One of my biggest fears is to be a burden. A bother. Needy. Helpless. I am almost incapable of asking for help. I have been this way for a very long time. As long as I can remember, really. After my dad's surgery went awry almost 20 years ago and he became partially paralyzed, I was so worried about his pain that I would almost cry if I overthrew the softball while practicing with him in the front yard. I saw the pain when he tried to bend down. So if I overthrew, I would run as fast as I could to try to get to it before he would grit his teeth as he bent down slowly to pick it up, doing his best to hide the pain from his little girl. He would tell me, "It's okay, sweetie. I've got it." I didn't believe him. I saw the pain. I remember being afraid to ask my busy mother-of-six for a friend to come over. Not because I was afraid of her. No, not at all. I was afraid of seeing that war within her. The war of being (understandably) overwhelmed and exhausted from taking care of six kids all day under some extremely extrenuating circumstances and not knowing how to take on anything else, but still wanting me to be able to enjoy time with a friend. And I didn't want to be the one to give her another thing to think about. After all, she had more than enough on her plate already. I was aware early on that our family was most certainly not wealthy, so I did my best to not ask for too much. When I felt like us kids were asking too much, I would cry secretly and worry that we were making life too hard for our parents. And then I was a teenager struggling through a chemical depression. The sole spark of light in my life was music, but I would play the piano and sing almost at a literal yell (because, my God, how good it felt to have something come out of my mouth that was raw and unfiltered when I had no idea how to communicate when I simply spoke) and would annoy people around me. "I can't hear the TV, Bethany." "It's way too loud." "Can you maybe just sing a bit more quietly?" No one was trying to be hurtful or tell me that I was a problem, but when we are young and impressionable, we make sense of the world in the best way we can. I began building a belief system early on: I was in the way. I made too much noise. I was a burden and a bother.
Life gave me more than enough opportunities to fortify this belief. I had already learned how to internalize comments and situations. I had learned how to do my absolute best not to be in the way. I didn't really ask for help. I tried not to put people out. And when all-too-familiar comments were made or all-too-familiar situations came my way, the all-too-familiar thoughts were my only answer to interpret what was happening. "Don't be a bother." If I had a dollar for every time I heard that from myself...
So what is a girl like me to do when she is brought into a very extended season where she constantly finds herself to be completely and utterly helpless? I could tell story after story, beginning just hours after D and I said "I do" of how the Lord has allowed me to be so far out of control. The story of car trouble on our honeymoon in an unfamiliar place. The story of how Moses almost died and how we scrounged up all the money we had to take him to the doctor, praying that God would spare him. How God did spare him after our many helpless nights of begging. The story of the third degree burn on my hand and how we only had enough money for the CareNow visit, but none for the pain medication or ointment. How that night we went to our new Home Group and paid for our portion of the community dinner with our laundry quarters (praying out of embarrassment that no one saw that it was me who put them in the jar) because we were so broke waiting for me to get my first paycheck and living on one income with a seminary budget. And how our new friends somehow pulled it out of us that we didn't have the money for the medicine, and joyfully shoved money into my good hand before we could leave. The story of rushing home from work to find David on the front steps, just hanging up with the officer and having to find a way to mutter the words to me, "My mom is dead." How it was one in 3 times I've ever seen him cry in all my years of knowing him. How we had no money for a flight and no car to get to Nebraska to bury her. The pain behind being so far away from his one and only mama and not knowing how to get to her. How we had only known Chris and Kelli for a few months and they freely gave us his business miles to fly us there and back at absolutely no charge to us. How our Home Group selflessly put together enough money for us to get a rental car and buy groceries while we were there. How we cried when it was all given to us. How neither of us even knew how to stretch out a hand to accept it. They just laid it on the coffee table as we sat in shock. The story of helping your husband plan his mother's memorial service, clean out her office, her home, her car. Knowing that 26 is far too young to say goodbye. Watching him be heartbroken. The story of losing our precious little one to a miscarriage. How I didn't know how to grieve. How we didn't know how to grieve. How friends and family rallied around us when I wanted to shut down. Knowing that I would never have the baby back and that I couldn't change it. The story of burying our Apple kitty after finding her dead in the street at one year old. The story of realizing that you need help in your marriage at less than a year in. How I came to the end of myself and saw that I'm really not good at this whole "wife" thing. How I looked at my husband and saw the hurt in his eyes. From life, loss and love. How I was tired of needing help.
Season after season, I am simultaneously humbled and empowered by the truth that the only beauty I have is found in God the Father reigning over me, Jesus the Son interceding for me, and the Holy Spirit dwelling within me. All else is rags. I am but a beggar. My whole life I have tried to run from asking for help. I have wanted to stay as far away from being a bother or burden or saying that I need help as I possibly could. But God. He is ripping away from me any notion I had that I ever possessed even a fragment of the ability to be self-sufficient. He is removing the safety nets I thought I had. He is showing me just how needy I really am. And as I come face to face with my inability to stand on my own two feet, I am being forced to learn that my weakness is exactly what the Word says it is: it is a means by which He is glorified. His purposes and His plans and His power are magnified when I am painfully aware of just how helpless I am. At a young age I couldn't rationalize and take into account the times my mom had joyfully and lovingly invited loads of my friends over for Bible Club parties or sleepovers and graciously allowed us to make a mess and never complained about how loud we were at ungodly hours. I couldn't rationalize and take into account the times my dad had happily gone out of his way to offer help with my physics project at midnight the night before it was due. I couldn't rationalize and take into account the countless times my family had spoken life into my music, or the countless times other avenues of entertainment came secondary to hearing me sing. My vision was flawed. And I have remained partially blind as I have developed my ability to see how I truly interact with the world. I was never intended to take any identity other than the one given to me when my Father called me His. I am not a bother or burden, and asking for help is one of the most human things I can do.
So let me boast in my weakness here that He may be exalted. That His beauty in our stories would be the prize I seek. I know I'm not surprising anyone when I say that David and I don't have it all together. We never have. In fact, we've mostly always been the opposite. And I have struggled with feeling a lot of shame in our hardships and sin. Feeling embarrassed for not having it all together and for needing help. Worrying that my sin would be too great. Afraid to bother those whom I have wanted and needed to ask to walk with me as I learn how in the world to be more like Jesus. But thank God that His divine hand on us is that of a Father: guiding us into true life and Godliness. I am weak, He is strong enough to carry both of us. I am poor, He provides in the most wise way. I am grieving, He is the sweetest Friend. I am fearful, He teaches me to trust. I am sinful and ugly in my rebellion, He is slow to anger and so quick to forgive. I realize that I cannot hold on any longer with just the will of my slipping fingers, and He bids me to let go and find that floor He taught me about so long ago. He knows the cost to follow. He knows the journey. He knows I cannot do it on my own. It was only ever me who struggled to accept that.
My friend, if you feel like you are walking a road and cannot possibly let anyone know how badly you are hurting or struggling or doubting or rebelling; if you feel like you don't have the privilege or the right to ask for help; if you feel like a burden, please talk to me. Let's learn to walk this road together. After all, I need you and you need me.
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Thursday, March 5, 2015
He's got the little bitty babies in His hands
I started my first draft of this post talking about Adam and how he was the first to receive the gift of life through breath and how he didn't earn it and yada yada yada. It was fairly eloquent and put together. But I just want to talk to y'all as friends. And this won't be terribly put together. I hope that's okay with you. And because I am semi-non-committal myself, I want you know what you're getting yourself into before you get too far. I'm gonna share with you a peek into our journey after we found out about the life growing inside of me. It's a bit lengthy, but I couldn't do our little one the injustice of shortening their story.
On January 24th, I took a pregnancy test. I had taken a few of these in the months before, each time with a growing hope for a positive, but had always been disappointed with a negative result. This time, for the first time ever, there was a faint sign of a positive. I had extreme reservation against getting carried away with excitement, because you just never know with a home pregnancy test. So I waited. January 29th, I took another test. I looked down and in a single second realized that I was a mom. It was a definite positive. I ran into our bedroom to tell David and we were ecstatic. Picture the classic Home Alone face but put a giddy, overly excited and yet nervous expression on it instead. That was us. Excited and really nervous. No idea what to expect. We immediately started calling close friends and David's family in Nebraska, California and Arizona. We really just couldn't hold it in. Two days later, we got together with my family and surprised them with the news. My sisters cried and my brother reacted like a normal 19 year old boy and my dad and husband spent time by the fire pit outside praying over our family and the baby and my mom was as helpful as ever. Our home group was thrilled for us and everyone shared in our joy. Our immense joy.
About 5 weeks along, I started bleeding. It was a Thursday night like any other night. I came home from work, made dinner, D and I ate together and then watched Sherlock, our new favorite show. We did some laundry in between and just enjoyed a night at home together. I have always known that I have a high risk for miscarriage. We were never even sure I could conceive. But I had. And now I was bleeding. I screamed for David, automatically knowing what this blood implied. We called a dear friend, an experienced EMT who is also studying to be a doctor, and asked what we should do. Her words were wise and sweet. She remained calm. She gathered information and assessed. We headed out for the ER, praying the whole time that I wasn't having a miscarriage. Praying that baby J was okay. We checked in. After 5 different tests and sonograms, we played the waiting game. 3 hours later, the nurse practitioner came in to give us the results. She looked me in the eyes and told me I had lost the baby. She said it with finality and I wept. David held me. We felt it deep. Losing the child we never met. About 15 minutes later, the nurse who had been doing my blood work came back in. She told us that there was still a small measure of hope. There was still a chance that it was just a threatened miscarriage. We took that hope and held on. We were instructed to come back no sooner than 48 hours for further testing to get a final confirmation. So we waited. And God granted faith. Faith not in an outcome. Faith in His ever-present, unchanging goodness. The same goodness that gave us a little seed of life and the same goodness that could take it away. We waited. We prayed and we hoped harder than we've ever hoped. Friends and family rallied, petitioning God to spare our little green bean. Sunday came and we drove to the hospital. We were honestly only prepared for good news. It wasn't even a forced optimism. It was like a quiet peace. A strange peace in the face of possible heartbreak. So I gave more blood for more tests. And again, we waited. It was finally time to go back and hear the news. I was expecting a nurse to sit me down and have a conversation with me, telling me if my baby was still there. Instead, I was again asked to prepare for another sonogram. At that point I asked why we didn't know yet. Why in the world don't we know yet. The nurse explained that my HcG level should have doubled from just a few days before when they had tested. It had barely increased. Their concern? Ectopic pregnancy. A tubal pregnancy which could be life threatening to both me and the baby. All I could do was look at D, both of our faces flushed red. Afraid, I'll admit. I agreed to the sonogram, understanding that they may still have no answers for us afterwards. They began. "Yep, there it is." She said it just moments after beginning the search. I had no idea what "there it is" referred to. "There's the fetal sac right there." I sat up quickly. David leaned in to see. We were both desperate to make sure we understood. "Wait so the baby is okay?" "The baby is okay." And again, momma wept. Daddy's eyes sparkled with baby tears for his sweet little one. We stared into the monitor. I muttered praises between breaths. And we saw a flicker. The most beautiful flicker I've ever seen. The tiniest heart beating that you could imagine. We left knowing that we had witnessed a miracle.
In the weeks to come, the bleeding never stopped. It would ease up for a bit and then start again, more extreme than the time before. We went in for sonograms a few different times. One time we even got to hear the heartbeat! David can still repeat for you with scary accuracy the rhythm of baby J's heart. We'll never forget it. After some time on bed rest, and taking different vitamins and nutrients and supplements to try to address the cause of the bleeding, there was still no relief. On Monday, we met with our sweet midwife, who we got connected with through some of our best friends who are also expecting their first. She did some blood work and testing, and showed us around the birthing center where we planned to deliver the baby in less than 7 months. She advised that we meet with a medically certified nursing midwife to get further testing and have something prescribed that would help with the complications. Wednesday afternoon, I left work early to go to our appointment. David and I were so excited to see our little green bean again. It had been what felt like forever! We explained to the nursing midwife all that had been happening. We prepared for the sonogram. The sonogram began. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. Where was that sweet little flicker? Baby J, are you okay? Mommy can't see your heart beating...what's going on? David held my hand as I shook, praying in the name of Jesus as we waited out the next 10 minutes for a final verdict. The verdict came. We saw the flat line. Our sweet baby didn't make it. I wept. I wept loudly. I wanted to scream. I cry as I type and relive that moment. "Are you sure?" I asked with still the smallest glimmer of hope. "I'm sure, honey. You've had a miscarriage."
You can't describe the pain of losing a loved one. Whether you've met them physically or not. We'll never meet our green bean. We'll never get to kiss their face or hold them. We'll never know if it was a little boy or a little girl. We'll never know what their favorite song was, if they liked my chicken kabobs, if they wanted to be an archaeologist like mommy and daddy did, if they had my eyes and his height, if they loved Jesus. We'll never know. Only God knows. So we grieve.
God is good, of this we are sure. And we cling to His promises in this time. Not of providence or outcome. But that He is always good and loving. That His sovereignty reigns over us in the way of a loving Father, not a distant and removed tyrant. Though I know we may wrestle for years to come with questions that may not be answered on this side of eternity, we have a steady ground to walk upon. Jesus holds us together in this time with faith. He granted us the gift of faith through this whole process; faith not in an outcome or result. Faith in something unshakable. And to be completely honest, I like to think that He is holding our little bitty baby in His hands, even though I'm not quite sure how it fits into my theology.
To all the mothers who have lost a baby: my heart breaks with you. It breaks anew at the thought of you walking this road. I had no idea what you went through until now. My God, it hurts. Whether it is recent or a little farther in the past, I hear that the pain never fully goes away. And I recognize you. For all the days that you grieve silently while the world goes on as if nothing happened, I recognize you. Thank you for your bravery.
To every person who has cried with us on the phone: I love you. Mom, Dad, Rachel, Lydia, Bekah, Anna, Kelli, Chris, Randy, Mike...thank you.
To all of you who have tried to call, text, message us: we love you. We are so grateful for you. We know there are many of you who have shed tears on our behalf that we may never see. Thank you.
We want you to know that we are okay. Our hearts are broken and we are grieving, but we are okay. Your questions don't make us uncomfortable. They show the depth of your care. Please don't pressure yourself to find the right words. There are none. Just be yourself.
October 8th will always be a day of promise: God is who He says He is, and this loss will not shake that.
On January 24th, I took a pregnancy test. I had taken a few of these in the months before, each time with a growing hope for a positive, but had always been disappointed with a negative result. This time, for the first time ever, there was a faint sign of a positive. I had extreme reservation against getting carried away with excitement, because you just never know with a home pregnancy test. So I waited. January 29th, I took another test. I looked down and in a single second realized that I was a mom. It was a definite positive. I ran into our bedroom to tell David and we were ecstatic. Picture the classic Home Alone face but put a giddy, overly excited and yet nervous expression on it instead. That was us. Excited and really nervous. No idea what to expect. We immediately started calling close friends and David's family in Nebraska, California and Arizona. We really just couldn't hold it in. Two days later, we got together with my family and surprised them with the news. My sisters cried and my brother reacted like a normal 19 year old boy and my dad and husband spent time by the fire pit outside praying over our family and the baby and my mom was as helpful as ever. Our home group was thrilled for us and everyone shared in our joy. Our immense joy.
About 5 weeks along, I started bleeding. It was a Thursday night like any other night. I came home from work, made dinner, D and I ate together and then watched Sherlock, our new favorite show. We did some laundry in between and just enjoyed a night at home together. I have always known that I have a high risk for miscarriage. We were never even sure I could conceive. But I had. And now I was bleeding. I screamed for David, automatically knowing what this blood implied. We called a dear friend, an experienced EMT who is also studying to be a doctor, and asked what we should do. Her words were wise and sweet. She remained calm. She gathered information and assessed. We headed out for the ER, praying the whole time that I wasn't having a miscarriage. Praying that baby J was okay. We checked in. After 5 different tests and sonograms, we played the waiting game. 3 hours later, the nurse practitioner came in to give us the results. She looked me in the eyes and told me I had lost the baby. She said it with finality and I wept. David held me. We felt it deep. Losing the child we never met. About 15 minutes later, the nurse who had been doing my blood work came back in. She told us that there was still a small measure of hope. There was still a chance that it was just a threatened miscarriage. We took that hope and held on. We were instructed to come back no sooner than 48 hours for further testing to get a final confirmation. So we waited. And God granted faith. Faith not in an outcome. Faith in His ever-present, unchanging goodness. The same goodness that gave us a little seed of life and the same goodness that could take it away. We waited. We prayed and we hoped harder than we've ever hoped. Friends and family rallied, petitioning God to spare our little green bean. Sunday came and we drove to the hospital. We were honestly only prepared for good news. It wasn't even a forced optimism. It was like a quiet peace. A strange peace in the face of possible heartbreak. So I gave more blood for more tests. And again, we waited. It was finally time to go back and hear the news. I was expecting a nurse to sit me down and have a conversation with me, telling me if my baby was still there. Instead, I was again asked to prepare for another sonogram. At that point I asked why we didn't know yet. Why in the world don't we know yet. The nurse explained that my HcG level should have doubled from just a few days before when they had tested. It had barely increased. Their concern? Ectopic pregnancy. A tubal pregnancy which could be life threatening to both me and the baby. All I could do was look at D, both of our faces flushed red. Afraid, I'll admit. I agreed to the sonogram, understanding that they may still have no answers for us afterwards. They began. "Yep, there it is." She said it just moments after beginning the search. I had no idea what "there it is" referred to. "There's the fetal sac right there." I sat up quickly. David leaned in to see. We were both desperate to make sure we understood. "Wait so the baby is okay?" "The baby is okay." And again, momma wept. Daddy's eyes sparkled with baby tears for his sweet little one. We stared into the monitor. I muttered praises between breaths. And we saw a flicker. The most beautiful flicker I've ever seen. The tiniest heart beating that you could imagine. We left knowing that we had witnessed a miracle.
In the weeks to come, the bleeding never stopped. It would ease up for a bit and then start again, more extreme than the time before. We went in for sonograms a few different times. One time we even got to hear the heartbeat! David can still repeat for you with scary accuracy the rhythm of baby J's heart. We'll never forget it. After some time on bed rest, and taking different vitamins and nutrients and supplements to try to address the cause of the bleeding, there was still no relief. On Monday, we met with our sweet midwife, who we got connected with through some of our best friends who are also expecting their first. She did some blood work and testing, and showed us around the birthing center where we planned to deliver the baby in less than 7 months. She advised that we meet with a medically certified nursing midwife to get further testing and have something prescribed that would help with the complications. Wednesday afternoon, I left work early to go to our appointment. David and I were so excited to see our little green bean again. It had been what felt like forever! We explained to the nursing midwife all that had been happening. We prepared for the sonogram. The sonogram began. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. Where was that sweet little flicker? Baby J, are you okay? Mommy can't see your heart beating...what's going on? David held my hand as I shook, praying in the name of Jesus as we waited out the next 10 minutes for a final verdict. The verdict came. We saw the flat line. Our sweet baby didn't make it. I wept. I wept loudly. I wanted to scream. I cry as I type and relive that moment. "Are you sure?" I asked with still the smallest glimmer of hope. "I'm sure, honey. You've had a miscarriage."
You can't describe the pain of losing a loved one. Whether you've met them physically or not. We'll never meet our green bean. We'll never get to kiss their face or hold them. We'll never know if it was a little boy or a little girl. We'll never know what their favorite song was, if they liked my chicken kabobs, if they wanted to be an archaeologist like mommy and daddy did, if they had my eyes and his height, if they loved Jesus. We'll never know. Only God knows. So we grieve.
God is good, of this we are sure. And we cling to His promises in this time. Not of providence or outcome. But that He is always good and loving. That His sovereignty reigns over us in the way of a loving Father, not a distant and removed tyrant. Though I know we may wrestle for years to come with questions that may not be answered on this side of eternity, we have a steady ground to walk upon. Jesus holds us together in this time with faith. He granted us the gift of faith through this whole process; faith not in an outcome or result. Faith in something unshakable. And to be completely honest, I like to think that He is holding our little bitty baby in His hands, even though I'm not quite sure how it fits into my theology.
To all the mothers who have lost a baby: my heart breaks with you. It breaks anew at the thought of you walking this road. I had no idea what you went through until now. My God, it hurts. Whether it is recent or a little farther in the past, I hear that the pain never fully goes away. And I recognize you. For all the days that you grieve silently while the world goes on as if nothing happened, I recognize you. Thank you for your bravery.
To every person who has cried with us on the phone: I love you. Mom, Dad, Rachel, Lydia, Bekah, Anna, Kelli, Chris, Randy, Mike...thank you.
To all of you who have tried to call, text, message us: we love you. We are so grateful for you. We know there are many of you who have shed tears on our behalf that we may never see. Thank you.
We want you to know that we are okay. Our hearts are broken and we are grieving, but we are okay. Your questions don't make us uncomfortable. They show the depth of your care. Please don't pressure yourself to find the right words. There are none. Just be yourself.
October 8th will always be a day of promise: God is who He says He is, and this loss will not shake that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)