hope seen in an empty room

We’ve lived in five homes over the course of our four years of hoping to start a family. I’ve written about these transitions in other places, but as I have considered Infertility Awareness Week this week, the memories of those houses flashed back across my mind.

In each home, I knew which room would be the nursery. The first house, our first home-owner experience, had a Jack-and-Jill bath downstairs that connected our room to the intended nursery. We decided to buy a house partially because it was “time” to move out of our rent house, but also because we knew we wanted to start a family, so we thought it would be house, then a baby shortly after that.

The house we almost-bought in Conway, the one we wanted to buy but instead rented for six weeks, had this incredible front bedroom with a wall of bookshelves and a window seat–it was dreamy, with huge windows and the perfect old-house charm. A little girl lives in that room now, which makes me so happy. I think it might have been wasted on a boy.

The house we did buy in Conway had a front bedroom with sweet afternoon light. Ridley would curl up in the sun while I worked from my desk, looking out the window at the kids playing on the street.

I suppose the one exception to this list is our apartment we lived in for six months when we first moved back to Fayetteville. It was less than 800 square feet with only one bedroom, so we probably would have had a bassinet in the corner (if we hadn’t been able to start immediately looking for houses if we found out we were pregnant).

And in our current house, of the two extra rooms, my favorite is the one at the very back. It’s across the hall from our room, furthest from the living room, and I just get this feeling when I walk in, especially in the mornings.

In each of our houses, I have used the intended nursery as an office. I have my white desk and a couple of bookcases with the office-y books––Bible commentaries, ministry resources, and binders of notes from old studies. In our current house, I was planning a cozy chair in one corner with a soft rug and a convenient blanket, perfect for early morning quiet times.

The reason I started thinking about these rooms and our houses this week, was that in each house I filled that empty room with something else–and with each move, the room became more and more planned out. In our first house, it was pretty bare. I don’t think I even hung anything on the walls; I thought it would be changed pretty quickly once we got pregnant, so I didn’t invest too much thought into it.

But slowly, I accumulated office furniture and developed a Pinterest board with new ideas, and while I would really love a picturesque office one day (with wall-to-wall bookshelves and a rolling ladder, of course), I think part of my planning around this room was to distract me from the reality that the room wasn’t what I actually wanted it to be – a nursery.

A few weeks ago, I got the urge to clear our office room out. We had an adoption we were being considered for that ended up not moving forward for us, but we knew we wanted to take active steps to pursue another adoption opportunity. As much as it hurt to know that this room still wasn’t being filled, I had a day off work and spent the entire afternoon transporting books, files, papers, etc. to a storage room on the other side of our house. Eric came home from work and all that was left was the desk and the bookshelf, which I needed his help moving.

Other than Eric’s clothes in the closet, that room has remained empty.

And as sad as that may sound, it has actually helped me pray with deeper emotion and greater hope. I am not trying to distract myself from the places of disappointment or confusion that are woven into my life. Every time I walk in there to hang up clean clothes, or I catch Ridley sniffing around the corners, I take a deep breath and pray for the child I hope one day sleeps there.

That empty room is a tangible reminder of the ways we are trusting God for something greater than we can obtain on our own.

IMG_2542

Disappointment is common to us all, unfortunately. I don’t think anyone escapes the discouragement of not having something go the way they planned, or the way they expected, or the way they hoped.

But I also think there’s a sense of rest and of peace in identifying those places of disappointment, choosing to not try to cover them up or brush past them. As I recognize them, I can bring them to God in prayer and wrestle with him and with the longings of my heart. In that wrestling process, I believe my need for him becomes even more real, and my longing shifts from simply wanting “something” to wanting him and wanting to see him work in that “something.”

In the book of Lamentations, there’s this beautiful harmony between the reality of grief and a confidence in God’s love. Jeremiah is distraught by the consequences his people are facing as a result of turning away from God. He is grieved by their rejection of God and even their rejection of him and his attempts to direct them toward repentance.

I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,
the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed.
I remember it all—oh, how well I remember—
the feeling of hitting the bottom.
But there’s one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope: 

God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,
his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.
They’re created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He’s all I’ve got left.
Lamentations 3:19-24 MSG

Jeremiah doesn’t deny the place of pain. He doesn’t say that the pain doesn’t matter since God is faithful. But he also doesn’t let his despair be the only thing he focuses on. He holds the two together–he will never forget the trouble, but he will also remember God’s loyal love.

Even when God redeems this season, however he chooses to move our story–the pain won’t disappear.

It’s not supposed to.

In fact, it bolsters my heart to hold these both together–the pain of life and the sadness, alongside the goodness of God. Choosing to believe his love in light of what has happened makes my conviction of his love that much more powerful.  I have to be convinced of who God is and why he is worth it to still believe in his love when my circumstances have not reflected that I get what I want from God.

So as I walk past the empty room, as I pray for God’s provision in a son or daughter, as I pray for my friends who are also waiting to be parents–whether they are waiting for a pregnancy or an adoption or even still waiting to get married–I am reminded that the disappointment is not bad. But it’s not where I stay.

His character is the reason I hope.

[Other posts related to IAW and Mother’s Day]

Advertisements

is God’s sovereignty actually good news?

We walked through deep disappointment recently. A hope of what was to come in our future suddenly disappeared, and the result has been this heavy gray fog settling over our thoughts and our hearts.

It’s not the outcome we wanted, not the outcome we prayed for, not the outcome that we expected.

As we processed what this disappointment meant for us in the moment, and what it means moving forward, I found that Eric and I were relating to God’s sovereignty differently.

For me, I was at rest in knowing that God was not surprised by the circumstances; he was not trying to come up with a plan B, and he knew all along what would happen. But I was wrestling with how it can feel like his plans have never been what we have asked him to do. As we have been praying with faith and trusting him for bigger things over the past few months, I have had hope that he would answer us with a “Yes!”–and it seems like all he is saying is “no” or “wait.”

Eric struggled more with blaming God, with thinking God made a mistake–that he somehow overlooked our pleas or wasn’t actually doing what was best.

Now, Eric and I both knew our thoughts were not in line with our theology. But in the moment, those are the places our hearts went to. It’s hard to see God’s hand of goodness when life is not playing out the way you hoped it would.

The question we both began to ponder was, Why is God’s sovereignty good news?

I know enough of God’s sovereignty to trust him – but I also know enough of God’s sovereignty to know that he doesn’t necessarily do what I expect or ask of him.

In fact, it’s usually in circumstances where I face disappointment or unmet expectations or even despair that God’s sovereignty is what I have to cling to in my pain. It’s not typically something I need to remind myself as I rejoice. It’s when I need it to be good news–but also when my heart doesn’t always feel like it’s good.

I think people often use “God’s in control” and “God has a plan” as band-aids, trying to put a spiritual truth into a situation that feels uncertain, in hopes of encouraging the one walking through it. I’ve written elsewhere about how those spiritual band-aids can be hurtful, and how they make it more about a “happy ending” than what God is doing now. This quick response in a moment of pain should bring about a pause for us to more fully consider what we are saying. 

Yes, God’s in control.
Yes, he has a plan.
Yes, I am thankful for those two things. They make all the difference.

But do we use claims of God’s control in attempt to comfort ourselves that he will bring about what we ask for? Do we confidently state this fact then inwardly assume this means he will work things out for a good that we can see and understand, neglecting to remember that his ways are above ours (Isaiah 55:8) and he often uses suffering as the pathway to our developed character and hope (Romans 5:3-5)?

I often don’t realize I have done this, until I find myself once again thrown into confusion and frustration and pain when he doesn’t do what I want.

So as we have navigated this disappointment, and weariness in waiting, I am forced to again ask myself, Am I really surrendered to the fact that God is in control, and that he has a plan? Is that good news to me?

In her series of talks entitled “Suffering is Never for Nothing” (now printed into a book that you need to read!), Elisabeth Elliot said,

“If your faith rests in your idea of how God is supposed to answer your prayers, your idea of heaven here on earth or pie in the sky or whatever, then that kind of faith is very shaky and is bound to be demolished when the storms of life hit it. But if your faith rests on the character of Him who is the eternal I AM, then that kind of faith is rugged and will endure.”

God’s sovereignty doesn’t always result in what we want to happen. And yet, in believing that his character is good, I have to believe that the results are good. My sights may be limited to what’s incomplete–the story’s ending hasn’t played out yet–but, even in the deepest places of disappointment, his sovereign ways are still good, because he is still good. He never changes, despite our ever-changing circumstances.

In light of this reality, knowing that God is in control and we can trust him, I don’t think our response to dashed hopes and unmet expectations has to be fake happiness. We don’t need to paste a smile on our faces and say, “Well, God’s got a plan, and I am okay with this.”

It’s okay to not be okay.

In fact, the ability to approach God when we are not okay is modeled for us throughout Scripture. Psalm 13, Psalm 55, and Psalm 69 have been on repeat in my mornings in the Word. Job expresses confusion and anger toward God. Even Jesus cries out in anguish to his Father.

But in not being okay, my heart is still surrendered to him and hopeful in what he’s doing, in the blurry picture that I trust will come into focus as time continues on.

His sovereignty is my rock when I don’t understand. It’s my foundation and my refuge, as I go to him with my questions and fears and hopes, believing that he hears and he cares.

In moments we are tempted to doubt, or disagree, or despair at what we are facing, God’s sovereignty is good news! We can rest in what he’s doing, even when we don’t understand, and we can trust that he welcomes us to come to him with our honest emotions and our sorrow. And it’s in that place of honesty that I have most authentically encountered him.

why we should still ask, even if God might say no

I’m praying bigger prayers these days.

Over the past few years, my prayer life has felt very repetitive–at least, it’s been repetitive in the “big things,” and especially related to infertility. It’s not that I ever stopped praying for a pregnancy, but I got into a rut from asking regularly for the same thing over and over, and I got discouraged by what has been a continual “no” (or a “no, not yet”). I didn’t stop asking, but it’s like the asking became more of an unconscious habit as opposed to a conscious and persistent and hopeful asking.

And, to be honest, I stopped believing it could actually happen. I stopped allowing myself to picture what it would be like if God said “yes” because I doubted that he was willing to say yes.

Something shifted for me recently, and I don’t quite know what to attribute it to other than God’s grace in changing my heart. My prayers have moved out of the rut and into new faith. And not only am I praying with more faith that God can and God is willing to answer, but I am praying for more specific things, related to infertility as well as other areas of my life. I’m not just praying for the bare minimum, but I am asking God to do more than that.

I often approach God with a beggar mentality, asking for the smallest morsel of bread, not wanting to impose on him by asking for too much. I approach him expecting him to be critical, deciding whether or not I present myself in a way that inclines him to answer, so I try to pray in a way that spiritually justifies what I am asking for. I approach him timidly, as if I might ruin my chances if I am not careful.

As I reread the paragraph I just wrote, I can see wrong-thinking. I know that those aren’t accurate descriptions of God’s posture toward me. I am begging God for one breadcrumb when he has all the bread in the world! And yet, I wasn’t aware until recently that I was relating to God that way.

When our focus is first on our circumstances instead of on God, we tend to unconsciously craft an image of God that makes sense in our circumstances. What I saw when I looked at four years of infertility was a god who was withholding from me, a god who was critical of my pain and my continued grief, a god who might have been present but who was indifferent, lacking compassion, and impatient.

As I have begun praying differently, and as I have been looking to Scripture to know the truth of God’s character instead of being swayed by my circumstances, I’ve identified three ways that praying bigger prayers solidifies the portrait of God and the truth of his character–no matter how he ultimately chooses to answer those prayers.

1. Praying big prayers pushes me to recognize that God is all-powerful. I have to believe that he is able to do what I am asking him to do.

In Matthew 8, a Roman centurion comes to Jesus to ask for healing for his paralyzed servant. This is obviously a big deal because this guy is not a Jew, and is in fact disliked by the Jews because of his rule over them. When Jesus agrees to go to his house and heal his servant, the centurion proclaims that he is not worthy for Jesus to come to his house. Instead, he states that he knows Jesus has authority and doesn’t even have to go to his house; he knows Jesus can just say the word and his servant will be healed.

His view of Jesus’ authority and power is big, and it reflects in his request and his confidence that Jesus will do what he is asking him to do.

In Mark 9, I am struck by Jesus’ encounter with a father whose son has an unclean spirit. The disciples were unable to cast the spirit out of him, so the father approaches Jesus himself. When Jesus begins to talk to the father about his son’s condition, the father says, “But if you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.” Jesus responds, “‘If you can’! All things are possible for one who believes.”

That “if” statement is exactly how I often come to God. “If there’s anything you can do about this…”

How this reflects the unbelief in my heart! Jesus is saying not that all things will happen for the person who believes, but that faith means believing that God can do anything. You will be willing to ask for anything because it’s not out of the realm of possibility that God would choose to act in that way. You won’t ask ‘if it’s possible’–you will pray, ‘it is possible, you are capable’

The father cries out in response, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

God is able to do more than we ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20). But are we willing to ask for the big things? Do we really believe that he is able? What do our prayers say about our view of God, that he is incapable or that he is all-powerful?

2. Praying big prayers requires me to have confidence in God’s generosity and goodness.

We often ask of others on the basis of knowing what they are willing and/or able to give. You don’t ask someone for too much if you know he doesn’t have much to give. You don’t ask someone who is stingy for more than you need. You ask cautiously if you don’t know how he will respond. In my prayers, as I asked God for breadcrumbs, I revealed that I didn’t think God was willing to give me more, and I would be lucky if he would give me the bare minimum.

Then, when I thought I didn’t even get “the bare minimum,” I concluded that God either isn’t good or isn’t willing, because how could he deny me even just a little bit?

By praying big prayers, I have to believe that God is not only able, but willing to answer. In Matthew 8, a leper approaches Jesus and says, “Lord, if you will, you can make me clean.” The leper has no doubt in God’s ability, and even though he isn’t quite sure of Jesus’ willingness, he is sure enough to still state his request. Jesus’ response confirms the leper’s unspoken question: “I will; be clean.”

In Mark 10, Jesus encounters a blind beggar named Bartimaeus. Bart is making a commotion by loudly crying out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Though the people around him tried to quiet him, Jesus doesn’t ignore him. He stops and asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?” Bart’s request is for his sight, and Jesus heals him based on his faith.

What strikes me about this conversation is that Jesus asked what Bart wanted. Sometimes I feel guilty praying for what I want instead of something more spiritual, like God’s will to be done no matter the implications on my request. Some might consider Bart’s sight a selfish request when he could have asked for so many other things. Jesus could have told him to be content in his blindness, blooming where he was planted. And yet–the way Jesus asked him what he wanted stirs my heart toward understanding Jesus’ generosity.

Or which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him! (Matthew 7:9-11)

Changing my prayers on the basis of God’s goodness and generosity doesn’t mean that he will do what I am asking–and that, in turn, doesn’t mean that he isn’t actually good and generous. But as I have been praying with conviction that he is good in his posture toward me, it changes even how I experience his “no.” My heart is more settled in the fact that he is good in all his ways, whether he answers “yes” or “no,” and I am able to trust the bigger picture of what he is doing in my life.

He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? (Romans 8:32)

3. Praying big prayers reminds me of my dependence on him to answer those requests. It reaffirms my need for him, and prepares me to give him the glory in what he does because I am praying for things that I cannot feasibly take credit for.

Praying bigger prayers has made me more aware of how much I need God to intervene in my life, both in the big requests and in my day-to-day situations.

In every instance of Jesus healing people and answering their requests in Scripture, we see that the person was desperate, and they saw Jesus as their only answer, and they were affirming that there was nothing in their control to make things happen in their life.

The bleeding woman in Mark 5 has been my example of desperate faith. Scripture tells us that she “had suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was no better but rather grew worse.” She had reached the end of herself and anything she could do, and when she heard that Jesus was coming, she dropped everything and went to find him.

Her faith in what Jesus was able to do was so big, and her situation so desperate, that she believes, “If I touch even his garments, I will be made well.” What an amazing statement about her belief in Jesus’ power, that just getting close enough to run her fingers through his fringe will bring about the healing she has been so powerless to do for herself!

The scary thing about praying for big things is knowing that God still might choose to say no. There’s not a secret formula in praying with faith that guarantees we will receive what we ask for. We can’t manipulate God in that way. We can’t see how his plans are going to play out, and at the end of the day the posture of our heart should be surrendered to his will. Praying big prayers puts our heart on the line; it’s riskier.

As I have prayed bigger prayers in our infertility, I’ve had moments of wondering if I should pull back. I’m daydreaming about what would happen if God answered these requests, as I pray and recognize what he is capable of doing. But each month that he chooses to say no, my heart breaks a little, because it’s been a long time since I really believed it was possible to get pregnant.

I believe it’s worth that risk–and as I process what God is doing even if he says no to my big requests, I am falling back on him, learning to see him for who he really is. He is all-powerful, he is good and generous, and he is my only hope–and, as I pray, I am drawn to desire God himself as the ultimate answer to my longings and my prayers.

tables in the wilderness

It’s a quiet, rainy morning here, and as I sit at our 8’ dining table sipping my coffee and watching the rain, I feel overwhelmed by God’s care in my life.

During the 7 months we lived in our little apartment, I used to dream about sitting at this table. Eric built it for me two years ago as a birthday/anniversary gift. It’s been scuffed up in its various moves, and there are some new cracks in the reclaimed wood surface, but to me those cracks just tell the story of our transitions and God’s provision, first in an apartment and a storage unit and now in a home where our table fits perfectly (something I was concerned about while we were looking for a house).

The image of a table speaks to me of abundance, of provision, of community and of deep conversation. So when I read Psalm 78, my heart clung to the picture the Psalmist presents of a table being “spread in the wilderness.” And as is usual when reading the Old Testament, while my initial reaction is to criticize the Israelites for their inconsistencies and lack of faith, I have to be careful not to criticize them too harshly–I often learn that I am much more like them than I realize.

In the sign of their fathers he performed wonders in the land of Egypt, in the fields of Zoan. He divided the sea and let them pass through it, and made the waters stand like a heap. In the daytime he led them with a cloud, and all the night with a fiery light. He split rocks in the wilderness and gave them drink abundantly as from the deep. He made streams come out of the rock and caused waters to flow down like rivers.

Yet they sinned still more against him, rebelling against the Most High in the desert. They tested God in their heart by demanding the food they craved. They spoke against God, saying, “Can God spread a table in the wilderness? He struck the rock so that water gushed out and streams overflowed. Can he also give bread or provide meat for his people?” -Psalm 78:12-20

This question “Can God spread a table in the wilderness?” has stuck with me.

When it looks like there is no hope, no source of nourishment, can he show up?
Can he provide, even in this place I don’t want to be?
Will he bless, even though I feel a lack?

The Israelites’ need for food was valid. I’m going to guess that there weren’t great hunting opportunities as the Israelites were in the Sinai desert–especially not enough game to feed that many people. However, we find in Exodus that the Israelites were crying out about water and food merely two chapters after the parting of the Red Sea. God had just miraculously parted a huge body of water, allowing them to pass on dry ground, then destroyed their enemies with that same body of water that crashed back together as soon as the last Israelite had stepped away.

Yet even though the Israelites didn’t believe, and even though they came to God from a position of entitlement and God was angry, he provided.

Therefore, when the Lord heard, he was full of wrath; a fire was kindled against Jacob; his anger rose against Israel, because they did not believe in God and did not trust his saving power. Yet he commanded the skies above and opened the doors of heaven, and he rained down on them manna to eat and gave them the grain of heaven…. And they ate and were well filled, for he gave them what they craved… In spite of all this, they still sinned; despite his wonders, they did not believe. -Psalm 78:21-24, 29, 32

This could have been such a gift–an incredible moment of seeing God provide–but the Israelites missed it.

Instead of praising God for how he had shown himself strong, they were consumed with their own selves, their fears and discomforts. They lost sight of what God was doing because they were concentrated on their lack. They set expectations of what they wanted instead of trusting what God was doing.

They were frustrated with the wilderness–but how much more beautiful is the picture of tables in the wilderness, if they would have only readjusted their focus!

To help me consider how I might be missing the gift of God’s hand, I have started by processing this question: What do I think God is withholding from me?

In answering thatwhether it’s a baby or guidance for a difficult decision or material things–I have seen that when I don’t get what I want, I doubt God. I doubt his goodness, his care, his willingness to work in my life, and I despair.

But perhaps I am so focused on getting out of the wilderness that I miss the beautiful things the Lord is doing while I am in the wilderness.

The Israelites had seen God provide in miraculous ways; they should have known that he would continue to take care of them. But instead of focusing on truth, on the reality of what God had done up to that point, they only looked at what was missing in front of them.

To help me see the table he has spread in my own experience of the wilderness, I’ve been asking the Lord to cultivate my heart in three areas.

1. Being aware of the attitude of my heart as I come to God with my requests

I don’t think the Israelites’ problem was asking God for food. I think the problem was the attitude with which they approached him: entitled, doubtful, frustrated.

My “why” can be asked out of curiosity or out of criticism. I regularly apologize to others (especially Eric) after saying something in the wrong tone of voice, unaware of the posture of my heart until I spoke that way. 

I believe we can come to God with our raw, honest requests, but our attitude can be accusatory or it can be humble as we seek understanding and answers. I am learning to talk to God not just about what I want, but to also ask God to readjust my perspective when I come to him, knowing my tendency to be frustrated with him because I think he is withholding from me.

2. Recognizing of who God is, regardless of my circumstances

I don’t want my circumstances to define how I view God. Instead, I want the truth of who God is to guide how I interpret my circumstances.

The Israelites’ perspective was on the wrong thing in the wilderness. They were hungry, so they assumed that God couldn’t (or wouldn’t) provide. Later, they felt incapable of conquering enemies, so they thought God would abandon them.

I, too, find myself focusing on the wrong things, which leads to a wrong perspective of God. I can look at my lack and presume that God is not faithful, instead of looking to who God is and allowing the truth of his character to define what might feel like a deficiency but can be trusted to his provision.

Some of the things that steal my attention away from God, specifically as I have walked through infertility:
Uncertainty of the future–Will it always be like this?
Confusion on what God could doing–I’ve been on this path a long time. Has he forgotten me?
Entitlement–Isn’t he going to bless me for what I’ve endured?

There’s even a fear of what will change if he does bless us with a pregnancy. This is the space in which I have related to him for so long. How will our relationship be different? And how would that change the plans that Eric and I have made for ourselves?

But I am looking at the wrong thing. When my eyes shift from my circumstances to my Savior, all of those fears and concerns disappear. In light of who God is, my circumstances lose their preeminence. I want to believe that He is the best thing, not the gifts he gives.

“When I don’t see any physical evidence of being treasured, I remember that the best thing that could ever happen to me is being with Jesus.” -Heather Holleman

3. Expecting him to provide in abundance, but trusting the ways that he chooses to provide

God’s unique provision of water from a rock and manna falling from the sky was tangible proof of his care for them , but the Israelites missed out because they wanted something other than what God had deemed as good. They thought God’s goodness would take care of all of their problems, instead of trusting his sufficiency in the moment and thus his ability to provide in the future as well. 

How do I see this supposed lack as a gift? I feel raw, sensitive, weak, weary, and yet–God is providing. His provision looks different, as he has stripped away all of my plans, my desires, my control; my dependence can only be on him in the desert. But I seen him provide friends to confide in, other women to walk with through their own journeys, and a sweet depth in my marriage. I have seen him provide his presence and his comfort in ways I never would have otherwise needed. 

God never withholds from His child that which His love and wisdom call good. God’s refusals are always merciful–“severe mercies” at times but mercies all the same. God never denies us our heart’s desire except to give us something better. –Elisabeth Elliot

I am convinced that there is beauty in this season. I want to keep my eyes there instead of on what I think I am missing. I know there is a table of abundance in the wilderness, and it is at that table where God satisfies me with himself.

paying attention

There are some moments when every little detail grabs my attention. On this slow Sunday morning, it’s the scent of my candle (“Leaves” from Bath and Body Works) mingled with my cinnamon tea. Our (new!) house has lights with dimmer switches, and this morning the half-dimmed lights create a cozy atmosphere as I sit at our dining table with a sleepy pup curled at my feet. He has his own bed not 15 feet away, but after the rain earlier, he’s been inclined to stay close by my side. From this vantage point, as well, he can keep an eye out the window on our front door, just in case a squirrel or neighbor dog dares to make an appearance.

It’s been a long while since I have written anything. I think it’s been awhile since I have slowed my hands and my eyes to observe the details in my life–the external things as well as the internal things. And while I am grateful for the things that have kept me moving and doing, I realized this past week the importance of staying in tune with what’s going on inside of me.

I woke up Monday morning with a heaviness sitting on my chest. I had a bad dream, of the sadder sort (as opposed to scary), so I attributed it to that, and tried to spend a little bit of time journaling through Scripture before beginning my day. However, by 10:30 a.m., I had cried three times, the last being an overwhelming, mascara-running-down-my-face, struggling-to-get-words-out sort of cry in front of my whole staff team. Working with people in ministry meant that it wasn’t the first time they have had to respond to someone in front of them losing it, and they were incredibly gracious and encouraging as they prayed for me and affirmed me.

Grief sneaks up on you, and there’s not always a clear trigger point. Sometimes it’s something related to your loss, but sometimes it’s simply the weight of everything else in life that has prevented you from paying attention to the whispers of sadness that have been piling up. And on this past Monday, I did something I have struggled to do in the past–I listened to the grief, paid attention to my emotions, and acknowledged the pain, even though I couldn’t totally explain it.

I don’t know why it can be so hard for me to give credibility to grief’s rhythms and waves. I feel insecure and annoyed that it interrupts my life, and it produces in me this fear that I am not actually as strong as I want to think I am.

As if my strength depended on myself. As if my performance were a reflection of my significance. As if I were trying to prove something to God, and to the people around me.

Yikes. My counselor warned me that grief reveals sin patterns in our lives, and there’s one of mine.

Every fall, I reread Anne of Green Gables. It’s as much of a tradition for me as pumpkin chocolate chip bread and sharing the first batch of chili with friends and pumpkin patch visits. The first three books in the series are delightful, and they push me to daydream and to notice the world around me.

Anne has a knack for saying the thing that perfectly explains something others haven’t known how to put into words, or even what they didn’t know they themselves felt. Something I have come back to over the past few years is this quote:

“It’s all very well to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically, but it’s not so nice when you really come to have them, is it?”

I often feel this when I read what others have written about meeting God in their grief, whether it’s as short as a blog post or as long as a book. I long for the intimacy with God that they express, the moments of clarity, the peace in the midst of the storm. The problem, though, is that they are often telling their story from the vantage point of removed time. Even now as I write, I am several days removed from my wave of grief, and I can look back and see God’s caring hand over me.

In that moment, though, I wanted to know why I felt so forgotten by the Lord. I knew he hadn’t actually forgotten me; I have seen time and time again the ways he has shown me that he sees me and he cares. But the weight on my chest felt like more than I could bear, and I didn’t know how to “heroically” move forward.

I suppose time really is the answer. In the moment, sadness or anxiety or pain overwhelms all of my logical thought patterns. I can’t see how things are going to turn out, and I usually don’t even know what God is doing. But the longer I walk with God, the more I can see his love and his care, even if I can’t see his plan. His ways will never fully make sense to me, and I have resigned myself to trusting despite not understanding–but I have tested and tried his presence and his love. 

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him!
How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er!
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus!
O for grace to trust Him more!

I’m not sure, if I were the heroine of a story, that I would be the one someone like Anne could look at and imagine how she would want to live through that story. I’m strong-willed and fickle and often wrong, constantly learning the same things over and over again.

But thankfully, I’m not the heroine of the story. I’m the beloved whose Hero walked through all kinds of suffering on my behalf, because of his love for me. He is the one who did it perfectly and who offers mercy to me in my own struggles so that I might enjoy the benefits of his strength in my weaknesses.

And as I expect to encounter more grief and sorrows in our world that’s not working as it should, I want to keep my eyes on him as my anchor, my hope, and my comforter. He hasn’t promised me happiness, but he has promised his presence and his provision for all that I need.

[Hebrews 4:15-16]
[Hebrews 6:19-20]
[1 Peter 1:3]
[2 Corinthians 1:3-4]
[Psalm 139:7-12]
[Philippians 4:19]

Infertility Awareness Week

I’ve been silent here on my blog for awhile. I’m going to blame most of it on our transition to Fayetteville and to new jobs. It hasn’t been crazy or stressful, but life has felt fairly full, and I don’t think I have done a good job of creating space to reflect and process.

It’s Infertility Awareness Week, and in the past I would have been jumping at the chance to write some piece related to our (ongoing) journey through infertility. In the past three years, it’s been a theme throughout my writing, whether in specifics or as the lens through which I am learning other things like joy in waiting and the love displayed in disappointment.

And yet, this week, I have felt unsure and unworthy to say anything.

To be honest, we are in a very healthy, happy place. We are really enjoying this season of life: living in a one bedroom apartment (while most of our belongings are in a storage unit) – downtown (which means we can walk to restaurants, coffee shops, and the farmer’s market, not to mention being able to walk to campus for my job each day) – making new friends and reuniting with old ones.

I have found myself thankful for infertility over the past few months, not necessarily for any super spiritual reason, but simply because of my ability to invest in my job and the chance for us to downsize and live downtown for a bit. We are having fun right now!

So since I am not currently experiencing grief over our inability to conceive thus far, I feel a little disqualified from bringing attention to our journey. I don’t want it to define us, and I don’t want it to be the only need through which I experience a dependency on God.

But, I will say, while it lies dormant in the back of my mind, it’s still there. There are still moments of envy when I see other moms with newborns in their slings or wraps. There are twinges of sadness with pregnancy announcements. There are questions of what our future will be like and if there is anything we should be doing right now.

But they are not all-consuming, as they have been during other times throughout the past three years.

I want to bring attention to Infertility Awareness Week. I want to join arms with my sisters in recognizing the validity of grief and pain, whether or not it’s the loss of something tangible. I want to be a resource, an encouragement, a friend to others who are in similar places or are facing similar medical concerns. I still keep a list of women I am praying for, and that list is close to me this week and as we approach Mother’s Day. I want to encourage other women that, even if it gets easier to accept, that doesn’t invalidate moments of pain, and it doesn’t mean that the desire no longer exists. I am thankful that it has gotten easier for us, and I see that as a direct result of the prayers people have prayed for us.

And I want to express gratitude for these prayers that I know we have been covered in, praising the God who has grown contentment deep inside me, even without growing a baby in my womb.

though a desert should surround me

It’s been three years since we made the decision to “just see what happened” in terms of starting a family. Many other things have also happened in our life during those three years–job promotions, house purchases, career changes, and a move, to name a few–but these three years have been most heavily saturated by our journey through infertility, a journey perhaps more obsessive in the beginning and now a more silent (yet constant) presence as time in the wilderness lengthens.

One of the hardest parts has been that there is always something else–always another test, always another procedure, always another option to consider. Then after you do some sort of test, there’s the wait for results, then the potential second test to confirm the first test, then the attempt of trying some sort of medicine, then scheduling a third test, and on and on. And once there are a few potential answers, there are then a plethora of opinions when it comes to natural remedies or supplements or prescriptions or procedures for more next steps.

Y’all, this could go on for years, and for many people it does. I think this is one of the reasons that couples are more reluctant to talk about it. Either because there’s always the hope of more information in a couple of months or the potential for it to change with this one procedure, so they don’t want to talk about it just yet; or they have talked about it and endured this continuous testing cycle and still don’t have a conclusion so they begin to feel like a broken record among their friends. There might be something new to report, but really there’s nothing new to report, because they still aren’t pregnant, so why bring it up?

I really don’t want “infertility” to define my life, but sometimes it’s hard to get away from.

There are many other areas of waiting or grief I am sure are similar–unwanted realities that feel so monumental you don’t know how to stop defining your life by them: The single adult who wants to be married but whose last relationship was so long ago that it doesn’t seem to “count” and who doesn’t even know how to hope. The continual burden of job-searching (combined either with unemployment or unhappiness in a present job) and the feeling of being stuck but unable to control your own motion. The grief in the loss of a loved one and uncertainty of how to manage life without that person, or how to process the loss of a child you never got to hold in your arms.

Even in seemingly-less monumental pain, we can find ourselves creating an identity pattern in our lives that has larger effects on how we view the world: the loneliness in a lack of friendships, or the regret of a wrong decision that you can’t let go of, or the comparison of your skills to everyone around you.

We allow our pain and disappointments to color the lenses through which we view the world. We label ourselves as “inferior” or “to be pitied.” We see these things as an injury that holds us back or a deformity we must learn to live with, and we allow them to taint our perspective (especially related to God).

But if I were to pinpoint one of the major things that I have learned as I have walked through these past few years, it would be the ways I have learned to find joy because of my pain, a perspective of gratitude for this season even though it’s not what I would have chosen. While there have been months where I certainly was not grateful, there have also been months I have considered it a privilege to be entrusted with such circumstances as I reflect on the intimacy I have gained with the Lord and the story I have been given to relate with and encourage others as they walk through their own pain (whether infertility or otherwise).

We are molded by our circumstances but also by our experience of God in those circumstances–for better or for worse. And much of that is our choice, how we will respond to our pain. Especially whether we will cling to the Lord or bitterly reject him for allowing this in our life.

As I encounter God in the wilderness, my perspective changes, impacting the way I will walk in the future.

I recently stumbled across the delightful book Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster (1912), and I couldn’t put it down! It’s a story about an orphan girl whose college education is funded by a mysterious benefactor, to whom she writes letters to report on her college experience. Judy has only seen his back and his distorted shadow, which gave the appearance of long skinny legs and arms, hence her nickname for this guardian. Throughout the book, Judy is wrestling with her upbringing at the orphan asylum as compared to all of the other girls in their traditional homes with loving families. It isn’t until the end of the book–the end of her four years at college­–that she comes to appreciate her own story, even with the sadness of her circumstances:

It gives me a sort of vantage point from which to stand aside and look at life. Emerging full grown, I get a perspective on the world, that other people who have been brought up in the thick of things entirely lack. I know lots of girls (Julia, for instance) who never know that they are happy. They are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are deadened to it; but as for me—I am perfectly sure every moment of my life that I am happy. And I’m going to keep on being, no matter what unpleasant things turn up. I’m going to regard them (even toothaches) as interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like. ‘Whatever sky’s above me, I’ve a heart for any fate.’

I feel a lot like Judy Abbott. It’s taken me time to appreciate the vantage point I have been given. I may not be “perfectly sure” that I can always be happy, but I do feel confident I have the understanding that contentment–and the happiness we experience as a result–is not based on my circumstances or my possessions. Rather, like Paul says, “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content… I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:11-13). My broken, selfish nature may at times keep me from finding strength in Christ, instead attempting to control or perform or succeed to gain what I want. But when I again (and again) lay my own plans down in surrender, I accept his will and find contentment in his purposes.

Not that any of this negates the reality of pain. Even my new friend Judy says that unpleasant things may turn up. But in the understanding of God’s love for us and thus his goodness being played out in our lives, we can face the unexpected and unwanted with a confidence that there’s something sweet to be gained. No longer must our pain define us negatively, but rather we can find the “vantage point” that it will give us going forward, confident that there is goodness below the surface.

At the end of the excerpt, Judy is quoting from Lord Byron’s poem “To Thomas Moore” when she writes, “Whatever sky’s above me, I’ve a heart for any fate.” The stanza following these two lines reads:

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Byron’s words remind me of what Charles Spurgeon so eloquently wrote: “I have learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.”

The springs God has shown me in the desert of the last three years have held more refreshing water than any I might experience from a dependable faucet. So while the story of infertility will certainly continue to hold weight in my life, my hope is that my attitude toward my reality is shaped by the vantage point I am climbing toward as I more clearly see God’s presence in the story.