Saturday, October 16, 2010
I am not OK
You see, I am not OK with losing my three babies. I think of them, miss them, every single day. But their deaths became a catalyst for radical, unforeseeable change in me. Change both terrible and beneficial.
Over the past 20 years, I carefully fabricated a very secure-looking façade. I imagined it to be a happy, got-it-together façade. I believed it.
When our ninth child died last year, my façade crumbled. An indescribable, unimaginable pain ripped through my heart, my mind, my body, my soul, leaving me mangled and raw. Everything I thought I believed, thought I knew, disintegrated in a single moment. Reality turned on its head. A secret flood gate was opened and suddenly, pain from years past, cautiously packed, stuffed, suffocated away, came pouring out. Rushing out. I couldn’t stop the flood.
I am helpless.
Pain has been my constant companion since July of 2009. My mind weeps, my heart aches, my arms long, my body rebels. I hate this pain, and beg for it to end. I want to “move on,” but I am stuck. Lost. The past pains pile onto the new pains… burying me, suffocating me.
But, recently -- and I can't explain it, so I won't try -- strangely, miraculously really, I begin to see a glimmer of hope. Maybe I will be OK. Although I’m not now, perhaps I can be. I believe it.
God found me, crumpled and dying. God is now leading me on a path, unfamiliar, frightening. I am learning to trust for the very first time in my life. I flail and stumble, again and again. He picks me up, again and again. My trust flounders, but His strength never fails.
I have to reevaluate my life, every day. I am taught painful, valuable lessons, every day. I’m relearning gratitude. I’m practicing patience, and usually failing, but usually getting back up to at least practice again. I’d like to work on forgiveness, and temperance, and humility next, but I’d better take it slow, a tiny step at a time.
I pray this is a path of healing for me. Of old wounds and new. Of broken hearts and bonds.
I also pray that anyone reading this, who identifies with these words in any small way. . . that you may find your own path of radical change, terrifying trust, miraculous healing. You are in my prayers. Please keep me in yours.
We’ll be OK, someday.
(Candles pictured above were lit tonight for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. . . . in memory of my son Justus and my twins, daughter Catherine and son Robert, for my nephew Cole and my niece Hope, for Mary Emma, and for other precious babes. We love and miss you all.)