Suffering

The Ongoing Battle

Great and grievous, indeed, are these dangers and temptations, which every Christian must bear. We bear them even though each one were alone by himself. So every hour that we are in this vile life, we are attacked on all sides [2 Corinthians 4:8], chased and hunted down. We are moved to cry out and to pray that God would not allow us to become weary and faint [Isaiah 40:31; Hebrews 12:3] and to fall again into sin, shame, and unbelief. For otherwise it is impossible to overcome even the least temptation.

We Christians must be armed [Ephesians 6:10-18] and daily expect to be constantly attacked. No one may go on in security and carelessly, as though the devil were far from us. At all times we must expect and block his blows. Though I am now chaste, patient, kind, and in firm faith, the devil will this very hour send such an arrow into my heart that I can scarcely stand. For he is an enemy that never stops or becomes tired. So when one temptation stops, there always arise others and fresh ones.

So there is no help or comfort except to run here, take hold of the Lord’s Prayer, and speak to God from the heart like this: “Dear Father, You have asked me to pray. Don’t let me fall because of temptations.” Then you will see that the temptations must stop and finally confess themselves conquered. If you try to help yourself by your own thoughts and counsel, you will only make the matter worse and give the devil more space. For he has a serpent’s head [Revelation 12:9]. If it finds an opening into which it can slip, the whole body will follow without stopping. But prayer can prevent him and drive him back. (Luther’s Large Catechism III 105, 109-11)

How did Luther know what tempts me? How did he know that I would blame God, myself, and others for my barrenness? Each and every day brings temptations to “cure” my barren womb and to covet the children that are not mine. How did Luther know that once I was content within my barrenness, then the devil would send another temptation for me to try to “fix” my barren sisters?

Luther was right in saying that the enemy never becomes tired. We are constantly battling sin, this world, and our sinful flesh. There truly is no place for comfort other than in the safe and secure arms of Jesus. He fights the battles for us. He wraps the Word of God, along with His own Body and Blood, around our weak souls and protects us. He gives us His own words in the Lord’s Prayer to battle the evil foe.

Take comfort, dear friends. While you may be weary from fighting off temptation, Christ fights for you!

I want to memorize this prayer: Dear Father, You have asked me to pray. Don’t let me fall because of temptations. Amen.

Why Me?

When asking God the question “Why me?” in regards to my suffering, I replace the clear promises of God in the Bible with a false expectation for something which God’s Word doesn’t actually promise.

I am not promised success or wealth or happiness or health or easy living or children. I deserve none of these things. My goodness is as filthy rags, and God owes me nothing good in return.

Only because God is good Himself does He graciously promise and grant me forgiveness and salvation and peace and my daily bread. In fact, He is so good and wise that He also promises and grants me suffering and fatherly discipline and the refiner’s fire.

“Why me?”

Because I’m baptized into Christ to die with Him and live again. Because I’m loved. Because my Father in heaven keeps me, a dumb sheep prone to stray, from wandering away from the flock. Because the Bible tells me so.

The Bible tells you so, too.

“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.

Glory vs. Cross

That person does not deserve to be called a theologian who looks upon the invisible things of God as though they were clearly perceptible in those things which have actually happened [Rom 1:20]. He deserves to be called a theologian, however, who comprehends the visible and manifest things of God seen through suffering and the cross. A theologian of glory calls evil good and good evil. A theologian of the cross calls the thing what it actually is. That wisdom which sees the invisible things of God in works as perceived by man is completely puffed up, blinded, and hardened. (Martin Luther in his Heidelberg Disputation, points 19-22)

For example:

A theologian of glory calls barrenness a trial to be overcome, a burden which can be revoked by some great act of faith on our part, a curse that can be lifted by true love’s kiss. (Works Cited: My Own Wishes and Desires: A Treatise, The Complete Works of Joel Osteen, and The Wisdom of the Disney Princesses)

A theologian of the cross calls barrenness a terrible brokenness of the flesh which results from Sin in the world, a cross to be endured joyfully in light of Christ’s promise to make all things new on The Last Day, a suffering given to us by God who loves us and molds us and disciplines us and shapes us and points us straight to Christ’s own suffering on the cross for our own salvation and comfort. (Works Cited: God’s Word as revealed in The Book of Romans)

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.

Hopeless?

Question Submitted: I’ve been married for nearly 15 years. I have no biological children and desire so much to be pregnant and to have children. I am resistant to just giving up but also feel like a fool for hoping otherwise. My friends don’t understand, they just keep hoping for me. Am I just supposed to be barren? I am sadly and regretfully uncontent at this point. We are pursuing foster care and open to adoption but I want more. I want to hold that precious life to my breast after carrying it in my womb! I just ache and am hopeless!

He knows exactly what you’re going through. The Creator of the universe, the Triune God, knows and He hears your cries. He shows you this in His Holy Word, through the story of His servant, Job, who lived thousands of years before you. “Where then is my hope?!” Job called out, and God heard his hopelessness (Job 17:14). God sees your friends and the lack of support they seem to be giving you, just as He saw Job’s friends and heard his plea to them: “Have mercy on me, have mercy on me, O you my friends, for the hand of God has touched me!” (Job 19:21).

“Though He slay me…” Job started to tell his friends, admitting again that God is in control of his life (Job 13:15), “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him.” Job knows he has no choice. It is God alone who can rescue him from his hopelessness. And what is it that Job realizes he should be hoping for? Does he hope for healing from his physical suffering? A restoration of his wealth? More children to comfort the loss of his family members? Yes, I’m sure he does, but these hopes are not what are revealed to us. The words we do have from him are universal. They apply to not just Job, but to you as well. And to me. This is one of God’s great gifts to us, these words that were written so very long ago, with us in mind:

“For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last He will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold, and not another” (Job 19:25-27).

The breasts that long to nurse, the womb that longs to carry–these are part of the “skin” that will eventually be “destroyed”. These maternal experiences, precious though I’m sure they are, pass away quickly. It is so easy to dream them into more than they are, to put our hope in being able to make them our own instead of hoping in the One who has made us His own, and “is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think” (Eph. 3:20). Yes, Christ did more, and still does more, than we could ever ask for, when He suffered and rose on our behalf to save our souls from being destroyed as well. And our bodies, thanks to this great Atonement, will be recreated and no longer broken as they are now.

King David was yet another biblical figure who wrote about hope. He knew what it was like to lose a child and, like you probably have done, asked the question, “And now, O Lord, for what do I wait?” (Ps. 39:7). But by the power of the Holy Spirit he was able to immediately answer his own question: “My hope is in You.” He, too, worshiped the same Redeemer as Job and looked not so much to earthly deliverance from tragedy, but to his Savior for all eternity. His book of Psalms records the many things in which he placed his hope: God’s Word (Ps. 119:74), the Lord’s salvation (Ps. 119.166), the Lord’s steadfast love (Ps. 147:11). These do not pass away. Menopause or hysterectomies don’t remove them. They remain forever, for you.

And if you feel that it is time to let go of the hope of pregnancy, fear not. There are many hopes left to be had.

“No eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Cor. 2:9).

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.

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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He Remembers the Barren

God remembers you in Jesus