Somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I determined to at least attempt to talk to God a little, before I ran away from Him. I figured the hour drive in Kansas was a good place to start.
I didn’t get very far on that either. I mean, really—what do I say anymore? I’ve asked for answers, I’ve asked for peace, I’ve, of course, asked for pregnancy, I’ve asked for the pregnancy desire to lessen, if that would help. I’ve asked to be taught, I’ve asked to be molded. And I do know that, at times, these different things were answered. I have to give Him that, I guess. So, instead of talking, I turned on worship music, and drowned my sorrows in Hillsongs.
In my hotel room that night, my friend Terri called me. I had just finished reading an email from my friend Kelly, who commiserated with me on the confusion of prayer, answers, and how they don’t always come together. I appreciated that email, and I really appreciated Terri’s call.
She asked me how I was, and I told her honestly. I went through my rant. At one point I said something about saying to God, “God, get me pregnant!” and she said, “Wow—that sounds more like a demand than a prayer request!” I backtracked by saying, well, ah, you know, in real life it was more like “Dear God, please allow me the chance to bear a child …” But you know what? She was right. I started to wonder if I’d fallen into that trap, the trap that is so common for us all to fall into. The trap where as long as the one thing that I deem important in my life is missing, I’m upset with God. Had I really gotten there? Sure. I had. At least in those few hours of wrestling. Man, I hate wrestling.
By the end of the phone call, Terri had me in hysterics—laughter of course, I mean, come on—if you knew Terri, you’d understand—about how newborn babies look like overturned cockroaches. You know how when a bug is on its back and its little legs are flailing? Well, picture your favorite newborn, on its back, screaming and crying, with flailing appendages and you now understand why I was dying and out of breath from laughter.
Mom and I talked again. She called because she wanted to share something she’d read … or was it heard? Or found? Or wrote herself? No, that’s not it … I don’t remember. I admit, I wasn’t listening super closely. I’m a horrible daughter. I do remember this though. She said that whatever it was she had read/heard/found/wrote was something like this: Sometimes we’re so wrapped up with being angry about something, angry at God about something, that we forget to grieve. We’re so focused on anger, and so quick to go there, that we forget to allow the God of all comfort to, well, comfort. She said to me, something to the tune of (man, I need to listen better), maybe you just need to stop running toward the anger, and sit in your grief. God will meet you in that grief and, if you allow Him, begin to heal your wounds. Yep, I think that’s basically what she said. And if that’s not what you said, Mom, well, it’s what I heard and it helped. So good job.
Grief. When was the last time that I grieved? That I just allowed sadness? I jump to bitterness. I rest in anger, not that any rest actually happens there. I run to jealousy. But grief? I was done with grief. I’d done the cycle; I’d grieved the miscarriages. But to grieve simply the journey? To grieve the loss every single month, month after long month of still no baby? I hadn’t thought to grieve that. And so, in Kansas, the next day as I drove around the countryside, plastered on a smile for clients, found my way back to the airport and wandered to my concourse, I tried to remember how to grieve. I allowed sadness. I shut out anger, bitterness and jealousy, and I grieved.
(the third and final installment still to come…sorry it’s so stinkin long!! I had a lot to “emote”)