Crash and Burn

Crinkling sand beneath my warm toes, I listened to the waves as they smashed against the beach.  Breathing a deep inspiration of therapeutic, salty air, I exhaled the troubles that had wound my nerves so intricately for the past several months.

Ahh.  This is the life, I thought.  Miles from frustration; ages from pain; far from worry.

It was sweltering hot, and with perspiration dripping heavily from my chlorine-soaked ponytail, I stepped lightly to refresh my feet in the ocean water.  The tide bathed and tickled my toes, and because of the brutal heat, my body begged me to venture further out for a cool dip.

The waves, which had originally lapped sweetly against my ankles, began to vigorously charge against me as I waded deeper and deeper.  As long as I could see the waves coming, I could brace myself for their strength.  But when I turned my back to the approaching tide, the force felt stronger.  Harder.

I couldn't tell where or when they'd be coming.  The deeper I got, the faster they hit.  The harder they got, the weaker I realized I was.  Some were so strong that they knocked me over.  Some knocked me under.

One.  After the other.  After the other.  Until I briefly questioned, "Will I ever regain my footing?  Will I drown here?"

I think it's only fair for those of you who have accompanied me on this journey to hear the "real stuff" that I go through in this grief.  Yes, I've been trying desperately to make lemonade from this sour season, but you know what?  It would be wrong of me to lead you to believe that every time I have a setback, my first thought is, "Well, golly gee whiz.  What valuable lesson can I learn today?"

This isn't Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.

Sometimes, I find that I can move to a place like this quickly.  But, folks, it isn't always that simple.

Exhibit A?  Let's journey to yesterday morning...

Sunday morning.  The alarm sings to let us know that it's time to get up for Sunday School.  To be honest, it's a struggle every week over whether or not we'll go.  Not because we don't love the class.

Our class roster has quickly become a list of nothing but parents and parents-to-be.  It's a fairly small, intimate class, so it's impossible to hide in the crowd, and I often find myself wedged between a rock and a hard place...or a pregnant belly and an even bigger pregnant belly.  Two of my classmates are set to deliver in the next month or so.  A third pregnancy was announced two Sundays ago.  We were one of three couples left who weren't expecting.

So let's drop a bomb, shall we?

All morning, Dru kept telling me that he had a funny feeling; like we shouldn't go that morning.  It had been a bit of a tough weekend (Saturday was my second due date, and of course we paused with grief), but I pish-poshed his concerns. For some reason, my stomach was in knots the whole ride there.

As usual, we were running a few minutes late but made it just in time for prayer requests.  My last shining hope of a non-mom-to-be eagerly raised her hand.

"I have a prayer request...and a praise..." she began.

My heart fluttered.  My fine-tuned, bitter, infertile eye scanned her for a tell-tale bump.

"We have a doctor's appointment this week..."

No, please, dear Lord, no...I feel a wave coming, but I can't see it...it's a big one...

"Because we're thirteen-and-a-half weeks expecting!"

She looked right at me when she said it.  Right.  At.  Me.  My face was numb.  I heard nothing after.  But as I looked around at my classmates, I realized I was the only wife who wasn't pregnant.

With a stupid look on my face, I sat there.  Frozen.  My ears bleeding from the news.  I carefully faced Dru and whispered, "We need to leave.  Now."  We stayed through the prayer, but as Dru gripped my hand as our leader prayed "...and bless this new life, Lord...," my body started to shake, violently rejecting the news.

We hauled tail at the sigh of an "Amen."  As quickly as we had arrived, we were out of there.  Dru started the car angrily, and we began to weave in and out of nearby neighborhoods.  He talked incessantly of shrubs and landscaping (it's become his "safe place"), and me?

I yelled.

One by one, I named them--those who had announced a pregnancy or had a baby in the last nine months.  The girls at work...our sister-in-law...our Sunday School classmates...this girl from Facebook...that girl from Facebook...those six neighbors of ours...

It added up to more than twenty.  Twenty. 

When I think about that number, I think my head will explode.  Really.  If you're scratching your head incredulously at my undying frustration, that's okay.  I'm thankful you don't understand.  But if you've been where we are--even a little bit--I'll bet you get it.

And as much as I want to be a "good Christian girl" and respond how I know I should, this sucks.

It's overwhelming, and it sucks.  And you know what?  As we drove around yesterday, I did something I haven't done in a very long time.  I questioned everything I believe in.

It is possible that even as a follower of Christ, even though you're searching for His promises, His grace, His mercy, His goodness...you may not feel it.  You can find it, but you may not feel it.

I spouted off vile things.  That God doesn't see me.  That He has forgotten about us.  That He must not want us to have a baby.  That He just flat out doesn't care because if He did, then it wouldn't hurt this much.  I cursed the fact that He was asking this much of me.  While so many others have it so easy, He's making it hard for us.  Everytime a wave comes, He doesn't let me get my breath before another sends me crashing to the bottom.

Stop it, God.  Stop!!  Give me a break already.  I need a break.  If He is so great and good and wonderful, why won't He come save me from this pain?  Enough already!

I just couldn't feel Him.  And because I couldn't feel Him, because He was letting me drown, I doubted that this whole experience was nothing more than a reason to put us down. 

In my heart of hearts, I know this isn't the truth.  I know that.  But what you feel can make what you know seem like a farce.  When they don't seem to match up, emotions can override what you know to be true.

But as I picture how I must have looked to my Father--pitching a fit, screaming at Him, attempting to claw free from His steadfast grip--I imagine that, just like a Daddy does when His daughter falls and hurts herself, He has me sitting on a kitchen counter examining my wounds.

Kindly, He takes my hand.  Yeah.  They're pretty deep.  They're ugly.

And while I wipe my teary eyes, hoping that it will take nothing but a kiss to soothe the pain, He pulls out a cleanser to wash over my wounds.

But it burns.  It hurts.  It feels awful.  Because it hurts, I doubt what He's doing.  It must not be working right.

"My child," He says lovingly, "this will help.  I know it hurts, but this is going to make you better."

Instead of trusting that He knows what's right, that He knows what I need, I kick and scream and doubt that He who created my inmost being isn't giving me what I need.

He is.  It just isn't the way that I want.  I want the kiss.  I don't want the burn.

Friends, I'm sitting on the counter getting my wounds cleansed tonight.  It's terribly unpleasant.  I'm kicking, screaming, and crying.  And I don't want it to have to be this way.  But I ask, I beg, that you pray for me and my ugly, wounded body, and that I'll surrender it to the Healer--the One Who gives me what I need and not what I want.

Yeah, the Doctor is in, and even though He's working on me tonight, He's open to new patients.

Need an appointment?  I'm sure He'll see you next...