So. It is a new day. It is also Day 32 since our miscarriage. We are still okay. In fact, there are times that I would even dare to say we are good. That being said, I have been disappointed to find that the anger and the temptation to bitterness have lingered on, seemingly indefatigable reminders that all is not well in our world. For a long while the anger made me feel guilty and confused. I felt confused because I still couldn't identify the source for my anger (at least not in such a way that I could then rationally talk myself out of it) and guilty because anger is supposed to be such a bad emotion and its presence in my heart felt like a charge against me, a red flag that I am, in fact, a bad person. Worse, I hated (and felt even greater guilt over) the way that it would not stay contained in my heart, but would instead periodically erupt from within, spewing pain all over those around me - often those I love best and care about the most. I mentioned several times to Peter and other close friends that I thought there should be a time of confinement for those who are grieving, just as there used to be for women advanced in pregnancy in previous centuries. I want a safe place where I could hide away and work through my grief honestly but without the constant fear of hurting innocent bystanders in the process.
Despite my wishes, this place of isolation has not materialized. But for the most part I have ceased to feel so guilty and confused. Many mornings I would wake up, feel a sense of being physically unwell, and start running through a mental checklist: do I have a headache? a stomachache? What do these feelings add up to? And I would repeatedly come to the same diagnosis for the lump in my stomach or the vice in my chest or the ache between my shoulder blades: it's anger. I'm just angry. Somehow, in some strange way, this initial recognition of physical symptoms (instead of emotion) helped. After all, when we are recovering from a sprained ankle, do we blame ourselves for the swelling, or the redness, or the pain? Anger remains a frustrating reminder of this wound in my heart, but it has lost much of its power in being reduced to just a symptom. On those mornings when I recognize its presence I have stopped focusing my energy on trying to eradicate the emotion and have instead prayed for grace: that in my anger I would not sin. And instead of guilt and confusion I feel a form of peace and a capacity to endure.
***
The other night, in yet another attempt to delay her bedtime, a pajama-ed Eden curled up in my lap and requested a story. Tired and not particularly wanting to read the same picture book for the thousandth time, I suggested that she ask her dad to tell her a Bible story. She did and he, of course, obliged, choosing the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. He described how the three men refused to worship the god created by King Nebuchadnezzar and as a punishment were bound together and thrown into a fiery furnace. And then he told of the miracle: how King Nebuchadnezzar looked into the furnace and saw not three, but four men walking unbound and unharmed in the midst of the fire - and how the King described the fourth man as looking like "a son of the gods."
Honestly? Sitting, listening to that story, all I could think was: how odd.
How odd that God would choose to demonstrate His deliverance in such a way. Why did He let the men be thrown into the furnace in the first place? Why did He wait so long to demonstrate His power? If He was going to save them from this death, why did He do it in the middle of the fire? Why didn't He stop it from ever getting that far?
***
Then later in the week I found myself reflecting on the season of Lent in which we now find ourselves. I was thinking about how it is supposed to be a time of sorrow and repentance. And my mind wandered to the fact that it also in a small way supposed to be a time of knowing Christ through "the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings."
And suddenly, I wanted to laugh.
What sufferings? What suffering does the God of the universe endure? What suffering can be experienced by the One who is, and is surrounded by, Love, Truth, Beauty, Joy, Peace: everything I long for and am drawn to? What sufferings?
Mine. All mine.
***
So. It is a new day. I wake up and I recognize that though things are better they are not yet well. I pick up the burden of my sorrow, of my grief. I say a prayer that I would not succumb to the anger and bitterness that day or even just that moment. I look out the window at a Spring that is not what it was supposed to be, and I shoulder my suffering and I look for my deliverance.
And I don't know why He waits. I don't know why He doesn't step in to set things right sooner. I don't understand.
But if I'm going to trust someone, anyone, how can I help but trust Him? The One who gave up Heaven, gave up everything that I wish I had, to come down and share in my suffering. The One who sat with me, just me, in an apartment bathroom and grieved. The One who over and over again, for our sake, exchanges not sadness for joy, but the other way around. The One who made deliverance possible when He gave up immortality for a mortal body and then suffered poverty, racism, oppression, rejection, betrayal, and death.
It doesn't make any sense to me. I do not understand. But He is present with me in the fire. And I am free.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
For All Those Who Make Their Home in Tornado Alley
I'm just posting the lyrics to this song because I love it. I love most Hem songs actually. They make me happy. Or sad sometimes but in a happy way.
Funnel Cloud by Hem
Clapboard on the houses
Clothesline threading through
Holding down the corners of
The field where we grew
Off on the horizon
The same thing everyday
Until a painted backdrop rises up
And blows the world away
Blows your world away
Carry off the blankets
And carry off the trees
The light you've seen can touch you now
And change the way you see
And change the way you see
I know I've said it already, but I really love this song.
Funnel Cloud by Hem
Clapboard on the houses
Clothesline threading through
Holding down the corners of
The field where we grew
Off on the horizon
The same thing everyday
Until a painted backdrop rises up
And blows the world away
Blows your world away
Carry off the blankets
And carry off the trees
The light you've seen can touch you now
And change the way you see
And change the way you see
I know I've said it already, but I really love this song.
Friday, March 11, 2011
I Should Be Washing Dishes
I'm sitting on my living room couch right now in the middle of a house that is basically a giant mess. It has been a mess for a long time. It will probably remain a mess for quite a while yet.
As I mentioned before, we got a little carried away on the planned improvements before we moved into our new home - which resulted in a house that wasn't quite ready for us when the official moving date arrived (and passed, and then arrived again - at which point the moving date really meant it). The major work is all finished - it's just little things, most of which involve paint, and most of which are keeping us from fully unpacking. Well, there are other things keeping us from unpacking too, like a packed calendar, and habitual laziness, and a particularly cute and sassy three-foot urchin with fairly demanding expectations for attention/entertainment/meals/nose-wiping/etc., but those are posts for another time.
The point is, we're not exactly ready for an open-house. Which we keep telling people we're having. (Perhaps just in time for Christmas!)
We're also a bit behind on other things. As in, I still need to send my grandparents a thank-you card for last Christmas. As in, Eden's California Memories photobook - you know, from when we lived in California almost 9 months ago. As in, laundry. As in, a hundred zillion e-mails, facebook messages, phone calls (I hereby guarantee that this last one will never happen people), cards, smoke signals, and other assorted means of communication all of which I am. horrible. at keeping up with.
My doctor told me to make a follow-up appointment for three weeks after Judah's delivery date. It will be three weeks tomorrow. I made the appointment... yesterday. (I also made it begrudgingly, but that is perhaps another post for another time.) The nurse was merciful and found a spot to squeeze us in on Monday afternoon. (In case you haven't picked up on it, I kind of don't really want to go.)
On Wednesday I sat down and tried to make a list of everything I needed to do. Using one line for every item I easily filled a page and a half. Some things aren't too scary: facebook so-and-so, add an event to my google calendar. Most things, unfortunately, are: unpack house, organize house, decorate house. Get a gym membership and stop trying to smother your sadness with junk food.
My sister-in-law was appropriately worried about the creation of this list - concerned that seeing it all in black-and-white would be too overwhelming and do more harm than good. She has a point. But I was just so sick of the constant mental post-it-notes to do this or that, each and every one of which would be forgotten and remembered and forgotten again in an unending upward spiral of stress and frustration and guilt and remorse, that I had to try something. And, I do think it was helpful - I'm still stressed but at least that extra little stress of "don't forget..." has been removed.
However, looking at the list absolutely emphasizes how impossible it all actually is. I'm trying to accomplish a month's worth of full-time work in 30 minutes a day, and hoping to be done in a week or so. It's not going to happen. And, honestly? My biggest fear is probably just how many people are going to be mad at me (or hurt, or offended, or disappointed) before it's all through.
Am I being melodramatic if I say that I just really don't want another thing to feel sad about?
This house, in its unpacked state, makes me feel sad. The fact that so many people who were and are so kind to us, and who deserve at least some kind of acknowledgment of their kindness, have so far gone without, makes me feel sad. My inability to be the person I was 10 years ago, the person who got things done, makes me feel sad.
Possible or not, healthy or not, it makes me feel good to think about knocking everything off this list. And, I think? There are worse ways of trying to cope.
And that's me. Praying for God's mercy as I fumble my way through the impossible.
(Write blog post. Check.)
As I mentioned before, we got a little carried away on the planned improvements before we moved into our new home - which resulted in a house that wasn't quite ready for us when the official moving date arrived (and passed, and then arrived again - at which point the moving date really meant it). The major work is all finished - it's just little things, most of which involve paint, and most of which are keeping us from fully unpacking. Well, there are other things keeping us from unpacking too, like a packed calendar, and habitual laziness, and a particularly cute and sassy three-foot urchin with fairly demanding expectations for attention/entertainment/meals/nose-wiping/etc., but those are posts for another time.
The point is, we're not exactly ready for an open-house. Which we keep telling people we're having. (Perhaps just in time for Christmas!)
We're also a bit behind on other things. As in, I still need to send my grandparents a thank-you card for last Christmas. As in, Eden's California Memories photobook - you know, from when we lived in California almost 9 months ago. As in, laundry. As in, a hundred zillion e-mails, facebook messages, phone calls (I hereby guarantee that this last one will never happen people), cards, smoke signals, and other assorted means of communication all of which I am. horrible. at keeping up with.
My doctor told me to make a follow-up appointment for three weeks after Judah's delivery date. It will be three weeks tomorrow. I made the appointment... yesterday. (I also made it begrudgingly, but that is perhaps another post for another time.) The nurse was merciful and found a spot to squeeze us in on Monday afternoon. (In case you haven't picked up on it, I kind of don't really want to go.)
On Wednesday I sat down and tried to make a list of everything I needed to do. Using one line for every item I easily filled a page and a half. Some things aren't too scary: facebook so-and-so, add an event to my google calendar. Most things, unfortunately, are: unpack house, organize house, decorate house. Get a gym membership and stop trying to smother your sadness with junk food.
My sister-in-law was appropriately worried about the creation of this list - concerned that seeing it all in black-and-white would be too overwhelming and do more harm than good. She has a point. But I was just so sick of the constant mental post-it-notes to do this or that, each and every one of which would be forgotten and remembered and forgotten again in an unending upward spiral of stress and frustration and guilt and remorse, that I had to try something. And, I do think it was helpful - I'm still stressed but at least that extra little stress of "don't forget..." has been removed.
However, looking at the list absolutely emphasizes how impossible it all actually is. I'm trying to accomplish a month's worth of full-time work in 30 minutes a day, and hoping to be done in a week or so. It's not going to happen. And, honestly? My biggest fear is probably just how many people are going to be mad at me (or hurt, or offended, or disappointed) before it's all through.
Am I being melodramatic if I say that I just really don't want another thing to feel sad about?
This house, in its unpacked state, makes me feel sad. The fact that so many people who were and are so kind to us, and who deserve at least some kind of acknowledgment of their kindness, have so far gone without, makes me feel sad. My inability to be the person I was 10 years ago, the person who got things done, makes me feel sad.
Possible or not, healthy or not, it makes me feel good to think about knocking everything off this list. And, I think? There are worse ways of trying to cope.
And that's me. Praying for God's mercy as I fumble my way through the impossible.
(Write blog post. Check.)
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Checking In
I realize that the last post was a bit of a downer in a way, and even though I really don't have much to write tonight, I wanted to check in just to say that we are doing okay. And I mean okay in the best sense. Okay is quite good enough right now.
The last few days have been rough on my family. I'm not ready to get into the details at the moment, but as I mentioned before, our miscarriage has not been the only thing to grieve in the last two weeks. Right now, it is my brother who is really hurting, and of course, in whatever way we can, we are all hurting with him. Yesterday was an especially significant and difficult day. I thought I was prepared for it, but I was caught off guard by how hard it was to see my oldest brother, in many ways my childhood idol, suffering his own huge loss. I want to take his pain away, make his tomorrows easy and carefree, but I can't. And suddenly, with the burden that these last few days have brought, I feel myself bottoming out: the mental and emotional reserves nearing empty, my physical reserves following close behind. I had hoped to avoid this - I was trying to muster enough strength/energy/positive thoughts/I-don't-even-know-what everyday to keep my brokenness as neat and managed as possible. Yet now I feel my control slipping, and I worry that I am about to come all unraveled. I wonder what coming unraveled will mean in my life as it is to date - as a mother and a pastor's wife, as a new and old friend, and as a daughter and sister in a family that has really had quite enough lately, thank-you-very-much.
Strangely, (or perhaps not-so-strangely considering my Eeyore tendencies) one of my favorite books when I was a child was a rather slow-moving and depressing novel called Izzy, Willy-Nilly by Cynthia Voigt. (Cynthia Voigt is the Newberry Award-winning author of the more well-known Dicey's Song, which I also read as a child but didn't like at all.) In this story, a young girl by the name of Izzy (Isobel) is badly injured in a car accident and is forced to reform her understanding of self and others as she heals from her injuries and adapts to a new and vastly different life. Isobel often pictures a miniature version of herself in her head - and this miniature Izzy acts as an interpreter, both to the reader and perhaps to the main character herself, of Isobel's true emotions. I've always thought this was a very unique and interesting device on the part of the author for communicating information about how her character was feeling/developing without stating it overtly. And anyway, it has always stuck with me.
If there were a miniature Stephanie (ha! a mini-me!) in my head, I'm not sure that she would be doing too well right now. While spiritually I think I'm still holding strong for the most part, as I've stated already, mentally, emotionally, and physically I feel like I'm reaching the bottom of the barrel. Tonight, on the drive home from the city where my brother is still hospitalized, I had a sudden flashback to that story of the miniature Izzy. And in my mind I saw my own little miniature self - the one who I like to think has been shakily standing for the last couple of weeks - now lying bent over on the floor, too tired to even raise her head.
We are doing okay. We really are. And I still believe that one day, perhaps even not so far off, we all will be doing better than okay. I think we will be doing good.
I think we will be good.
But for now, we are okay.
The last few days have been rough on my family. I'm not ready to get into the details at the moment, but as I mentioned before, our miscarriage has not been the only thing to grieve in the last two weeks. Right now, it is my brother who is really hurting, and of course, in whatever way we can, we are all hurting with him. Yesterday was an especially significant and difficult day. I thought I was prepared for it, but I was caught off guard by how hard it was to see my oldest brother, in many ways my childhood idol, suffering his own huge loss. I want to take his pain away, make his tomorrows easy and carefree, but I can't. And suddenly, with the burden that these last few days have brought, I feel myself bottoming out: the mental and emotional reserves nearing empty, my physical reserves following close behind. I had hoped to avoid this - I was trying to muster enough strength/energy/positive thoughts/I-don't-even-know-what everyday to keep my brokenness as neat and managed as possible. Yet now I feel my control slipping, and I worry that I am about to come all unraveled. I wonder what coming unraveled will mean in my life as it is to date - as a mother and a pastor's wife, as a new and old friend, and as a daughter and sister in a family that has really had quite enough lately, thank-you-very-much.
Strangely, (or perhaps not-so-strangely considering my Eeyore tendencies) one of my favorite books when I was a child was a rather slow-moving and depressing novel called Izzy, Willy-Nilly by Cynthia Voigt. (Cynthia Voigt is the Newberry Award-winning author of the more well-known Dicey's Song, which I also read as a child but didn't like at all.) In this story, a young girl by the name of Izzy (Isobel) is badly injured in a car accident and is forced to reform her understanding of self and others as she heals from her injuries and adapts to a new and vastly different life. Isobel often pictures a miniature version of herself in her head - and this miniature Izzy acts as an interpreter, both to the reader and perhaps to the main character herself, of Isobel's true emotions. I've always thought this was a very unique and interesting device on the part of the author for communicating information about how her character was feeling/developing without stating it overtly. And anyway, it has always stuck with me.
If there were a miniature Stephanie (ha! a mini-me!) in my head, I'm not sure that she would be doing too well right now. While spiritually I think I'm still holding strong for the most part, as I've stated already, mentally, emotionally, and physically I feel like I'm reaching the bottom of the barrel. Tonight, on the drive home from the city where my brother is still hospitalized, I had a sudden flashback to that story of the miniature Izzy. And in my mind I saw my own little miniature self - the one who I like to think has been shakily standing for the last couple of weeks - now lying bent over on the floor, too tired to even raise her head.
We are doing okay. We really are. And I still believe that one day, perhaps even not so far off, we all will be doing better than okay. I think we will be doing good.
I think we will be good.
But for now, we are okay.
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