Grief

“To the barren ladies I know and the ones I don’t”

Someone loves you and prays for you and bears with you, dear sisters. Read this and rest today while a sister in Christ shoulders your cross.

I’m the one with more children than you have fingers on your right hand. I feel ostentatious and gaudy around you. I feel like having my babies with me is in poor taste, like I am flaunting my riches. I cringe to imagine that you might feel the same way, you who have suffered so much in your own mind and who are now subjected in real time, in public, to stare in the face the dream that hasn’t come true for you. I am so sorry it hasn’t. I am so sorry to think that I might be causing you more pain. I ache for the love you show my silly little people. I don’t know if I could.

I sin your sins. When I see all the world’s human trash with its ill-bred and empirically worthless children, I seethe to think of the pearls cast before them while your clean neck and open ears and graceful wrists and industrious fingers are bare. When another moron teenager turns up pregnant, I want to rage at God for what I can only see as unimaginable injustice and just plain poor planning. I want to make it right. I want to distribute the world’s children sensibly by my own self-righteous fiat. I want YOU, you wonderful, smart, talented, responsible, faithful Christian person, to be a mother of nations. NOT THEM.

I see it. I didn’t want to, but I loved you so much I finally looked and really saw it, or saw it as well as one such as myself is able to. It was the worst thing I have ever seen. It looks like utter desolation, like horror. I can’t look long. I can’t believe it’s the view out your window every hour of every day. Oh, you. You have lost what you never had.

But I know also that we are nearsighted. I am so nearsighted outside of this metaphor that, without my glasses, I can look into a dark bedroom where I know there is a digital clock and still see no light whatsoever. This is how we see into eternity also. No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him. So I know that, despite its appearance to myopics like us, the desolation is not utter. I know you know too, and we walk by faith together because our sight is untrustworthy.

I cannot tell you how much I respect and admire you for not trying to take by force what God has not given. You are like the man on a lifeboat, crazy with thirst, who still knows better than to drink seawater even though his companions fall to the temptation. It must be so hard to watch them–to watch them sicken, to watch them die, to watch them live. You are the one who clings to a true hope and has the best chance of healthy survival. You trust the Lord, though he slay you.

I thank you for the witness that you are to the sacred blessing of marriage no matter what the quantifiable yield of that marriage. I thank you for the witness you are to the inherent value of femininity no matter what the quantifiable yield of that femininity.

I don’t say these things to you because I feel I don’t know you well enough, or I don’t know how you are doing with all this right now, or I know you feel as sick of this being the relentless topic of your life as I am of the relentless topics of my life. But I want you to know that I am always thinking all these things even as you are, and I pray for you always. I’m sorry if my not saying something makes it seem like I don’t care or I don’t really get it. I know I don’t really get it, but I try to, and I care so much.

I know you feel empty, but you bear the heaviest burden, and bearing is never without gain. God bless you, strong one.

Blessed

Do you know what calms and comforts the barren beast in me? Two simple truths gathered from God’s Word:

1. To be blessed is to be forgiven.

In Christ, I am blessed, mother or not. I could have all of the children in the world and still languish apart from God’s forgiveness and reconciliation. God has given to me that which I need most, and I can now live in true peace with or without children.

2. God is wise in His giving.

I don’t need to worry about why God gives some women more children than I have fingers on my right hand and me none. He has promised me in His Word that He works all things for my good and for the good of my neighbor. That’s exactly what I want – God’s best. Enough said.

These Biblical truths don’t mean that my days on this earth are all sunshine and rainbows, but they do provide an anchor to which I can cling in the raging storm of grief. They part the sea of suffering and allow me to pass onto dry land. They tell me the truth of God’s fruitful work for me when Satan would have me despair in my own, pitiful, barren works.

And the truth sets me free.

The Grief of Others

We are not the only ones who grieve over our childlessness.

Everyone else – our parents, grandparents, siblings, nieces and nephews, friends, acquaintances, pew sisters – all experience grief over that which should not be. And, just like us, their grief goes through cycles.

Think about it.

Who in your life assures you that pregnancy can be achieved if you simply relax or start the adoption process or fast from sugar or go to Dr. Suzie-Q for treatments? Denial.

Who insists that if you prayed harder, believed more fully, gave enough money to the church, displayed enough faith, God would reward you with a child? Bargaining.

Who refuses to go to church or punches pillows or blames your husband’s family for your barrenness? Anger.

Who goes numb or bursts into tears every time the subject comes up? Depression.

Can you recognize the different phases of grief in the people around you? Just as we want others to allow us to grieve our childlessness without expectation or rule, so it is for everyone else who is grieving for us. It is loving to patiently bear with their grief, even if that means listening to and enduring and forgiving the thoughts, words, and deeds of the very ones who hurt us the most.

Remember, it may take years of your not getting pregnant or your not being able to adopt a child before any of these people will join you in the acceptance phase of grief.

In the meantime, I am so sorry it hurts. You are not alone. xo

The Lord Is at Hand

At last weekend’s retreat, the following was said to Pastor Cholak: “I understand that my victory is in Christ. I know that He has promised to make me new on the Last Day, but that doesn’t help me today.”

I don’t think I will ever forget what Pastor Cholak said in response.

He talked of Peter on the boat in the raging storm. The wind. The chaos. The noise. The fear.

And, amidst his terror, Peter saw Jesus out on the water – His Lord, walking towards him upon that churning, spitting sea.

“Come,” Jesus said. At his Savior’s bidding, Peter got out of the boat and walked into the storm. He crossed those tossing waves and salty white caps to Jesus’ side.

But Peter “saw the wind” and was afraid. He began to sink – down, down, down into the dark, cold, suffocating water. He would die from this.

Except, the Lord was at hand. Literally.

Jesus reached out with His hand and pulled Peter out of the sea – out of death – and took Peter safely through the raging madness to the safety of the boat.

So, what of our own fear when we see the wind, when we sink, when we feel the coldness of our cross’s suffocation creep up our throat?

“The Lord is at hand,” says Pastor Cholak.

Amen. Thank you, Pastor.

All My Children

It’s not something I think about very often, nor do I talk about it.

Maybe I’m in denial, or maybe my brain simply can’t put the cold reality into actual thoughts and words.

Honestly, whenever the thought has crossed my mind, I usually tell myself that I am not worthy to join in on the conversation. After all, I don’t have any positive pregnancy tests to wave around as proof, but, then, I don’t keep any on hand to take.

Still, it feels like I am living a lie to assume such things.

But, at our retreat last weekend, Dr. Gosser kindly and gently affirmed the reality I know to be true deep down inside. Those unusually heavy periods, those times my post-ovulation cycle stretched beyond the normal 12-14 days, were probably miscarriages.

I have been married eleven years.

All my children.

My only comfort is that God is wise in His giving. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Bowling

I am reading your blog. (Yes, I mean you.)

And I understand the temptation to rant. People really do say awful things to you. They publicly drill you for details about your sex life (which is no one else’s business but your husband’s), suggest home remedies for amping up fertility (which you tried five years ago when the ideas first came out in Redbook), and generally pry and poke and dig at you because you dared cry at sewing circle when Mrs. Jones announced her daughter’s pregnancy.

I understand. It stinks to be on the receiving end of such tactless attentions, but there is something else that needs understanding in these situations.

There will always be bowling balls in your life.

There will always be people who take aim at your barrenness and flatten your feelings like a bunch of pins down a waxy lane. These people spare no verbal expense but always go for the strike, recklessly voicing their expectations for your womb, opining on projected reasons for your childlessness, and offering up armchair diagnoses of your health for the benefit of, well, I guess, themselves. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you think, say, or do. These hooks, crankers, and tweeners are going to seek you out and hit you full-on like a 16-pounder.

But, for the most part, everyone else in this world takes their conversation cues from you. They won’t talk about your barrenness unless you bring it up; they won’t make suggestions about your diet unless you openly discuss your metabolic problems; they won’t offer up ideas for how to get pregnant unless you share with them your desire for a child and subsequent frustration in your childlessness; they won’t try to help you feel better unless you look miserable; in other words, they won’t dwell on that which you don’t dwell.

So, let’s give the world a break and take some responsibility for the conversations we keep. Let’s not blog-blame others for finishing the conversations we start ourselves and, instead, kindly explain to our friends and acquaintances face-to-face what we need most from them.

And as for the bowling balls who barrel towards us unprompted, well, “we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:3-5 ESV).

That’s good news, I think.

Lord Jesus Christ, in Your deep compassion You rescue us from whatever may hurt us. Teach us to love You above all things and to love our neighbors as ourselves; for You live and reign with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. (Collect for July, 14, 2013, Eighth Sunday after Pentecost)

Retreat Reflections

What happens when a bunch of barren (infertile? fruitless? we tried brainstorming a less archaic term for childlessness, but nothing fit so well as the Biblical word in the end) women get together for a weekend getaway in St. Louis?

Well, of course, some things will forever be top secret, but here’s what I can tell you:

Much Rolland hospitality was enjoyed.

Many gluten-and-dairy-free desserts prepared by Gina and her beautiful family were consumed.

Unseasonable spring weather was soaked up.

Colorful skeins of yarn were knitted.

Multiple medical questions were answered by Dr. Gosser.

Several hymns and spiritual songs were sung with Pastor Cholak.

Thoughtful gifts were exchanged. Frequent, girly laughter was heard. Honest tears were shed. Memories were made, and hours of sleep were lost.

And, last but not least, our designated night out on the town happened to be the same evening as the naked-bike-ride-thingy to raise awareness for something bearing worldly importance. So, yep, some free range breasts were witnessed by the churchy eyes of our dear retreaters.

In all seriousness, Rebecca and I have never witnessed such a group of patient, loving women who listened to each other with all forbearance and bore with each other so selflessly. It was a beautiful thing to behold.

After sharing so much with each other, it was difficult walking away after church on Sunday. We all lingered and then lingered some more. The goodbyes were not the hyperemotional departures of youthful summer campers, but the looks, hugs, and quiet words exchanged were meaningful. How do you say goodbye to ones who have gone to the trenches with you?

All I could think to say was, “Thank you.”

Happy trails to you, dear sisters, and Christ keep you.

The Corner Room

He sat in his corner room, smiling at the collage of family pictures hanging above his dresser. Children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were pieced together like a picture quilt. A legacy in a frame.

“That’s a nice picture,” he said from his armchair.

I sat on his bed and looked at the collage. A torrent of tears made a river of my mascara. My voice twisted in my throat like a wet dishrag.

“I’m so sorry, Grandpa. I would have liked to have given you something for that picture.”

My grandfather’s shaking hand reached out to grasp my own. Dementia did not impede the Spirit of compassion. “I would have liked that, too.”

He wasn’t chiding. He was understanding. My loss was his own. We both cried.

“It hurts so much sometimes,” I admitted.

“It sure does.” His hand shook harder the harder he squeezed. “It’s just the way it is.”

We shared some private words meant only for grandfathers and granddaughters, and then we read a Psalm and a portion of the Gospel of Mark together.

I was still crying when I left his corner room, but I could clearly see my blessings.

I don’t have any children, but I have a grandpa. And he loves me.

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Knowing Is Half the Battle

“How are you?” my friend asked.

“I am really struggling, right now. I don’t know why.”

“You always do this time of year.”

“I do?”

“Yes.”

Huh. Thinking back. She’s right.

“I don’t know if it’s because you have such busy springs and then kind of crash or if it’s because of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, but grief hits you this time of year.”

Something crazy in me calmed down. There is an explanation for this grief. There is a reason for this cycle. This is just how it is. This is how it was before. This, too, shall pass.

Thank you, friend.

Should My Friend Get Help?

Question Submitted: I am a struggling supporter of my best friend who faces various levels of depression because of her barrenness. Do you think there is a time to suggest that my friend get medical advice about the depression?

We asked Pastor Todd Peperkorn, author of the book I Trust When Dark My Road: A Lutheran View of Depression and pastor of Holy Cross Lutheran Church in Rocklin, California, to help us with this question. Here is what he had to say:

The short answer to this question is that if you are concerned about her, talk to her about it. There is no magic “if this, this and this happens, then you talk to them about it.” My rule of thumb is that if someone’s low mood persists for weeks or months, then I would certainly encourage them to seek medical advice.

As her friend, what I would encourage you to do is 1) pray for her and perhaps even with her if you are close to one another, 2) encourage her to get a medical opinion on the matter which may involve either medication or counseling or both, and 3) ask her what you can actually, concretely do to help her. All too often as Christians we take prayer as a last step rather than a first step toward helping those in need.

Peace to you. There are many burdens which we all bear, and by bearing them together, they make a lighter load for us all.

Pastor Todd Peperkorn

He Remembers the Barren

God remembers you in Jesus