“How many times can they tell me my child is going to die? Why can’t I just sign a statement that I HEARD them the first time? Why do they feel so obligated to be so negative and play God, time after time. Today…. today, she is moving. Today, she is alive. Why do they focus on her death when she is alive today? ” I would say this to anyone who would listen, because their words did pierce. Their words did wound. They spoke of my child as if she was a nuisance, or a problem to be solved, or something they could “take care of ” if I would just bend to their wishes. I would not. She was my daughter, just as much alive, just as much mine as my other two. Her life no less valuable. I would continue to fight for my unborn daughter on every battlefield available. It felt very much like teetering high on a wire over the substance was Life and Death itself. Her life hung in the balance.
I was about six months into my crisis pregnancy. I was slowly adjusting to the “new normal.” Many days, however, my own life seemed foreign to me. I felt like I had been placed in the middle of a bad dream and anticipated very shortly I would wake up and all would be right in the world. In my journal, I was consciously capturing the good taking place, so the pain would not overtake the journey. But any day after an OBGYN visit became a day for grief.
A heart that loves, can break. And mine did, after every doctor’s visit. In my bathroom, I would simultaneously weep and cry out to the Father. “I can’t take this. It’s too much for me.” One particular day I was almost like a a child, angry at her best friend. I wanted to gather all my toys from that sandbox and leave and never come back. I was done with the Father. How could this cycle of bone-crushing pain be a part of His plan? How could He treat me so horribly? “This is how you treat Your child?” In my spirit, I turned my back. I took about two steps and stopped.
Where should I go with my broken heart and all my play things, overflowing from my folded arms? If loving Him had brought me so much misery, maybe I would be better off on my own. For what felt like an eternity I pondered that thought. “ON MY OWN. BETTER OFF. BY MYSELF. WITHOUT HIM!” Quickly I surveyed the dire predicament. I’m not a genius, but… at the thought of going it alone, my mindset shifted.
He could walk me through this. He had answers no one else had. He was catching my tears and in all honesty, as much pain as I did experience, His grace WAS meeting my needs. My life was productive, even joyful for the most part, in the middle of this crisis.
“Prone to wander. Lord I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love. Here’s my heart, now take and seal it. Seal it for Thy courts above.” I love the honesty of my interactions with God. He doesn’t mind my tears, failures, pain, or scars. He is there in the midst healing my shattered pieces, even while they are still breaking off.
Carly’s life was a kiss from heaven that stayed and lingered for 7 ½ years. To be a special needs Mom is a high calling. Even the times of mourning are part of that honor and privilege. I’m glad I turned around that day, but to be perfectly transparent, even if my heart had turned hard toward God, His heart would have remained tender and loving toward me. He would have been there, watching over me every single day. Even if I never talked to Him again, He would have reached out to me time and time again. He is a good, good Father.
Broken but Beautiful 