Encounter: Part 2 of …
So that goal of “writing every Monday,” went well didn’t it? Haha. I shouldn’t have expected anything different, but I did go on vacation (and subsequently recovered from said vacation, so let’s blame it on that). ; )
By the way, that vacation was AWESOME. More to come on that too.
In my last post, I talked about reopening wounds I thought were healed and entrusting those places to God. Some days that feels like I am shoving it into His hands gratefully because I am so weary and do not have the energy or emotional capacity to carry it on my own. Sometimes, I do it joyfully with a hymn in my heart. On the hardest days, it feels a lot like throwing it at Him like an angry dart. And still, there are other days when I am hesitant to give it over at all, afraid that somehow God is going to use that vulnerability to wound me.
For me, I think the latter comes from a fear of silence. Giving over our deepest hurts to God takes a lot of faith. A lot of trust. It feels like handing over your most precious thing, and we nervously wring our hands wondering what is to become of it. We give it over with an expectation of answers. And then, we get what we feel is silence.
(For more on that, please read this post here).
For so much of this journey (going on about seven years), this “silence” has been the hardest part. In this perceived silence, my own questions of worth, desire, and God’s goodness have either shouted at me or lured me in whispers. I’ve been tempted to hold my infertility like a mirror, letting it shape the way I see myself, convincing myself that is how God sees me too. Forgotten. Not worthy.
I say this and yet, as I look back over this journey, I know this isn’t true. While at times, I certainly believed the “answers,” would instantly erase my pain, I also know this to be a lie. Because here is the thing…
God has never been silent.
His presence, which at times, has literally felt physical in my darkest moments SPEAKS. Verbal answers might temporarily ease the cognitive dissonance racing through my brain. But love speaks to my heart. Love is what transforms. Love calls me back to who I am time, and time again.
God’s presence is LOVE. Please believe that as someone who has been in the pit that His love has been the rope that pulls me to life every time. And that is a daughter of a King (shout out to Abby for that reminder!).
I am not forgotten. I am beloved. With or without a child of my own.
Here is the follow-up journal entry to the last post:
December 16th, 2016
Lord, I don’t want to make demands. I don’t want anything that is not from You. And yet, as I read Elizabeth’s story from the Gospels, I feel mine resonate within hers and I know I want something. I want a child by Your miraculous means. I want to know that it is something ONLY from You. Not from a medical procedure (not that I think that is wrong), or by forcing something but rather a grace in tangible form that reminds me over and over again of Your providence, Your love, Your gift. I don’t want to be the source. I want to know and others to know that if I have a child, I am blessed because of You.
And really, the more I think about grace and the gift of it, it’s NOT the child in of itself that is the grace…it’s the tangible reminder of YOU. THAT is the grace. THAT is the beautiful part of any story. THAT is the seed buried permanently in my heart. This world will fade away. Our lives are not our own and often take what seems like an uncharted path.
But it is these reminders, these gifts of Your grace that sustain us. It draws us back to you time and time again. So, God I pray boldly and confidently for this gracious gift. For this gracious reminder. That I, and others, would know You.
That is what I want, Lord. For your Gospel to be bigger. And I will wait for however You choose to display it. For however long it takes. Show me what this means.
God speaks, friends. He speaks in violent roars, and soothing lullabies. He speaks through His presence and the hugs, hand squeezes, and prayers of others. He speaks courage and peace. He speaks through His written word and words scratched in a battered, worn journal. His voice is comfort and conviction. May He speak through me and to me…and may I listen.
More to follow. Let your lives speak.