Her eyes beam and her expression says it all...sweet girl cannot wait to give me the Mother's Day gift that she made for me at school. "Open it, Mommy!" she exclaims in a half-whisper as if she's waiting to exhale until I see the present. I open it and smile. In that picture frame is a beautiful silhouette of my Kindergartner. My first born. My only daughter.
The tears begin to fall. She grins, breathes out, and hugs me. She knows that with "happy tears" comes much joy, much appreciation. She knows that I love the gift.
That gift...that silhouette...represents the very thing that we named our sweet girl's middle name after...Hope.
Hope when I took dozens of pregnancy tests, practically willing an inanimate object to have two lines, but it always only having one.
Hope when the doctor looked at me and said, "The chances of you conceiving are very slim and even if you do conceive you will miscarry."
Hope when all chances of being someone's mommy seemed so far out of reach.
Hope when I waited with anticipation for an image to come onto the ultra sound and then, just like my sweet girl, I half-whispered to my husband, "Jared!" because there in what we thought would be forever barren was life. I cried, and then, I exhaled.
But before that moment came so much grief. So much agony. So much pain.
And the place I am in now, Christian author Ann Voskamp refers to it as the Ugly-Beautiful. When something beautiful comes out of something that seemed so ugly, so dark, so overwhelming.
The ugly-beautiful...it's why I love Mother's Day, and, it's why I hate it. Hate is a strong word, suited only for those things we detest the most. Hate is fitting for this.
Because while I'm celebrating the beautiful, someone else is wrestling with the ugly. Someone is coming to terms with the loss of a child. A miscarriage...a stillbirth...a death of a child who breathed on this earth...it's all just LOSS. Someone is throwing a pregnancy test across the bathroom and when it hits the wall and falls to the ground, it's as if another piece of her heart falls right along with it. Someone is trying to navigate this journey of life without the "unconditional" love of a mother because for some reason her mother's love is conditional. Someone is grieving the loss of her own mother, longing for just one more day to celebrate her.
I still cringe when I walk into church on Mother's Day. I don't think I ever will forget, but I also pray that I never will forget the brokenness I felt when I longed for the one "thing" that I couldn't have. When I prayed that there wouldn't be a baby dedication. When I held my breath just waiting to see if the sermon was going to be directed towards mamas. When I longed to run out of the church in despair because though I already had two babies, I had learned only nine days earlier that our third would never take a breath this side of heaven and I was grieving. In all of it I was grieving.
When you've walked the journey of infertility...and of loss...you can recognize those who are hiding behind fake smiles. Those whose eyes hold glimpses of pain. Those who can't even look you in the eye. Those who sit through the dedications and dab their eyes, trying to will themselves not to cry. Those whose stoic expressions show that they are just over it...just over the weekend...just over the day...just ready for Monday.
I want to run up to them and tell them that I know. That I've been there. That I can pray. I don't dare do that though. I can't. I will not call out their struggle when they have not shared it with me. Oh, but if I could, I would wrap my arms around those who are suffering - some of whom may be reading this blog.
So for those of you who are in that place right now, let me tell you what I would say if I could speak to you in person. I would first tell you that I am praying fervently for you - especially on this weekend. I would tell you that I know it's ugly...I know it hurts...I know that it just plain sucks. I would show you what I noticed tonight when I turned off the lamp that shone on my girl's silhouette. I saw darkness. "Um, OK?" you say. Here's what I realized...even though it was dark, the gift remained. The present that represents hope was still there...I just couldn't see it. And, precious one, there is a gift of hope for you...just waiting in the dark. The gift of hope that comes from the Giver of hope is not lost, and when the dawn comes and the light begins to shine, you will notice that it was there all along. The Hope in the dark. The beauty in the ugly. The joy in the suffering.
May you find rest in Him.
Romans 5
Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 2 through whom also we have access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. 3 And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; 4 and perseverance, character; and character, hope. 5 Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.
The tears begin to fall. She grins, breathes out, and hugs me. She knows that with "happy tears" comes much joy, much appreciation. She knows that I love the gift.
That gift...that silhouette...represents the very thing that we named our sweet girl's middle name after...Hope.
Hope when I took dozens of pregnancy tests, practically willing an inanimate object to have two lines, but it always only having one.
Hope when the doctor looked at me and said, "The chances of you conceiving are very slim and even if you do conceive you will miscarry."
Hope when all chances of being someone's mommy seemed so far out of reach.
Hope when I waited with anticipation for an image to come onto the ultra sound and then, just like my sweet girl, I half-whispered to my husband, "Jared!" because there in what we thought would be forever barren was life. I cried, and then, I exhaled.
But before that moment came so much grief. So much agony. So much pain.
And the place I am in now, Christian author Ann Voskamp refers to it as the Ugly-Beautiful. When something beautiful comes out of something that seemed so ugly, so dark, so overwhelming.
The ugly-beautiful...it's why I love Mother's Day, and, it's why I hate it. Hate is a strong word, suited only for those things we detest the most. Hate is fitting for this.
Because while I'm celebrating the beautiful, someone else is wrestling with the ugly. Someone is coming to terms with the loss of a child. A miscarriage...a stillbirth...a death of a child who breathed on this earth...it's all just LOSS. Someone is throwing a pregnancy test across the bathroom and when it hits the wall and falls to the ground, it's as if another piece of her heart falls right along with it. Someone is trying to navigate this journey of life without the "unconditional" love of a mother because for some reason her mother's love is conditional. Someone is grieving the loss of her own mother, longing for just one more day to celebrate her.
I still cringe when I walk into church on Mother's Day. I don't think I ever will forget, but I also pray that I never will forget the brokenness I felt when I longed for the one "thing" that I couldn't have. When I prayed that there wouldn't be a baby dedication. When I held my breath just waiting to see if the sermon was going to be directed towards mamas. When I longed to run out of the church in despair because though I already had two babies, I had learned only nine days earlier that our third would never take a breath this side of heaven and I was grieving. In all of it I was grieving.
When you've walked the journey of infertility...and of loss...you can recognize those who are hiding behind fake smiles. Those whose eyes hold glimpses of pain. Those who can't even look you in the eye. Those who sit through the dedications and dab their eyes, trying to will themselves not to cry. Those whose stoic expressions show that they are just over it...just over the weekend...just over the day...just ready for Monday.
I want to run up to them and tell them that I know. That I've been there. That I can pray. I don't dare do that though. I can't. I will not call out their struggle when they have not shared it with me. Oh, but if I could, I would wrap my arms around those who are suffering - some of whom may be reading this blog.
So for those of you who are in that place right now, let me tell you what I would say if I could speak to you in person. I would first tell you that I am praying fervently for you - especially on this weekend. I would tell you that I know it's ugly...I know it hurts...I know that it just plain sucks. I would show you what I noticed tonight when I turned off the lamp that shone on my girl's silhouette. I saw darkness. "Um, OK?" you say. Here's what I realized...even though it was dark, the gift remained. The present that represents hope was still there...I just couldn't see it. And, precious one, there is a gift of hope for you...just waiting in the dark. The gift of hope that comes from the Giver of hope is not lost, and when the dawn comes and the light begins to shine, you will notice that it was there all along. The Hope in the dark. The beauty in the ugly. The joy in the suffering.
May you find rest in Him.
Romans 5
Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 2 through whom also we have access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. 3 And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; 4 and perseverance, character; and character, hope. 5 Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.
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