I went to the post office today, which of course conjures up all kinds of nightmarish thoughts it being December 14th and all. But, I had a box to mail to the husband of a friend who is stationed overseas in the Army and so I sucked it up and headed over there. It actually wasn't too bad and the people were generally in a good mood, so even though I had the wrong forms filled out it went fine, until the clerk asked me if I wanted the box back if it was "undeliverable", or if I wanted it donated to the chaplain. Now, as my sweet husband tried to console me with, there are lots of reasons a package would be undeliverable. Loads in fact, especially considering we are talking about the US Postal service. But, all I could see in my mind are the countless families sending packages to their loved ones serving in the armed forces and waiting and praying for their return. I barely kept it together until I got to the parking lot.
When I got in the car and turned it on all I heard were Christmas songs, which are so common in December on the radio anymore that I tend to treat them like white noise. I occasionally turn up a particularly loved tune, but for the most part it's just background "filler". But today the song "Mary Did You Know" came on", and although I've heard it lots of times, today it really made an impact on me. It made me really stop and consider the gift of sacrifices.
I started wondering if Mary really knew the impact of her Son being born, if she really understood the sacrifice that would be required of Him, and also of her. It says in Luke 2:19 "But Mary kept these things and pondered them in her heart". But, did she ponder *that*? Did she sit there and realize that this infant she bore, that she loved, would willingly give Himself not only for her, but for all mankind? How could she ever have considered that? It's at once a terrible and awesome thing to reconcile.
Clearly nobody whose loved ones voluntarily put themselves in harm's way spend too much time thinking about that. I mean, really, how could you and continue to function every day? I doubt my friend whose husband is in the Army does, she's too busy trying to care for 3 young children. And how about the rest of us; those of us who just wander around every day filling our lives with "important" duties? Do we ever really stop to "ponder these things in our hearts"? When is the last time you *truly* thought on the topic of sacrifice?
As you go about these last days in preparation for the holidays spend some time thinking about it. What would *you* be willing to sacrifice for?, What, or who do you think is worthy of sacrifice? Contemplating those questions could prove to be very enlightening not only on how we view those who serve us here on earth, but also in how we relate to the One who gave it all.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Thanksgiving in the midst of grief
I am not a fan of Thanksgiving. There, I said it. I know I am probably not the only one who feels that way, but I am most definitely in the minority. I love the *idea* of Thanksgiving and I am appreciative for my many blessings, but on the actual day itself the feeling of gratitude eludes me. Quite honestly the holiday has been spoiled for me. The year before Chloe was born I had a miscarriage on Thanksgiving and that day has just never, ever been the same since.
Losing a baby is a uniquely awful experience. The unborn are not uniformly considered "living entities", and as such are often considered expendable. In addition, the loss of something intangible is especially difficult to reconcile. The death of a "living" child engenders all kinds of sympathy from friends and family, while a miscarriage generally goes unmentioned, as if the hurt will be less if it's all just forgotten.
The problem is, it can't just be forgotten. I remember an encounter a while back, earlier in our marriage, not long after we had moved into our house in Ohio. I was a young mom of two and was blissfully innocent of loss. I was talking to my new neighbor Julie, who had shared with me that she had just recently miscarried a child. She described the difficulty in mourning that loss because people just encouraged her to "move on and get over it". "You'll have another" was something she heard over and over again, as if getting pregnant soon would instantly fix everything. I had no idea what to say to her, I recognized she was hurting, but was woefully ignorant of how I should respond. Finally I just said what, at the time, seemed like common courtesy. I replied "Well, it must be hard because once you know you're pregnant, it's a real baby to you". I'm not sure that's an exact quote, but I do remember vividly what she said in reply. She said "It's so nice that you said that, it means a lot to me". I didn't think about it much at the time, the moment was over and I had no real connection to the event. Many years later I remembered those words and I longed to have someone say them to me.
We had discovered I was expecting a couple of weeks before visiting my in-laws for Thanksgiving. Looking back, I was apprehensive about the pregnancy and traveling, I had experienced extreme nausea and vomiting with my first two babies and this pregnancy was surprisingly illness free. My doctor reassured me that all pregnancies are unique, but deep down I was anxious. It turned out my fears were realized and I started bleeding not long after we arrived in Georgia, a drive of 16 hours from our home. I spent most of the week in and out of the emergency room at the local medical center. As I lay in the hospital listening to the nurse ask me why I was crying (no, I'm not kidding), I remembered that long past conversation with Julie. What I would have given for someone, anyone to validate my loss, to comfort my pain, to understand that the hurt of losing a baby is like having the most wonderful gift waved in front of your face and promised to you, only to have it snatched away just as you reach for it. A miscarriage isn't just the tangible loss of a loved one, it is the loss of a dream, of all the hopes and plans for an unknown child. It is involuntarily relinquishing the lifelong opportunity of love, both given and received. And through it all, having almost no one acknowledge or legitimize your grief.
Looking back I see now that most people are woefully unskilled at intentional comfort. The majority of people shy away from grief and will do anything to avoid confronting it. I recognize now that Andre had absolutely no idea how to give me solace in the midst of his own loss. My in-laws said nothing beyond their frustration that we decided to leave on Thanksgiving Day and drive the 16 long hours back home to familiar doctors. To this day all they have expressed is the disappointment that their holiday was "ruined". The baby, their lost grandchild, has not once been mentioned.
And so, as I continue to struggle with mixed emotions, I condemn myself for not moving past this loss, wondering if I will ever enjoy Thanksgiving again, and discovering that sometimes it's most difficult to extend grace to yourself. After a lot of prayer and journaling, I realized my reluctance to completely give my pain and anger to God is due to my belief that, once it is gone, it will be like the pregnancy never happened at all, as if the baby, our child, never even existed.
Of course God stands ever ready to receive my pain, to offer His merciful grace whenever I am ready to accept that gift. Somehow I need to learn a way to relinquish my grief to Him, and yet hold dear the memory of a promise never realized. Only then will I be able to truly celebrate with thanksgiving again.
Losing a baby is a uniquely awful experience. The unborn are not uniformly considered "living entities", and as such are often considered expendable. In addition, the loss of something intangible is especially difficult to reconcile. The death of a "living" child engenders all kinds of sympathy from friends and family, while a miscarriage generally goes unmentioned, as if the hurt will be less if it's all just forgotten.
The problem is, it can't just be forgotten. I remember an encounter a while back, earlier in our marriage, not long after we had moved into our house in Ohio. I was a young mom of two and was blissfully innocent of loss. I was talking to my new neighbor Julie, who had shared with me that she had just recently miscarried a child. She described the difficulty in mourning that loss because people just encouraged her to "move on and get over it". "You'll have another" was something she heard over and over again, as if getting pregnant soon would instantly fix everything. I had no idea what to say to her, I recognized she was hurting, but was woefully ignorant of how I should respond. Finally I just said what, at the time, seemed like common courtesy. I replied "Well, it must be hard because once you know you're pregnant, it's a real baby to you". I'm not sure that's an exact quote, but I do remember vividly what she said in reply. She said "It's so nice that you said that, it means a lot to me". I didn't think about it much at the time, the moment was over and I had no real connection to the event. Many years later I remembered those words and I longed to have someone say them to me.
We had discovered I was expecting a couple of weeks before visiting my in-laws for Thanksgiving. Looking back, I was apprehensive about the pregnancy and traveling, I had experienced extreme nausea and vomiting with my first two babies and this pregnancy was surprisingly illness free. My doctor reassured me that all pregnancies are unique, but deep down I was anxious. It turned out my fears were realized and I started bleeding not long after we arrived in Georgia, a drive of 16 hours from our home. I spent most of the week in and out of the emergency room at the local medical center. As I lay in the hospital listening to the nurse ask me why I was crying (no, I'm not kidding), I remembered that long past conversation with Julie. What I would have given for someone, anyone to validate my loss, to comfort my pain, to understand that the hurt of losing a baby is like having the most wonderful gift waved in front of your face and promised to you, only to have it snatched away just as you reach for it. A miscarriage isn't just the tangible loss of a loved one, it is the loss of a dream, of all the hopes and plans for an unknown child. It is involuntarily relinquishing the lifelong opportunity of love, both given and received. And through it all, having almost no one acknowledge or legitimize your grief.
Looking back I see now that most people are woefully unskilled at intentional comfort. The majority of people shy away from grief and will do anything to avoid confronting it. I recognize now that Andre had absolutely no idea how to give me solace in the midst of his own loss. My in-laws said nothing beyond their frustration that we decided to leave on Thanksgiving Day and drive the 16 long hours back home to familiar doctors. To this day all they have expressed is the disappointment that their holiday was "ruined". The baby, their lost grandchild, has not once been mentioned.
And so, as I continue to struggle with mixed emotions, I condemn myself for not moving past this loss, wondering if I will ever enjoy Thanksgiving again, and discovering that sometimes it's most difficult to extend grace to yourself. After a lot of prayer and journaling, I realized my reluctance to completely give my pain and anger to God is due to my belief that, once it is gone, it will be like the pregnancy never happened at all, as if the baby, our child, never even existed.
Of course God stands ever ready to receive my pain, to offer His merciful grace whenever I am ready to accept that gift. Somehow I need to learn a way to relinquish my grief to Him, and yet hold dear the memory of a promise never realized. Only then will I be able to truly celebrate with thanksgiving again.
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