The Room
Right now my life is like a big house, full of large spacious rooms. I wander freely around the house, in and out of whichever rooms I choose when I like. Except for one. There’s one room that I never go in. The door is locked and bolted, and when I wander past it I don’t even look at it. I pretend it’s not there. Why? Because if I don’t I have to look at what’s in there, and right now that is terrifying.
There have been times when I’ve tried to go in the room on days I’ve perhaps felt particularly strong, and times when it feels like other people have opened that door against my will, forcing me to look at what’s inside. And each time produces the same results, overwhelming sadness and anger, so powerful it scares me. So the best thing to do seems to be to slam the door shut again, bolt the lock, and continue to ignore it.
This is one of a variety of coping mechanisms that we put into place to help us function and continue to live our day to day lives when something extremely painful happens to us. If the door on that room was permanently open, I would cease to be able to function in the rest of the house, and so the ability to shut the door and walk away is helpful in enabling me to get on and live my life. However there is a fine line between a helpful defence mechanism and one that pushes us to ignore and not deal with the pain that is after all still there, it’s just been shut behind a firmly closed door.
At the moment, each time I try to go into that room it gets harder and harder and I spend less and less time in there. I could perhaps cope with the sadness, if I knew I could feel it for a time and then close the door again, but the anger that I feel whenever the door opens is getting harder and harder to manage. It’s as though as soon as that door opens, the storm raging inside the room bursts out and overwhelms me. I struggle to think rationally, I can’t pray, all I do is feel full of anger and rage and there seems to be nothing I can do to safely let it out. It swallows me up and I lose myself in a feeling I can’t control. And lately it’s seemed that the more I try to shut the door and walk away, the worse the anger gets when I do return the next time.
I’ve tried to work out why I’m so angry, but I’m still not clear on it. It could be a normal part of the grieving process, it could be anger at our situation feeling so unfair or a feeling that God let us down and cannot be trusted, or a combination of all of those. I don’t know, but I feel that if I did know I could move forwards in dealing with this. But for now all I can do is ask God to show me and wait. If I feel able to I’ll peer through the door from time to time, I know it’s not healthy to ignore it forever, but the waiting continues as I put my trust in a God who right now I can’t feel or understand but who I know is there and is my loving ally, my tower of refuge and my safe place.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Faithful?
As I lay there hearing the nurses telling us we had lost the baby, I had never felt so alone. And when everyone left me with one particular nurse who’s compassion skills were somewhat limited, and I had no choice but to listen to her tell me there were lots of positives in this situation and I should be looking at those, I felt that God had abandoned me.
We had prayed and prayed that God would protect the baby, and had several people praying during our appointment that we would get good news. When we realised we were miscarrying it threw us into a whirlwind of disappointment and confusion. Why did God let this happen? Why didn’t He care? Does He even hear our prayers, or just answer some randomly as He chooses? We were faced with the fact that He could have stopped this from happening, but He didn’t. Why not? Why doesn’t God intervene when it matters most?
Bad things happen to everyone, and Christians aren’t exempt from this. Goodness knows many Christians have gone through much more than we have and have still clung on to God. But this was our storm and our battle, and when we were right in the middle of it, when it mattered most, we felt He had turned away and left us.
I have been battling with these questions every day since our loss. At first I just felt sadness, then slowly anger crept in too. I couldn’t speak to God, I couldn’t listen to music or read my bible, and I could barely speak about Him even to the people closest to me. I was angry that He didn’t seem to care, angry that He didn’t answer our prayers, angry that He let our hopes be raised only to be crushed again so quickly.
I hated feeling like that. Yet beneath all the negative emotions I was experiencing, I held on to Him. I’m still not sure how, but I did. I didn’t want Him near, but I couldn’t let Him go. Something deep down in me knew it was OK to feel the way I did, that God could handle it, and that I just need to ride this one day at a time knowing that somehow, in time, I will come out of it.
But now, 35 days on, I am in a different place. It kind of crept up on me, this strange sense of peace that I now have. It’s not peace in the usual sense of the word, I don’t feel unnaturally calm and serene, and I’m not without anxiety or worry. But the questions I have been battling with have settled in me, and although the answers haven’t come as I hoped, I can see God in this, at long last.
We don’t know why God chooses to answer some prayers and not others. We don’t know why He allowed us to walk this particular path. But I do know He has been with us through it all. The thing I struggled with most was the sense of abandonment I felt, but looking back I can see Him in the kindness of the nurses who were with me alongside the ‘other’ nurse. I can see Him in the faces of my friends who gave themselves fully to us, committed to walking through our pain with us. I am aware as I write this that this may sound like clutching at straws, but it’s not. No clutching at straws could have calmed the questions or anger I felt. This is God, slowly and gently showing me that through all of this, He has been here, crying with us.
The most powerful answer I’ve received came a few days ago in response to a question I didn’t even know I was asking. I was sat in the corner of the sofa as some friends sat and prayed for us. At first they sung about God being worthy, and I didn’t feel anything. But then the words changed to ‘You are faithful’, and it gripped my heart so powerfully and unexpectedly that all I could do was cry. I hadn’t realised it, but my biggest question through all this had been God, are You faithful? He was gently reminding me that yes, He is indeed faithful. My hurting, doubting heart needed more than this though, so I prayed that if this was Him, someone would bring a verse confirming it. Then our other friend read this from Psalm 145:
The LORD is trustworthy in all he promises
and faithful in all he does.[c]
14 The LORD upholds all who fall
and lifts up all who are bowed down.
15 The eyes of all look to you,
and you give them their food at the proper time.
16 You open your hand
and satisfy the desires of every living thing.
17 The LORD is righteous in all his ways
and faithful in all he does.
This was pretty hard to deny, and by then even I was persuaded that God was trying to tell me that He was faithful. He didn’t leave us when we needed Him most, He never will. My heart still hurts a great deal, and I am still battling with doubts and fears, but I have been reassured that my God is faithful. He is with me in the hurt, the anger, the fear and the anxiety, and at last I can rest.
We had prayed and prayed that God would protect the baby, and had several people praying during our appointment that we would get good news. When we realised we were miscarrying it threw us into a whirlwind of disappointment and confusion. Why did God let this happen? Why didn’t He care? Does He even hear our prayers, or just answer some randomly as He chooses? We were faced with the fact that He could have stopped this from happening, but He didn’t. Why not? Why doesn’t God intervene when it matters most?
Bad things happen to everyone, and Christians aren’t exempt from this. Goodness knows many Christians have gone through much more than we have and have still clung on to God. But this was our storm and our battle, and when we were right in the middle of it, when it mattered most, we felt He had turned away and left us.
I have been battling with these questions every day since our loss. At first I just felt sadness, then slowly anger crept in too. I couldn’t speak to God, I couldn’t listen to music or read my bible, and I could barely speak about Him even to the people closest to me. I was angry that He didn’t seem to care, angry that He didn’t answer our prayers, angry that He let our hopes be raised only to be crushed again so quickly.
I hated feeling like that. Yet beneath all the negative emotions I was experiencing, I held on to Him. I’m still not sure how, but I did. I didn’t want Him near, but I couldn’t let Him go. Something deep down in me knew it was OK to feel the way I did, that God could handle it, and that I just need to ride this one day at a time knowing that somehow, in time, I will come out of it.
But now, 35 days on, I am in a different place. It kind of crept up on me, this strange sense of peace that I now have. It’s not peace in the usual sense of the word, I don’t feel unnaturally calm and serene, and I’m not without anxiety or worry. But the questions I have been battling with have settled in me, and although the answers haven’t come as I hoped, I can see God in this, at long last.
We don’t know why God chooses to answer some prayers and not others. We don’t know why He allowed us to walk this particular path. But I do know He has been with us through it all. The thing I struggled with most was the sense of abandonment I felt, but looking back I can see Him in the kindness of the nurses who were with me alongside the ‘other’ nurse. I can see Him in the faces of my friends who gave themselves fully to us, committed to walking through our pain with us. I am aware as I write this that this may sound like clutching at straws, but it’s not. No clutching at straws could have calmed the questions or anger I felt. This is God, slowly and gently showing me that through all of this, He has been here, crying with us.
The most powerful answer I’ve received came a few days ago in response to a question I didn’t even know I was asking. I was sat in the corner of the sofa as some friends sat and prayed for us. At first they sung about God being worthy, and I didn’t feel anything. But then the words changed to ‘You are faithful’, and it gripped my heart so powerfully and unexpectedly that all I could do was cry. I hadn’t realised it, but my biggest question through all this had been God, are You faithful? He was gently reminding me that yes, He is indeed faithful. My hurting, doubting heart needed more than this though, so I prayed that if this was Him, someone would bring a verse confirming it. Then our other friend read this from Psalm 145:
The LORD is trustworthy in all he promises
and faithful in all he does.[c]
14 The LORD upholds all who fall
and lifts up all who are bowed down.
15 The eyes of all look to you,
and you give them their food at the proper time.
16 You open your hand
and satisfy the desires of every living thing.
17 The LORD is righteous in all his ways
and faithful in all he does.
This was pretty hard to deny, and by then even I was persuaded that God was trying to tell me that He was faithful. He didn’t leave us when we needed Him most, He never will. My heart still hurts a great deal, and I am still battling with doubts and fears, but I have been reassured that my God is faithful. He is with me in the hurt, the anger, the fear and the anxiety, and at last I can rest.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Here, then gone again.
For the past few weeks I’ve been longing to write but have been without any words. At the beginning writing was too painful, seeing the words come alive on the screen suddenly made everything real and unavoidable. But as time has slowly passed I began longing to be able to express what’s going on in me, but every time I thought about writing my mind went blank and the tears welled up. Today is different though. It still hurts, a lot, but I have a touch more clarity and although I don’t know where this is going, I at least feel able to begin.
Three weeks ago we found out that we were 5 weeks pregnant. One week later I miscarried. Here, then gone again. After almost two years of trying to conceive, we were over the moon when that elusive second line appeared on the stick, making our dreams at last a reality. You hear that one in three pregnancies end in miscarriage, but even though that is a huge number, deep down you never think it’s going to happen to you. So as the line on the stick got fainter, and my symptoms started to disappear, we feared the worst but still held on to that shred of hope that surely, after how long it’s taken us to get here, this will never happen to us. But sadly life does not make sense, and happen to us it did.
As soon as the nurse looked away from the screen and said she was sorry, it felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. The longing for this not to be real manifested in a physical ache that was overwhelming. Our hopes and dreams were shattered in an instant as we were informed the ‘pregnancy was not ongoing’. They saw a blob on the screen, but to us it was and will always be our first baby.
We will never know if the baby was a girl or a boy, what they would have looked like or who they would have grown up to be, and that makes me sad. But I believe that our baby was a person, and as such had a soul, and so one day when I meet Jesus, I believe they will be there too. But until then I feel it is really important to never forget this baby. I know we will not always be in this much pain, and in a sense that will be us moving on, but moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. I realised within a few days that I had named the baby, a name that is too personal and precious for me to be able to share, but naming the baby helped me to grieve. It reminded me that the pain I feel isn’t the loss of a bunch of cells, but the loss of a baby, a real person with a soul and a heart. It makes me angry when I read about people referring to early miscarriages as a collection of tissue or a grain of rice, as that immediately invalidates the grief the parents feel, as who grieves a bunch of cells? But as soon as God breathes life into those cells, they become a baby, a person, however small, and that is why the grief we feel is so great.
And now, here I am, two weeks down the line. The bleeding has stopped but my heart is in tatters as I try to make sense of something that we will never understand. I have begun to see the small rays of hope in it now, in that it was good we were able to conceive so soon after starting treatment, and that gives me hope that in time we will conceive again. But that thought is swiftly accompanied by a huge amount of fear that this may happen again. I understand that this is normal though, and for now try to deal with 24 hours at a time.
We have also seen more than ever before how blessed we are with the friends we have been given. We feel hugely grateful for friends who we can cry and laugh with simultaneously, who drop anything at a moment’s notice to be with us, and who know what we need even when we don’t. I don’t believe everyone has friends like these, but we do, and we are immensely thankful.
So as we try to muddle our way through this pain and confusion, we’ve begun to see glimpses of light in the dark and murky fog we are surrounded by. Not enough to tell us we are through the sadness and out the other side, but enough to give us hope that in time we will be. I remind myself that although I can’t see God clearly right now, He’s like the sun, and even when you’re in the fiercest storm the sun still shines above it all.
Three weeks ago we found out that we were 5 weeks pregnant. One week later I miscarried. Here, then gone again. After almost two years of trying to conceive, we were over the moon when that elusive second line appeared on the stick, making our dreams at last a reality. You hear that one in three pregnancies end in miscarriage, but even though that is a huge number, deep down you never think it’s going to happen to you. So as the line on the stick got fainter, and my symptoms started to disappear, we feared the worst but still held on to that shred of hope that surely, after how long it’s taken us to get here, this will never happen to us. But sadly life does not make sense, and happen to us it did.
As soon as the nurse looked away from the screen and said she was sorry, it felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. The longing for this not to be real manifested in a physical ache that was overwhelming. Our hopes and dreams were shattered in an instant as we were informed the ‘pregnancy was not ongoing’. They saw a blob on the screen, but to us it was and will always be our first baby.
We will never know if the baby was a girl or a boy, what they would have looked like or who they would have grown up to be, and that makes me sad. But I believe that our baby was a person, and as such had a soul, and so one day when I meet Jesus, I believe they will be there too. But until then I feel it is really important to never forget this baby. I know we will not always be in this much pain, and in a sense that will be us moving on, but moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. I realised within a few days that I had named the baby, a name that is too personal and precious for me to be able to share, but naming the baby helped me to grieve. It reminded me that the pain I feel isn’t the loss of a bunch of cells, but the loss of a baby, a real person with a soul and a heart. It makes me angry when I read about people referring to early miscarriages as a collection of tissue or a grain of rice, as that immediately invalidates the grief the parents feel, as who grieves a bunch of cells? But as soon as God breathes life into those cells, they become a baby, a person, however small, and that is why the grief we feel is so great.
And now, here I am, two weeks down the line. The bleeding has stopped but my heart is in tatters as I try to make sense of something that we will never understand. I have begun to see the small rays of hope in it now, in that it was good we were able to conceive so soon after starting treatment, and that gives me hope that in time we will conceive again. But that thought is swiftly accompanied by a huge amount of fear that this may happen again. I understand that this is normal though, and for now try to deal with 24 hours at a time.
We have also seen more than ever before how blessed we are with the friends we have been given. We feel hugely grateful for friends who we can cry and laugh with simultaneously, who drop anything at a moment’s notice to be with us, and who know what we need even when we don’t. I don’t believe everyone has friends like these, but we do, and we are immensely thankful.
So as we try to muddle our way through this pain and confusion, we’ve begun to see glimpses of light in the dark and murky fog we are surrounded by. Not enough to tell us we are through the sadness and out the other side, but enough to give us hope that in time we will be. I remind myself that although I can’t see God clearly right now, He’s like the sun, and even when you’re in the fiercest storm the sun still shines above it all.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Waiting hurts
There are some days when waiting is especially hard. When thinking of your dreams reduces you to tears and even tackling life one day at a time seems too much to ask. Today is one of those days. Today my heart is aching, as I ask when? When God?
The song below has helped me through so much pain and hurt in the past that I find it amazing it can still speak to me in new ways. But as I listened to it today God spoke, and I realised what I needed more than anything was to know that God sees, and God knows. And He does. He sees my pain and He knows it hurts.
Heaven Rejoices by Lex Buckley
I know that you have waited
So, so faithfully
I know that it's been painful
But I want you to know
You are so pure, so precious, so lovely
You have been crowned with immeasurable beauty
Heaven rejoices the moment you rise each day
So I sing over you
A song of joy
Let the sun shine on your face
I bring new life
And heal your wounds
Do you know I love you?
Do you know I love you?
I know that it may seem like
The storm will never cease
But know that I am
Trust my sovereignty
I know my ways are hard to understand
But my plan is greater
Than you can imagine
Through all the darkness
I've never left your side
Do you know I love you?
Do you know I love you?
There is strength for today
And bright hope for tomorrow.
So, so faithfully
I know that it's been painful
But I want you to know
You are so pure, so precious, so lovely
You have been crowned with immeasurable beauty
Heaven rejoices the moment you rise each day
So I sing over you
A song of joy
Let the sun shine on your face
I bring new life
And heal your wounds
Do you know I love you?
Do you know I love you?
I know that it may seem like
The storm will never cease
But know that I am
Trust my sovereignty
I know my ways are hard to understand
But my plan is greater
Than you can imagine
Through all the darkness
I've never left your side
Do you know I love you?
Do you know I love you?
There is strength for today
And bright hope for tomorrow.
A treasured friend directed me to Lamentations today and in there I found hope. I see another man who is surrounded by sadness and doesn’t hold back in his cries. But in the middle of it He chooses to shift his focus onto God, and in Chapter 3:21-24 we read:
21 Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
and therefore I have hope:
22 Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
23 They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
24 I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
for his compassions never fail.
23 They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
24 I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
As great as my pain is, it will not consume me, God’s love will never allow that. It will never be too much and I will never be abandoned into it. Sometimes we need to choose to look to God instead of our pain. It doesn’t mean ignoring it (goodness knows that is impossible), but it just restores some perspective. Here I am reminded that although I don’t feel like I can face tomorrow, I have new compassion waiting for me when I wake up. And as much as my heart aches for my dream, ultimately the Lord is my portion, and I WILL wait for Him. It still hurts, but I have hope.
Monday, 17 October 2011
The Journey
I’ve been thinking a lot about waiting these past few days. We’re all waiting for things. The time span may vary, and the object in wanting is different for each of us, but there is no getting away from the fact that at some time in our lives we are all left waiting. And that is where I find myself today.
My husband and I have been trying for a baby for a long time now, and any of you who have been in that place will know how painful it can be. It’s easy for life to become consumed by our longings, living every day for the next hospital appointment or test, wishing days away in the hope of getting to where we want to be that little bit faster. But of course time goes by at its own pace and won’t be rushed by any of us. So, we do all we can do, we wait.
None of us choose our ‘waitings’, and this lack of control can leave us feeling helpless and disempowered. But whilst we cannot control our futures, we can choose how we wait today. Yesterday at church someone gave me a word of encouragement that spoke right into the heart of this issue, and it was this, ‘it’s not just about the waiting, it’s about the journey’, and she was right. Suddenly my perspective shifted. When we take our eyes off the destination and onto the journey, everything changes.
Unlike the usual journeys we take, when it comes to life none of us really know where our destinations will be. It is good to plan and look to the future, and wonderful when these plans come to fruition. But what about those deep longings over which we have little control? Well, whilst we don’t know where our individual roads will take us, we have been given a map for the journey, and a guide to lead us along it. His way is often not our way (much to our frustration at times!). But His way is the right way and His timing is perfect. Unlike road journeys, where we can plan how and when we’ll reach our destinations, God does things differently. He cares deeply about our longings, but the journey and how we travel along it matters too, perhaps even more so as it is these that shape us and if we allow it, lead us closer to Him. Our map, God’s Word, gives us all we need to know for our journeys. Left to my own devices I’d live consumed by my worries and the uncertainties over my future, but God tells us to live one day at a time. He knows that when we live too far in the future, we may miss what He has for us today, and can quickly become engulfed with fear and worry.
When I take my eyes off my destination and onto the journey, suddenly this time of waiting appears more manageable, and I’m reminded there can be life along the way. I hear God speaking to me, I see the other amazing things that God is doing in my life, I see that there is life and hope within my waiting, and that my life is moving forward even when I can’t see it. This doesn’t necessarily make waiting easier, but it does make it more meaningful. I don’t want my waiting to steal the preciousness of each day, and I can trust that whilst I look to live day by day, He has my tomorrows in His hands, and although I don’t know the destination, He does, and it is good.
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