally awkward.
No, I wasn't one of the stereotypical "geeky" characters as seen on TV--glasses, snorty laugh, and a persistent need to wear highwaters--but I certainly wasn't "popular." I was lucky enough to have a small group of great gal pals, so I was never without a lunch buddy.
But sometimes, I would find myself in a classroom sans my best buds. I would be stuck with...them. You know. The popular kids. The cheerleaders. The jocks. And those who somehow feel the need to wear a North Face jacket no matter the climate because, well, they can. They had their group, and while I was never blatantly ostracized, I was always aware when I wasn't "in."
Inside jokes. Sitting together. Dressing alike. Talking alike. Inseparable.
The Clique.
It's painfully uncomfortable to feel like the odd man out. Much like you have a disease that no one wants to catch. It's not that you're awful. It's just that, well, you're not part of the group.
Moving on from high school, I hoped that I would never have to feel like an outsider again. College, of course, had its own versions of the cliques (girls'-jeans-wearing emo guys, sorority girls, the music education crowd), and often summer jobs I had would bear sprinklings of cliques.
But one place you never expect to find The Clique is in church. Unfortunately, the one place you will always find The Clique is in church.
Now, I grew up in church. I became a Christian when I was six years old, and I love the Lord with all my heart. I love going to church. Every church I've ever been a member of has brought precious people into my life (including my husband), and I'm grateful that I had parents who made sure church was a significant part of my life. Since I was in the womb, Sundays and Wednesdays were church days. And other days allotted for VBS, concerts, programs, service projects, etc. were often included.
But because I've been in church my whole life, I've learned a thing or two about how things "work." Bear with me; I would like to clear my parents' names and say that they did not teach me these, nor would they see these "rules" as appropriate for how a church should function. These are merely observations I have made of the churches I have attended.
(1) You always put a smile on your face. No matter if you've just fought with your brother or sister or parents in the car ride over, and no matter if you've just lost your dog or run over a cat in the driveway, as soon as your sweetly sandaled foot hits the pavement, those pearly whites had better be showing. Churchgoers are happy people. And they ought to look so.
(2) When someone asks how you are, you say, "Fine." People ask to be polite. Not because they really care to know. Again, no matter what is going on in your life, your response must indicate contentedness and peace. Turmoil isn't supposed to get us Christians down. An optional tag to your one-word reply is "Very good Lord's Day to you." Please use sparingly.
(3) Speak to the new people--a good hand shake is always appropriate--but don't sit with them. We "regulars" have to stick together, don't you know.
(4) When something bad happens, bake a casserole--but don't stay to listen to the person vent or grieve. You did your duty with the food thing. Your work is done. After all, if the grieving person is playing by the rules, all they will say is, "Fine" (see #2).
(5) Juicy gossip can always be shared in the form of a "prayer request." Why, it's not that you're wanting to blab the news; you just want to make sure it's covered in prayer (and that you're the first one to "request" it).
(6) When the pastor's voice gets really loud during the sermon, feel free to insert a hearty "Amen." It never
hurts. And then you can go back to doodling on your bulletin.
Sigh. I know, I know. Not all churches are like this. And that's a good thing! But unfortunately, I see a lot of this "expected behavior" far too often in the church. There's a routine. Unspoken but understood rules. Things you have to do to keep up an "appearance" and a "reputation" within the church.
And one of the biggest routines is that of the Church Clique.
The Church Clique is often comprised of a group of "regulars"--perhaps 4 to 6 members (usually couples)--who will smile and nod and follow all of the rules but will only connect with other members of the clique. They will speak to you and may even ask for updates on your prayer requests. But they will never invite you to go to lunch with them. They won't invite you to their parties or Friday night get-togethers. You won't ever give a knowing chuckle when one of their inside jokes is recalled.
Yup. You can sit in the same row, the same pew, the same classroom with these people, and they will never get to know you because, well, you aren't familiar to them.
Perhaps they relished their popularity as teens and now, as adults, find it hard to break away from a caste system of sorts. Perhaps they feel that being a "regular" or being a Christian for an extended period of time somehow entitles you to be in a group that is "far above" the rest. Perhaps they are just as insecure as you are about meeting new people, but they hide it in a different manner. Perhaps they're just flat out stinking unaware of it (which I'm sure is rarely the case).
I don't know. But what I do know is how destructive the Church Clique can be. You see, the Church Clique is worse than any other because it can divide the body of Christ instead of bringing it together.
I read a blog recently that commented how interesting it was that we, as churchgoers and Christians, will often put up with a lot of things at a church, but as soon as we feel isolated or disconnected from our peers, it sends us straight out the door looking for somewhere else to worship. In the same way, frivolity and fluff may be overlooked by a churchgoer because of relationships formed within the church family. Neither situation is sound. But it does bring to light how significantly the Church Clique can affect the church body.
It can keep people in a church or prompt them to leave.
Cliques are cancerous. They eat away at a group of peers and do a disservice to both sides. Neither the outsiders nor the insiders will ever really get to know each other. And there's a good chance that both sides are missing out. It's especially pertinent when "newer" Christians are thrown into the mix because the "regulars"--who often possess more wisdom and biblical knowledge than others--might be missing out on an opportunity to mentor the newbies.
And when an outsider goes through something difficult, they often don't get the adequate support they need from those involved in the Church Clique.
Why do we feel the need to separate? Why do we feel that certain people can only befriend each other? The Lord tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves--but how can we do that if we won't give our neighbor a passing thought?
It's time we bend the rules and the routines. Branch out. Befriend someone new. Take off your mask and be real. Get the heck out of that stupid clique.
Oh. And a very good Lord's Day to you.
"Behold! How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!" ~Psalm 133:1
Dancing with the Green-Eyed Monster
Waaah, Waaah. Look at you. If Charlie Brown had a twin, it would be you, wouldn't it? A sad sack with a black raincloud that follows you step by step. Things just can't go right. And that darn football keeps moving right before you can kick it.
And, of course, you're the only one who ever has bad things happen. Bad things never happen to other people. Just you.
Yep. Because you're still single.
Or unemployed.
Or stuck in an apartment.
Or childless.
All of the above, perhaps?
And while the thick drops of rain muss your hair with hurricane-like gales, you see that the sun has chosen to peek through--not at you--but on the opposite grassy green side of the fence.
Yes, you can see it clearly now. The brilliant sunshine radiates its comforting warmth on your neighbor. They're practically glowing.
And...what is that? Is that a halo glistening in the light atop her angelic head?
"GIVE ME A BREAK," you wail. "I want what she has. I'm. So. Jealous."
Completely, unabashedly jealous. In fact, the Green-Eyed Monster has gripped your back with its greedy claws and joyfully rides piggyback wherever you go. It's stuck to you. You can't rid yourself of it.
Jealousy is one of the easiest evils to latch onto. What makes it so easy? Why, because we're constantly trying to make each other jealous.
Oh, come on. I know you've done it. Brag about your fabulously extravagant vacation in Europe. Boast about your fantastic wedding that cost way more than everyone else's. Go on and on about how you didn't even try and--WHOOPS!--pregnant with a perfect 40-week pregnancy and a healthy newborn to boot. You flash your clothes or your cars or your homes or your relationships.
We do it because it makes us feel better. And because it makes everyone else feel lousy.
It's terrible, but we do it anyway--although we'd never actually cop to doing all of this bragging on purpose. Because that would be wrong.
*insert dramatic eye roll and heavy sigh*
I don't know about you, but jealousy can be a real struggle for me. But what's so wrong with wanting what other people have? It's not like I'm going to go to drastic lengths or steal someone's stuff because they have something that I don't. I'm not going to ruin someone's life over my jealousy.
Hmm. Maybe not. But you'll ruin yours.
I'll give you an example. As I've mentioned many times, one of the hardest things for me since losing Eli and Sarah has been merely having to be in the same room as someone who is pregnant, especially if her due date was near either of mine. One girl in particular was announcing her pregnancy just as we had lost Sarah; it was her first pregnancy--a successful one, at that--with little-to-no trying. Week after week, I have had to sit and watch her grow, knowing that I would have been a mere 10 days ahead of her. My heart brims with sadness, anger, but perhaps most of all, jealousy. I don't know why her pregnancy worked and mine didn't. I don't know why hers was so easy and my attempts at having a child have been so hard. Because I feel it's unfair, I resent her for experiencing this happy time.
But, that's not right. The Bible doesn't say, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's things...unless it's something you really, really want." And it doesn't say, "Love thy neighbor as thyself...unless the neighbor keeps getting everything you want." Nope. We are supposed to do the right thing, no matter how we feel.
But why?! Why do I have to do the right thing when I simply don't feel like it?
Jealousy attacks you more than anyone else. It consumes your thoughts. It can drive you to stop at nothing until your life or your possessions are somehow "equal" to your neighbor's. It makes you ugly. It makes you vicious. It makes you, well, a monster.
You learn to scowl. To frown. To accuse. To want and want and want until you can't want anymore. You forget to see others because somehow, the world has become a mirror that only reflects you and your desires.
When I have to sit and stare at a pregnant belly, I can feel the envy swallowing my body whole. I'm not proud of it. But when I am not actively surrendering those thoughts and feelings to the Lord, Satan uses them as a launching pad to distract me from all of the positive things I could be learning through this difficult time. God can't be glorified if I'm too busy dancing with the Green-Eyed Monster at my pity party.
Yes, I know. It's hard. It's so hard not to be jealous when it's something you desire or have worked toward wholeheartedly.
But instead of thinking about what you don't have, think about what you do. Because I'll bet the latter has more substance than the former.
Okay, here goes. I have a wonderful, loving, Christian husband, a great job that I love, a home, a family that cares about me, two dogs that light up my life, two working arms and two working legs, lungs that breathe, a heart that beats....
And you know what? If nothing comes to mind, be thankful for this: Jesus gave his life because of the stupid things you do. So that you could live. He gave it all. Everything. Nothing was withheld.
Think about it. Does he really owe you anything?
But good grief, Charlie Brown wannabe! Make a wallflower out of the Green-Eyed Monster. Quit dancing with him and let Jesus take the lead. From here on out, tell that monster that you're not interested anymore.
And let him know that your dance card is full.
"Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all the day long." ~Psalm 25:4-5
And, of course, you're the only one who ever has bad things happen. Bad things never happen to other people. Just you.
Yep. Because you're still single.
Or unemployed.
Or stuck in an apartment.
Or childless.
All of the above, perhaps?
And while the thick drops of rain muss your hair with hurricane-like gales, you see that the sun has chosen to peek through--not at you--but on the opposite grassy green side of the fence.
Yes, you can see it clearly now. The brilliant sunshine radiates its comforting warmth on your neighbor. They're practically glowing.
And...what is that? Is that a halo glistening in the light atop her angelic head?
"GIVE ME A BREAK," you wail. "I want what she has. I'm. So. Jealous."
Completely, unabashedly jealous. In fact, the Green-Eyed Monster has gripped your back with its greedy claws and joyfully rides piggyback wherever you go. It's stuck to you. You can't rid yourself of it.
Jealousy is one of the easiest evils to latch onto. What makes it so easy? Why, because we're constantly trying to make each other jealous.
Oh, come on. I know you've done it. Brag about your fabulously extravagant vacation in Europe. Boast about your fantastic wedding that cost way more than everyone else's. Go on and on about how you didn't even try and--WHOOPS!--pregnant with a perfect 40-week pregnancy and a healthy newborn to boot. You flash your clothes or your cars or your homes or your relationships.
We do it because it makes us feel better. And because it makes everyone else feel lousy.
It's terrible, but we do it anyway--although we'd never actually cop to doing all of this bragging on purpose. Because that would be wrong.
*insert dramatic eye roll and heavy sigh*
I don't know about you, but jealousy can be a real struggle for me. But what's so wrong with wanting what other people have? It's not like I'm going to go to drastic lengths or steal someone's stuff because they have something that I don't. I'm not going to ruin someone's life over my jealousy.
Hmm. Maybe not. But you'll ruin yours.
I'll give you an example. As I've mentioned many times, one of the hardest things for me since losing Eli and Sarah has been merely having to be in the same room as someone who is pregnant, especially if her due date was near either of mine. One girl in particular was announcing her pregnancy just as we had lost Sarah; it was her first pregnancy--a successful one, at that--with little-to-no trying. Week after week, I have had to sit and watch her grow, knowing that I would have been a mere 10 days ahead of her. My heart brims with sadness, anger, but perhaps most of all, jealousy. I don't know why her pregnancy worked and mine didn't. I don't know why hers was so easy and my attempts at having a child have been so hard. Because I feel it's unfair, I resent her for experiencing this happy time.
But, that's not right. The Bible doesn't say, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's things...unless it's something you really, really want." And it doesn't say, "Love thy neighbor as thyself...unless the neighbor keeps getting everything you want." Nope. We are supposed to do the right thing, no matter how we feel.
But why?! Why do I have to do the right thing when I simply don't feel like it?
Jealousy attacks you more than anyone else. It consumes your thoughts. It can drive you to stop at nothing until your life or your possessions are somehow "equal" to your neighbor's. It makes you ugly. It makes you vicious. It makes you, well, a monster.
You learn to scowl. To frown. To accuse. To want and want and want until you can't want anymore. You forget to see others because somehow, the world has become a mirror that only reflects you and your desires.
When I have to sit and stare at a pregnant belly, I can feel the envy swallowing my body whole. I'm not proud of it. But when I am not actively surrendering those thoughts and feelings to the Lord, Satan uses them as a launching pad to distract me from all of the positive things I could be learning through this difficult time. God can't be glorified if I'm too busy dancing with the Green-Eyed Monster at my pity party.
Yes, I know. It's hard. It's so hard not to be jealous when it's something you desire or have worked toward wholeheartedly.
But instead of thinking about what you don't have, think about what you do. Because I'll bet the latter has more substance than the former.
Okay, here goes. I have a wonderful, loving, Christian husband, a great job that I love, a home, a family that cares about me, two dogs that light up my life, two working arms and two working legs, lungs that breathe, a heart that beats....
And you know what? If nothing comes to mind, be thankful for this: Jesus gave his life because of the stupid things you do. So that you could live. He gave it all. Everything. Nothing was withheld.
Think about it. Does he really owe you anything?
But good grief, Charlie Brown wannabe! Make a wallflower out of the Green-Eyed Monster. Quit dancing with him and let Jesus take the lead. From here on out, tell that monster that you're not interested anymore.
And let him know that your dance card is full.
"Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all the day long." ~Psalm 25:4-5
Monday, June 6, 2011
An (Almost) Mother's Day
I find it ironic that on the same week as Mother's Day this year, my first due date approaches.
Yep. That's right. I woud have been...could have been...should have been? 40 big fat weeks pregnant on Thursday May 12.
But.
Instead of packing for the hospital, I'm packing for the beach.
I'm going to baby showers, not getting them.
Our "nursery" is nothing but extra storage.
We have no "Baby on Board" sticker, no car seat, no crib.
Just empty arms and broken hearts.
This would have been my first bona fide Mother's Day. When they would have recognized the mothers in church on Sunday, I would have stood, too. Fat, nauseous, and swollen, but I would have stood. And I would have been proud.
But it's different for an "almost" mother.
Almost Mothers don't get cards or breakfast in bed. They don't get corsages or hugs from little arms. It's just another day to be reminded of the life that never was.
Almost Mothers are almost like you. But things went differently. Sure, the test was positive...at one point. But while your belly grows, hers doesn't. You heard the heartbeat, but hers doesn't have one. You swell with pride. She shrinks in shame.
You have a baby. So did she. And because things took a turn, you are a mother, and she isn't.
So, on this Mother's Day, if you are a true mother, give thanks that your motherhood didn't take a turn for the worse. Give thanks that your cradle or your arms or your womb isn't empty.
Give thanks that it wasn't "almost." Give thanks that it was.
And if you think about it, show some love to an Almost Mother. There are more than you think. On a day where she's reminded of what she doesn't have, remind her of what she does--your love, care, and support.
You never know. It just might make her day.
Well. Almost.
Yep. That's right. I woud have been...could have been...should have been? 40 big fat weeks pregnant on Thursday May 12.
But.
Instead of packing for the hospital, I'm packing for the beach.
I'm going to baby showers, not getting them.
Our "nursery" is nothing but extra storage.
We have no "Baby on Board" sticker, no car seat, no crib.
Just empty arms and broken hearts.
This would have been my first bona fide Mother's Day. When they would have recognized the mothers in church on Sunday, I would have stood, too. Fat, nauseous, and swollen, but I would have stood. And I would have been proud.
But it's different for an "almost" mother.
Almost Mothers don't get cards or breakfast in bed. They don't get corsages or hugs from little arms. It's just another day to be reminded of the life that never was.
Almost Mothers are almost like you. But things went differently. Sure, the test was positive...at one point. But while your belly grows, hers doesn't. You heard the heartbeat, but hers doesn't have one. You swell with pride. She shrinks in shame.
You have a baby. So did she. And because things took a turn, you are a mother, and she isn't.
So, on this Mother's Day, if you are a true mother, give thanks that your motherhood didn't take a turn for the worse. Give thanks that your cradle or your arms or your womb isn't empty.
Give thanks that it wasn't "almost." Give thanks that it was.
And if you think about it, show some love to an Almost Mother. There are more than you think. On a day where she's reminded of what she doesn't have, remind her of what she does--your love, care, and support.
You never know. It just might make her day.
Well. Almost.
Christmas in July and Diabetic Desserts
Dementia sucks. No, really, it does.
When I was in nursing school, I spent a summer working with the elderly in an assisted living facility, and many of the residents I cared for suffered from this disease. While it is a tragic thing to watch a loved one succumb to dementia, it did bring me the occasional giggle at what some of them would tend to forget.
Okay, I'll be honest. These people had me so tickled, I spent most of my shifts in stitches.
One resident was distressed that she had waited so long to put up her Christmas decorations (it was July).
They couldn't understand how I could help them finish telling a story when I had "never heard it before."
They didn't know who I was day after day or why I barged into their rooms to help them to the toilet, when they were perfectly capable of doing it themselves, thankyouverymuch.
They couldn't remember what they ordered for dinner or where their rooms were.
And the certainly didn't remember they were diabetic when the dessert tray came around.
Ahhh, memories.
I have a soft spot for people with dementia, but it wasn't always so. If you had told me years ago that I would volunteer to push wheelchairs or remove TED hose or escort old ladies to the bathroom, I would have thought you were crazy. I would have fallen on the floor laughing if you told me that I would enjoy it. But all that disappeared when one precious little woman forever changed the face of dementia for me.
That woman was my Nanny.
She was a spritely woman who was completely independent well into her 80s. But when several small strokes hit, her sharp mind and bubbly spirit began to fade. We knew things "weren't right" when she put her clocks ahead 2 hours for Daylight Saving Time, adamantly stating that "the people on the TV told her to." No matter how many watches or clocks we showed her, she was convinced she was right.
She had begun to develop vascular dementia, and soon she was so confused by the world around her, she resembled a small child who needed to be instructed on how to do everything. I had to help feed her, dress her, and I even had to physically show her how to get into the bathtub. It broke my heart to see this strong woman become so feeble.
Occasionally, we would relish in glimpses of her old self--her gentle laugh, her sweet smile, her telling a nurse that she was a "foxy redhead" when she was younger.
Yep. That's my Nanny.
But there is one memory I have of her that I will treasure for the rest of my days.
When she got sicker, she had to participate in a Mini Mental Status Exam. This routine test helps to determine a person's awareness of their surroundings, how well they can recall facts, and how well they can communicate. One portion requires the patient to write down two sentences. Any two sentences.
My sweet grandmother who couldn't bathe or dress herself at the time, pen in hand, scribbled this:
Jesus loves me. Jesus loves you.
Nothing else was worth remembering to her. At a time when she was scared and lost, she didn't feel compelled to figure out "what" or "why."
"Who" was all that mattered.
Perhaps the hardest thing about dementia is "losing" your loved one before you actually lose them. Seeing them forget who you are, who they are.
There are times when I feel like that; when something hard comes along--the "small strokes" of life that act like a powerful current, pulling me under--and I feel lost. I don't understand. I can get so bogged down with anger and disappointment that I forget how to function in the world around me. I forget who I am. I resemble a little child who has to be instructed on how to do everything.
Do you ever feel that way? Has something hurt you so deeply that it robs you of what makes you you?
If you haven't, you likely will.
And when it does, what are you going to be concerned with? If it's July and your Christmas decorations aren't up yet? If the dessert tray is inexplicably passing you by?
Or will you be concerned with what's greater, what's eternal?
Will you be concerned with "Whom?"
In case you didn't get it earlier, I'll say it again: Jesus loves you.
When it doesn't feel like it--Jesus loves you.
When it doesn't make sense--Jesus loves you.
When it hurts so badly you can hardly breathe--Jesus loves you.
If you say it enough, it just might stick with you. Don't let what hurts you rob you of the joy that His unconditional love brings. He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. He is constant. He is Savior. Messiah. Blessed Redeemer.
And He loves you.
And that, my friend, is all you need to remember.
When I was in nursing school, I spent a summer working with the elderly in an assisted living facility, and many of the residents I cared for suffered from this disease. While it is a tragic thing to watch a loved one succumb to dementia, it did bring me the occasional giggle at what some of them would tend to forget.
Okay, I'll be honest. These people had me so tickled, I spent most of my shifts in stitches.
One resident was distressed that she had waited so long to put up her Christmas decorations (it was July).
They couldn't understand how I could help them finish telling a story when I had "never heard it before."
They didn't know who I was day after day or why I barged into their rooms to help them to the toilet, when they were perfectly capable of doing it themselves, thankyouverymuch.
They couldn't remember what they ordered for dinner or where their rooms were.
And the certainly didn't remember they were diabetic when the dessert tray came around.
Ahhh, memories.
I have a soft spot for people with dementia, but it wasn't always so. If you had told me years ago that I would volunteer to push wheelchairs or remove TED hose or escort old ladies to the bathroom, I would have thought you were crazy. I would have fallen on the floor laughing if you told me that I would enjoy it. But all that disappeared when one precious little woman forever changed the face of dementia for me.
That woman was my Nanny.
She was a spritely woman who was completely independent well into her 80s. But when several small strokes hit, her sharp mind and bubbly spirit began to fade. We knew things "weren't right" when she put her clocks ahead 2 hours for Daylight Saving Time, adamantly stating that "the people on the TV told her to." No matter how many watches or clocks we showed her, she was convinced she was right.
She had begun to develop vascular dementia, and soon she was so confused by the world around her, she resembled a small child who needed to be instructed on how to do everything. I had to help feed her, dress her, and I even had to physically show her how to get into the bathtub. It broke my heart to see this strong woman become so feeble.
Occasionally, we would relish in glimpses of her old self--her gentle laugh, her sweet smile, her telling a nurse that she was a "foxy redhead" when she was younger.
Yep. That's my Nanny.
But there is one memory I have of her that I will treasure for the rest of my days.
When she got sicker, she had to participate in a Mini Mental Status Exam. This routine test helps to determine a person's awareness of their surroundings, how well they can recall facts, and how well they can communicate. One portion requires the patient to write down two sentences. Any two sentences.
My sweet grandmother who couldn't bathe or dress herself at the time, pen in hand, scribbled this:
Jesus loves me. Jesus loves you.
Nothing else was worth remembering to her. At a time when she was scared and lost, she didn't feel compelled to figure out "what" or "why."
"Who" was all that mattered.
Perhaps the hardest thing about dementia is "losing" your loved one before you actually lose them. Seeing them forget who you are, who they are.
There are times when I feel like that; when something hard comes along--the "small strokes" of life that act like a powerful current, pulling me under--and I feel lost. I don't understand. I can get so bogged down with anger and disappointment that I forget how to function in the world around me. I forget who I am. I resemble a little child who has to be instructed on how to do everything.
Do you ever feel that way? Has something hurt you so deeply that it robs you of what makes you you?
If you haven't, you likely will.
And when it does, what are you going to be concerned with? If it's July and your Christmas decorations aren't up yet? If the dessert tray is inexplicably passing you by?
Or will you be concerned with what's greater, what's eternal?
Will you be concerned with "Whom?"
In case you didn't get it earlier, I'll say it again: Jesus loves you.
When it doesn't feel like it--Jesus loves you.
When it doesn't make sense--Jesus loves you.
When it hurts so badly you can hardly breathe--Jesus loves you.
If you say it enough, it just might stick with you. Don't let what hurts you rob you of the joy that His unconditional love brings. He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. He is constant. He is Savior. Messiah. Blessed Redeemer.
And He loves you.
And that, my friend, is all you need to remember.
Broken Legs, Healing Heart
I have felt like an utter mess the last couple of weeks.
Maybe it's because I would have been halfway to term if my first pregnancy had lasted.
Maybe it's because I would have been at the magical 12-week mark (after which no wrong can occur in a pregnancy *cue rolling eyes from those who have lost babies at 13 + weeks*) if my second pregnancy had lasted.
Maybe it's because I've been bombarded with at least one pregnancy announcement a week for the last month.
Sigh. It's extremely difficult to maintain excitement for others when it magnifies something you've lost or can't have. On the heels of yet another "Hooray! We're pregnant, and we weren't even trying," I was told that I was expected to find some sense of joy in this news.
Yuck. I need to be real for a moment.
I think those of us who are believers are expected to wrap up their problems in a pretty little bow, feigning that everything's okay and finding "joy" in everybody else's wonderful circumstances. Let me say that while that may be something that can be achieved, it may not come immediately.
Sometimes, it's good to think about the way that you should feel.
Sometimes, it's good to just feel how you feel. And it may not be pretty. It may be wretched and ugly. And you may feel horrible for feeling it.
But numbness is not always better than pain. It's a lukewarm sensation that just postpones your anger and causes it to fester, making you nothing but bitter.
So go ahead and feel it. Don't hurt anybody in the process ("in your anger, do not sin"), and don't get stuck in your anger. But let yourself temporarily do what it needs to do. Mourn. Break. Grieve.
Unfortunately, for me, that means that right now, I'm just not finding myself fully capable of sharing in the excitement of the expectant mothers around me. If you are one of them and are reading this, I apologize. It is nothing you did. But know that if my joy for you seems to be diminished, this is why: I'm finding it hard to marry my need to mourn for me and my need to be happy for you. I will rejoice with you at some point, but at the moment, it's just a little too raw. I'll get there. I promise.
I just need some time.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have felt unquenchable anger this time around.
I'm angry at my doctor. Myself.
God.
I've fought it for weeks now. I hate to admit it, but I am.
I'm furious that His plan necessitates this emptiness.
I hate that He has allowed it to hurt this much.
I'm devastated that He has chosen to bless so many others with healthy pregnancies so soon after my loss. I haven't had time to think. To process. To breathe.
I'm angry that God seems to remember everyone else and seems to have forgotten me. All of these women around me are getting exactly what I want and have prayed for, and He doesn't seem to remember that I want it, too.
In my quest to quench my anger, I have looked to the parable of the lost sheep. In the story, a shepherd tends to his flock of 100 sheep. Stupidly, one wanders off. The shepherd, though he still has 99 others, frets over this one lost sheep and searches day and night, far and wide until he rescues his long lost little lamb. Rejoicing, the shepherd carries his lamb home on his shoulders, telling all who will hear about the one sheep that was lost and has been found.
I am that stupid, stupid sheep. I have wandered away because it seems the 99 are more important to the Shepherd. He couldn't possibly see me. He couldn't care. I'm just one little lamb.
But He noticed that I wandered. He sees me. And He cared enough to come get me.
He left the 99 to find me.
He didn't forget. He still hasn't. Even among the crowd, He knows me and comes to me when I need Him. That doesn't mean that He isn't taking me kicking and screaming. It isn't easy to follow a Shepherd into unsafe pastures, unsafe valleys--the Valley of the Shadow of Death, even.
It has been long believed that when a sheep wandered off in biblical times, the shepherd would break the legs of the sheep so that it wouldn't stray again. In the time the lamb spent healing from its broken bones, it remained at the side of the shepherd, learning to trust him.
As it healed, the shepherd carried it.
Well. He has searched long enough for me. And yes, He has broken me.
But He is carrying me.
And now, all I can do is sit atop His glorious shoulders--battered and broken--listening to His beautiful voice rejoice as He takes me back home.
If you had one hundred sheep and one of them strayed away and was lost in the wilderness, wouldn't you leave the ninety-nine others to go and search for the lost until you found it? And then you would joyfully carry it home on your shoulders. ~Luke 15:4-5
<Photo 1>
Maybe it's because I would have been halfway to term if my first pregnancy had lasted.
Maybe it's because I would have been at the magical 12-week mark (after which no wrong can occur in a pregnancy *cue rolling eyes from those who have lost babies at 13 + weeks*) if my second pregnancy had lasted.
Maybe it's because I've been bombarded with at least one pregnancy announcement a week for the last month.
Sigh. It's extremely difficult to maintain excitement for others when it magnifies something you've lost or can't have. On the heels of yet another "Hooray! We're pregnant, and we weren't even trying," I was told that I was expected to find some sense of joy in this news.
Yuck. I need to be real for a moment.
I think those of us who are believers are expected to wrap up their problems in a pretty little bow, feigning that everything's okay and finding "joy" in everybody else's wonderful circumstances. Let me say that while that may be something that can be achieved, it may not come immediately.
Sometimes, it's good to think about the way that you should feel.
Sometimes, it's good to just feel how you feel. And it may not be pretty. It may be wretched and ugly. And you may feel horrible for feeling it.
But numbness is not always better than pain. It's a lukewarm sensation that just postpones your anger and causes it to fester, making you nothing but bitter.
So go ahead and feel it. Don't hurt anybody in the process ("in your anger, do not sin"), and don't get stuck in your anger. But let yourself temporarily do what it needs to do. Mourn. Break. Grieve.
Unfortunately, for me, that means that right now, I'm just not finding myself fully capable of sharing in the excitement of the expectant mothers around me. If you are one of them and are reading this, I apologize. It is nothing you did. But know that if my joy for you seems to be diminished, this is why: I'm finding it hard to marry my need to mourn for me and my need to be happy for you. I will rejoice with you at some point, but at the moment, it's just a little too raw. I'll get there. I promise.
I just need some time.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have felt unquenchable anger this time around.
I'm angry at my doctor. Myself.
God.
I've fought it for weeks now. I hate to admit it, but I am.
I'm furious that His plan necessitates this emptiness.
I hate that He has allowed it to hurt this much.
I'm devastated that He has chosen to bless so many others with healthy pregnancies so soon after my loss. I haven't had time to think. To process. To breathe.
I'm angry that God seems to remember everyone else and seems to have forgotten me. All of these women around me are getting exactly what I want and have prayed for, and He doesn't seem to remember that I want it, too.
In my quest to quench my anger, I have looked to the parable of the lost sheep. In the story, a shepherd tends to his flock of 100 sheep. Stupidly, one wanders off. The shepherd, though he still has 99 others, frets over this one lost sheep and searches day and night, far and wide until he rescues his long lost little lamb. Rejoicing, the shepherd carries his lamb home on his shoulders, telling all who will hear about the one sheep that was lost and has been found.
I am that stupid, stupid sheep. I have wandered away because it seems the 99 are more important to the Shepherd. He couldn't possibly see me. He couldn't care. I'm just one little lamb.
But He noticed that I wandered. He sees me. And He cared enough to come get me.
He left the 99 to find me.
He didn't forget. He still hasn't. Even among the crowd, He knows me and comes to me when I need Him. That doesn't mean that He isn't taking me kicking and screaming. It isn't easy to follow a Shepherd into unsafe pastures, unsafe valleys--the Valley of the Shadow of Death, even.
It has been long believed that when a sheep wandered off in biblical times, the shepherd would break the legs of the sheep so that it wouldn't stray again. In the time the lamb spent healing from its broken bones, it remained at the side of the shepherd, learning to trust him.
As it healed, the shepherd carried it.
Well. He has searched long enough for me. And yes, He has broken me.
But He is carrying me.
And now, all I can do is sit atop His glorious shoulders--battered and broken--listening to His beautiful voice rejoice as He takes me back home.
If you had one hundred sheep and one of them strayed away and was lost in the wilderness, wouldn't you leave the ninety-nine others to go and search for the lost until you found it? And then you would joyfully carry it home on your shoulders. ~Luke 15:4-5
<Photo 1>
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