"I will praise the one who's chosen me, to carry you"
-Selah: I will carry you

Sunday 29 March 2015

Finding trust

This morning's service was very apt and challenging for me.  It was a Palm Sunday service, and the speaker reminded us how the same crowd who laid palm leaves and shouted "hosanna" as  Jesus approached Jerusalem just a few days later shouted "crucify him". Isn't it easy for us to look back at that time, that crowd and shake our heads at their fickle behavior.  They saw Jesus as their savior and when He didn't appear to save them in the way they wanted, they turned on him in anger. As today's speaker pointed out, well, aren't we exactly the same? Don't we stand in church on a Sunday and worship God, only to turn from Him in anger when we face pain and suffering?

I know I am guilty of this- as my last post will attest to.  The greatest challenge for me as a Christian over the past few years has been trust. When people try to help me in my pain by talking about God's plan, it is very hard to hear, harder still to be comforted by.  In the darkest depths of grief, disappointment and despair, the simple answer is "I don't like this plan, why would God plan this for me?" But faith is trusting in what is not seen, in what is yet to come.  It is hard, so hard when the yet to come takes a great deal lomger to arrive than we would choose. But, I am working on reaching that place of trust, that my faithful God will keep His promises to me.

The letter of James is a small book tucked away towards the end of the new testament.  It is a great book with loads of practical advice on how to live as a Chrisitan. But, it does challenge us too.  It opens with a call to consider suffering as joy, and goes on to admonish us not to be "double minded" or to doubt. I am slowly coming to understand verses such as James 1:2-8.  Of course the suffering itself will not produce "joy" but I can indeed trust that God is using it to aid my growth to spiritual maturity.  I still say, and I expect I will say to my dying breath, that I wish He had chosen another way to teach me, that my son's life was too high a price to pay, but, I will also continue until my dying breath to endeavor to find trust.

Wednesday 11 March 2015

When faith is no longer a comfort

This morning I uttered the words "I wish I wasn't a Christian, then I would find this easier to deal with." I was referring to our recently failed first attempt at IVF.   My husband would nominally call himself a Christian, but he is not practicing and is primarily a scientist. He looked at the situation of our embryo transfer as a 50:50 chance that a ball of cells would attach itself to my womb. If it didn't, we could try again and it would be another coin toss. He didn't get his hopes up too high and is therefore taking this pretty well comparatively.  For me, I have had weeks, months really of answered prayer to get to the point of trying the transfer.  People across the world were praying for us on the build up to the transfer, and on the day itself. I prayed the whole way there that I would not cough on the table as I had a horrible cough/cold.  I didn't cough and the transfer went perfectly. I felt so calm all the first week, I was off work, relaxed, meditated, prayed, did gentle yoga and watched funny movies. I was so sure the answer was finally yes.

It wasn't.

And that is so hard to accept. Despite all that prayer, despite it all going perfectly, despite the years we have waited and all we have been through in our quest to be parents, it was still, inexplicably, a no.  And that hurts, so much more than the thought that the coin toss didn't land in our favour.  To me, that was not a ball of cells. It was our embryo, created with God's hand guiding science.  Why tell us yes to having IVF, why allow us to go this far, just to say no at the final hurdle? So similar to my question three years ago- "why allow us to conceive Bertie, just for him to die?"

You read a lot about people comparing infertility to grief, a recurring grief. Right now, that's how I feel. A lot of my thoughts and feelings remind me of how I felt after Bertie died. Obviously on a much lesser scale, but none the less, it does feel like another grief.  Not the loss of a baby, but the ending of hope.   I am having the classic reactions: Denial (a weekend of repeated peeing on
pregnancy tests, just in case the last one, two, three....were wrong/faulty/taken too early). Anger (at God, at life, at the unfairness of it all). Depression (withdrawal, lack of concentration, lack of motivation).  Acceptance (I'm still waiting to get there).

I'm noticing similar reactions in others to after Bertie died too.  Nobody has the words. Nobody knows what to say. Everyone knows what an enormous blow this is, the ripping off of a plaster, a recurrent gaping wound. A difference, two camps: those who have wordlessly held me and let me cry, and those who have avoided me.

I have spent today with this blog formulating and whirling in my mind, and God knew that. He worked to remind me that He is there and is working in other people to prove it. I came home to a bunch of flowers and a card on my doorstep, from some Christian friends. The flowes include
daffodils. After I cried this morning over another approaching Mothers' day with no daffodils for me,
what a strangely sweet comfort. Did Bertie nudge them? The card contains the expected encouraging bible verse. It grates a little in the midst of grief, these promises feel so empty in the face of repeated disappointment, however I appreciate the thought and the effort. And hey, at least it wasn't Romans 8:28 again.

As the months have turned into years, and the people who had babies when I didn't start to have second babies, I start to wonder if our turn will ever come?  It is so hard to keep finding that positivity, to keep trusting in God's plan, to give it all to Him. Do I really, truly mean it when I pray "your will father, not mine?" No, I don't. And nor, I am sure, would most women in my shoes. My will is to be a mother to a living, biological child. And I do not understand why I am not being allowed that joy. I am a good person, and I don't think I deserve this. Yes, I believe that there will be no more tears in Heaven, but, Lord, why can't I have my heart's longing here on Earth first? If You are not punishing me, then why am I facing this punishing grief, over and over again?