Grief

So Much Death

My heart can barely hold the grief.

It leaks out of my eyes as I bow my head in church. I’ve learned to pray with my eyes open, so that the tears drop straight to the floor and not onto my cheeks and clothes in tell-tale streaks.

It shudders from my lungs in seismic waves as Pastor reads the Gospel lesson. I’ve learned to hold my breath until my chest burns, camel-clutching my wayward diaphragm into submission.

It squeezes out of my larynx in pathetic whimpers as I sing, “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” I’ve learned not to program “O Little Town of Bethlehem” for the Sunday school children lest they witness more sorrow in Advent than their parents want to explain on the drive home.

But my eyes, my lungs, my larynx – all rebels, every one. They get the better of me every Advent, because I know of more children dead than born.

So much death! How can I bear it?

And, as happens every year, I look to the image of my Lord as a tiny baby in the manger, and I remember, “So much life!”

I cannot bear it, so Jesus bears it for me. He is born to conquer death for my sake and for yours. He gives us life everlasting, and He gives it abundantly.

“O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?”

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Plainspoken

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“Want to come inside for a visit?” Elva asked.

I was there for milk and eggs only. I hadn’t expected to be invited inside the main house, and I was suddenly embarrassed by my grubby barn garb – stocking cap, work jeans, muddy boots – but the hospitable man seemed to read my mind.

“Seems the best place for a chat is out of the rain.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I followed Elva into the square house and was immediately welcomed by the warm smile and handshake of his wife, Alta. Something yeasty and cinnamon-y was also welcoming me from their oven.

“So you’re a writer of books?”

I looked into Elva’s blue eyes. They were kind and curious and ready to smile. Now that he had taken off his black hat, I could see that his ruddy hair perfectly matched his beard in shade and texture.

“Yes.” I never know what else to say in these circumstances.

“What are they about?”

“Oh, well.” I cleared my throat and tried to think how best to describe in just a few sentences what took thousands upon thousands of sentences to actually publish. “My husband and I have not been blessed with children, so my first book is about barrenness.”

They didn’t flinch. I took a breath and continued. “I like writing about God’s abundant love and mercy to us in Christ Jesus. It comforts me to know that God’s care for us is proven in the gift of His own Son, not in the gift of children of my own.”

Neither of them seemed to be bothered by serious talk.

“Would you like to see my books?” Elva gestured an invitation toward the four shelves of books tucked neatly in the corner of the room.

“Turn on the lamp, so she can see,” Alta instructed.

I tried not to stare too obviously as Elva picked up a nearby lighter. The gas lamp above my head buzzed and popped with immediate light. The thought occurred to me that I was just a couple of hours away from my own home but worlds away from my daily life. I skimmed the titles. The Holy Bible. That one I expected. What I didn’t expect was The Walk West: A Walk Across America 2.

“Oh, I know that book,” I said. It is an autobiographical account of one man’s experiences walking across America with his wife. It’s prequel is a retelling of the experiences of that same man walking across America by himself. “My mom read it aloud to me when I was in elementary school. Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Elva’s brow furrowed, “but I learned that the author and his wife are no longer together. That kind of ruined it for me.”

A soulful, convicted man. I took a risk.

“This is a personal question, and, please,” I walked back to my chair across the room, too nervous to look either of my hosts in the eye, “don’t answer if I am being inappropriate, but are there any,” I swallowed, “barren couples in your community?”

Alta glanced at her husband’s face. “Yes. One of my closest friends, in fact. Well, they did end up having one child, but…”

“But none after that?”

Alta nodded.

“Is it hard not to have children in your community?” I colored at the sound of my own question. It registered as dumb in my own barren ears. “I mean, I would think it would be hard not to have more help with the work around the house…”

Oh, dear. I was getting dumber by the second.

Elva generously saved me. “We usually generate only the amount of work we can do ourselves. And we help each other.”

I nodded, embarrassed. “So the barren in your community have support.” I said it more to myself than to anyone else.

“Yes,” Alta nodded. “In fact, several- ”

There are several Amish barren! I was surprised and somewhat comforted.

” -get together for circle time in our area to visit and…”

Alta looked at her husband, again. I could tell she didn’t know how to describe what she had never taken part in.

“And encourage each other?” I offered.

She nodded, again.

I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Even in this strange world of gas lamps and horse-drawn buggies, I was not alone in my suffering.

I felt quite encouraged, myself.

 

The Way It Goes Sometimes

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We took our nine-year-old niece out for supper the other night.

“Do you want to be a mom?” she asked from the backseat of the car.

“Oh, yes, but God has not given us the gift of children.”

“You can adopt, then.”

“We’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked out in such a way as to make us parents.”

“Huh?” Her adorable, Asian brow furrowed in my rearview mirror. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that we’ve tried to adopt children, but it just doesn’t work out for everybody. God has not given us the gift of children through adoption.”

“But- ” she chewed on this bit of news for a moment. It wasn’t the first time we’d talked about it, but it was the first time we’d talked about it alone. “I thought that you can just…I mean, isn’t it…? Don’t you just…? Oh. I guess I don’t know how it works.”

I found her admission of consternation to be refreshing – even comforting – especially coming from someone who was herself adopted.

For I often feel that way about adoption myself.

The Night Will Soon Be Ending

Sometimes a hymn can express our feelings better than we ever imagined. Here is the text for three stanzas from the Advent hymn “The Night Will Soon Be Ending.” The lyricist Jochen Klepper understands quite clearly the darkness that tries to squelch our hope. However, as he reminds us, “God dwells with us in darkness and makes the night as day.” (Lutheran Service Book 337:5) Come, Lord Jesus. Amen.images

The night will soon be ending; The dawn cannot be far.
Let songs of praise ascending Now greet the Morning Star!
All you whom darkness frightens With guilt or grief or pain,
God’s radiant Star now brightens And bids you sing again.

 Yet nights will bring their sadness And rob our hearts of peace,
And sin in all its madness Around us may increase.
But now one Star is beaming Whose rays have pierced the night:
God comes for our redeeming From sin’s oppressive might. 

God dwells with us in darkness And makes the night as day;
Yet we resist the brightness And turn from God away.
But grace does not forsake us, However far we run.
God claims us still as children Through Mary’s infant Son.

The Hoary Head*

The day was overcast, cold, and windy. I fumbled with the transferring of groceries from my Aldi cart to the empty bags in the back of the van. My two-year old sat in the cart, playfully kicking me with his legs as I did my work, adding to the annoyance of the morning. Forgot to wear gloves, didn’t bring enough bags, forgot to unload all the junk from the back of the van so I’d have room for groceries, child won’t stop whining….

Apparently I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my aggravation.

I heard the rattle of cart wheels behind me and then noticed the rattling stop as they reached my location. I waited for a minute or so and then glanced over my shoulder. There stood an elderly man in a thin coat and jeans, a patient smile parting the deep creases on his face. He held out a quarter and asked if he could take my cart for me. His face held my gaze for some time as I marveled at his resemblance to my own grandfather, who had left this world years ago. He was smaller in stature and his face was much gentler, but the similarity was enough to tug at my heart. With a cart already in his hand, it was obvious he was just relieving me from having to return my own.

“Oh–thank you,” I smiled back. “I’ll try and hurry.” I fumbled even more, feeling his silent presence at my back and knowing that he was just as cold as my son and I were.

I finished the unloading and closed the door. In a feeble attempt at being witty I wheeled the cart around towards the man and said with a smile, “Did you want the kid, too, or just the cart?”

Without missing a beat and without the slightest change in his kindly expression he responded: “If my wife were still with me we’d probably take you up on that. We never had any of our own. She had five misses and the doctor told us we shouldn’t try for any more.”

Somehow in the midst of him sharing his story the child was removed, the cart and money exchanged, and then I uttered a weak but sincere “Thank you” before he shuffled off, still smiling. I don’t remember giving him any other response. I felt speechless.

As I drove out of the parking lot, the tears came. Tears of embarrassment for sticking my foot in my mouth. Tears of gratitude for the whiny boy in the backseat. Tears of guilt as I recognized, yet again, how often this gift is taken for granted. Tears of sorrow for loved ones with an empty back seat. But mostly, tears of awe at being in the presence of such kindness, such an awareness of other’s struggles, and such thoughtfulness from someone who had lost so much. Even in what may be the last decade of his life, he was looking for ways to serve, to give out of what some might see as emptiness. But he didn’t look empty to me at all. I have a strong hunch that Someone was keeping him full.

* “The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness.” Proverbs 16:31, KJV

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I’ve Always Wanted To…

IMG_4974Barrenness is a no fun-and-games deal. There are days when I’m “okay” with it, and the next day I struggle with my own reality. I’ve survived days in which I’ve wanted to crawl into a hole and cry. I’ve asked the Lord to take this suffering away from me. I’ve begged the Lord to open my womb and give me more children. He listens, and He gives me what I need, whether or not that includes children.

I really want more children. However, the Lord has determined that more children is not what I really need. Ouch. That statement hurts. Still, dear sister, you and I live under the Lord’s grace and mercy. He grants us daily breath, His Word and Sacraments, and He gives us the vocations of daughter, aunt, niece, and friend.

Why isn’t motherhood on that list? That’s a harsh concept to swallow; it certainly doesn’t seem fair. For now, though, motherhood is not the vocation God has given you. Rather, He is blessing you with the time, resources, and opportunities to serve your neighbor in other ways. That art class you always wanted to take? Do it; maybe you’re the modern Monet. Perhaps your art can give silent witness to the faith you have in God. The trip to Europe that you and your spouse dream about? Now might be the time to pick up the travel information and see the Luther sites. The parents at church who seem overwhelmed? Perhaps you could offer to babysit for a few hours and give the couple some time together. Does your elderly neighbor need some company? Could you offer to bring dinner and enjoy a nice conversation? Are your nieces and nephews struggling with their identities? Can you send them an encouraging note or text and remind them of their value in your family?

These vocations may never satisfy the craving and deep desire to be a mother. However, they are vocations that serve God and your neighbor. There can be great joy and satisfaction in loving others. Undoubtedly, there are days that will drive you to despair. It will be difficult to remember that your life is NOT over, despite the fact that you have not been given children. Your grief is real; there is no denying the sorrow that accompanies barrenness. Know this: You have been given grace to live the life that has already been granted to you, despite its suffering and sorrows. You are a daughter, a friend, a niece, an aunt, a godmother, and more. God loves you, just as you are. The Lord is blessing you with opportunities to try something new. What is it that you’ve always wanted to do?

Infertility Ethics Symposium in Review

Here are a few intriguing quotes from last Saturday’s Infertility Ethics Symposium.

(mea culpa: I took notes the old-fashioned way – by hand – during the symposium, so please forgive any unintended inaccuracy in my quotes.)

 

From Rev. William Cwirla’s “Be Fruitful and Multiply: Fertility Ethics Viewed in the Light of Creation and Redemption”:

“We have never said no when it comes to the gift of children, and God has never said yes.”

“Jesus heals a myriad of diseases in His ministry, but He never healed a barren couple.”

“Anything that shapes our identity apart from Christ is idolatry.”

“We are stewards and we are priests of God’s creation.”

“Vocation is not the location of our identity but the location of our service.”

 

From Rev. Dr. James I. Lamb’s “IVF: from Created to Creator”:

“I believe the place we start as theologians in a discussion of IVF is the incarnation of our Lord…We go to a fallopian tube in the virgin Mary.”

“We have a Savior who was an embryo once.”

“God wants every person, every embryo, to be splashed by the waters of Baptism.”

 

From Rev. Christopher S. Esget’s “Pastoral Care for Those Experiencing Infertility and Miscarriages”:

“Barrenness is not just a diagnosis. It is an ongoing reality.”

“We must be sensitive to the unintentionally excluded.”

“We must preach contentment in the vocations we have, not in the ones we wish we had.”

 

From Rev. Dr. Robert W. Weise’s “Embryo Adoption: Helping or Hurting My Neighbor?”:

“The one-flesh union is the blessing that God gives the union of husband and wife. We have it physically and spiritually.”

“Surrogacy is a substitute. This is a disconnect in the marital union.”

“Embryo adoption is troubling, because it involves surrogacy…and the death of embryos.”

 

Interested in knowing more about what was said by our six presenters at the symposium? Look for a downloadable document of the presentations on LCMS’s website sometime within the next few months.

Just a Couple of Monkeys

I have a confession to make.

(WARNING: my personal, despicable depravity is about to be on full display.)

I am sometimes comforted to hear that God doesn’t just withhold the gift of children from me but also from others.

(Ugh. I know. I apologize for my wretchedness, and I’m hanging my head in utter, red-faced shame.)

It’s just so nice to receive a bit of empathetic correspondence from a sister in Christ and learn that I am not the only childless monkey in the cage being studied and analyzed by curious pedestrians as the exotic species that I am. Thank you, Beth, for hanging out with me and swinging on some ropes for awhile:

I was given your book, He Remember the Barren, and found great comfort in it. My husband and I have been married 16 years, have three children in heaven and none in our home to raise despite years of trying to have biological and adoptive children.  

I just listened to your June interview with Rev. Wilken and laughed in commiseration when you mentioned that women go through a mid-life crisis a little early. I agree that we face our ultimate barrenness a bit early but in the past few months, since we have closed our adoption file, I’ve been thinking of my mid-life crisis in the sense of “empty nest syndrome.” I am facing a few years earlier than most the question of “What’s next?” What does God have planned for me in this next part of life as I grieve the end of dreams of motherhood and embrace a home filled with two. He is beginning to answer those questions but as always His plan unfolds over time and I must trust, obey, and keep listening.  

Amen, and may God bless and keep you, Beth, in this empty-nesting season of life. xo

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Lamentation

My husband and I recently took a nostalgia trip to Kansas City (that’s where we met, y’all) and spent an afternoon at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.

I was wandering through an exhibit, chewing on a particularly vibrant rendering of John the Baptist by Caravaggio when I threw a glance towards this oil on canvas by American painter Albert Bloch (1882-1961).

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My heart jumped in my throat, the strangulation immediate. I fought down the nausea of recognition, for I wasn’t looking at a painting. I was looking in a mirror.

There I stood. There I sat. There I knelt. There I hid. There I scorned. There I blamed. There I questioned. There I wept. There I comforted. There I rejoiced.

Every posture of grief, every thought of denial, every self-absorbed motivation, every moment of isolation, every cross-bearing tear, every giving in, every turning to another, every turning to the Light.

I stood before my reflection and barely took notice of a father somewhere behind my right shoulder explaining a nearby painting to his school-aged daughter. They were oblivious to my plight.

I didn’t cry in the museum if that’s what you’re wondering. No, tears aren’t for open exhibits on nostalgia trips. If this painting teaches us one thing, it’s that grief likes to hide her face from even you.

She saves her tears for locked hotel rooms and public restroom stalls.

The name of this painting?

Klagelied.

Lamentation.