Mom came into the room. She was visiting from out of town. She flew in amidst the chaos and bustle of emergency rooms, doctors, and panicked family.
"Debbie. It's time to change bandages again."
We began the long and arduous trek up the stairs. 14 stairs. It might as well have been Mt. Everest. I couldn't climb them alone. And so I leaned on my small petite mother and let her support me one step at a time. It seemed like forever. She helped me onto the bed, laid me down gently and proceeded to minister to the task at hand. As the bandages pulled away from my grotesquely stitched abdomen I could almost feel the wound leaking its foul and death decaying liquid. My mind oozed venomous thoughts as everything in me wanted to scream out, LEAVE ME ALONE! My stomach muscles reflected the sentiment as they contracted and resented each touch. But she would not leave. She continued to brush away the filth. How desperately I needed her to perform that menial task. To attempt it alone would have strained the muscles beyond their capacity, torn open stitches and I would pour out, unattended. I needed her.
I sat in the aftermath of that disaster and thought to myself, "God, where are you? How can anything good come from this?" And I grieved. I grieved loss. I grieved death. I grieved a world where something as small and seemingly insignificant as a ruptured cyst can wipe out every trace of life within. I mourned a world where doctors used terms like "it" to describe a human life and D&Cs are every day procedures. I mourned a world where life is so frail and dreams die easily. How can anything good exist in a world like this?
That was slightly over four years ago. This week my son, Declan, turns three. And I ask myself again, "How could anything good come from all that?" I believe in the uniqueness of each life; the preciousness of personhood. Had I not experienced that tragedy four years ago, I would certainly have avoided a significant amount of pain, but I would not know Declan. A different child would be in my arms today. Each smile he gives me, every hug and kiss, his little arms squeezing tight around my neck, his bright blue inquisitive eyes, and his laughter - oh how I love his laughter - I would have none of that. I would not know him.
I have experienced many other facets of pain, grief, and loss over the years. Some days the pain is so great that I cannot even move. It immobilizes, incapacitates. And my body oozes from the wounds within until there are no tears left to cry. I cringe at the touch of others, rejecting their love and compassion. Everything inside me wants to scream out once again, "LEAVE ME ALONE!" But they do not. I do not have the energy or strength to send them away, and I let them minister to my pain. I need them.
There are times when the pain is so blinding, I even want to reject God, crying out, "LEAVE ME ALONE!" But He does not. His Spirit, ever-present with me, caresses my wounds as my mother once did, not removing, but comforting and soothing me through the healing process. Each touch hurts, twisting and contracting my innards, yet each touch is necessary. I need Him.
As I struggle through seasons of pain I am reminded of the wounds of that season. Again I find myself asking the same question, "How could anything good come of this?" And then I see Declan and I remember. And I am comforted. I know that even though I cannot see in the moment, the fullness of life that comes out of our grief, someday it will be there. Someday the mourning will turn into dancing, the sorrow into joy. I look at my son and I think of all the joy he has brought me and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I know, there will be good. There will be joy.
"...we were like those who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy... Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them." Psalm 126
3 comments:
You write so beautifully, I feel for you when you lost that pregnancy. But you do have an amazing little boy to look back on now and bring you joy. I have been living in the despair you describe for years and see no end for it. What good can infertility lead too? What joy is their in a heart that longs for children when God does nothing but deny? It is what a woman the is created to do, and it makes me a failure, a joke.
I understand only a fraction of your pain. When they had to go in and clean up the mess made by the cyst they weren't sure at first what they were dealing with. They told me I might wake up with no reproductive organs left and in those few brief hours before surgery I had to bid my womanhood farewell.
But I think our logic is flawed in statements that view our only function as women in the reproductive. God never said, "I think I'll make a woman for reproductive reasons only." There is so much more to our personhood and womanhood than just that. You are privileged to enjoy a role I no longer have and despair frequently over because I see no hope, and that is the role of helpmeet, companion, lover. I am no one's wife. My husband discarded me like a piece of property no longer wanted. I am a failure. I am a joke.
But there is so much more to me than just that one physical role; so much fulness to be had in the other roles I have. I try to find joy in those things that I do have so that the despair of what I don't have doesn't overwhelm me.
So we can both be failures. We can both be jokes. Or we can be tremendous successes with the treasures God has granted us to take care of.
That comment, Deborah! Your level of vulnerability and authenticity is exactly what I wish everyone had. Then, the world would be a more fulfilling place in which to thrive & live & communicate fully. I long to have people talk to me like that....istead of the weather.
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