Lean In

Pain is a gift. Think about it: pain serves as a warning, a life raft before the flood overtakes. The pain you feel if you place your hand on a too-hot surface saves you from burning your entire appendage off. The pain of hypothermia alerts us to the fact that we need to warm up, effectively saving our lives. And pain helps us learn (if we're attentive students, that is!) what not to do again. Paring knife blade faces away from the hand... Got it.  It's a gift, this pain thing, to save us from our selves.

I have been thinking lately of how we cope with pain. When do we run? When do we fight? And when do we lean into it? The pain of a knife blade should be fled, the pain of a headache should be fought, and, perhaps, the pain of the muscle ache during a good session of cardio ought to be leaned into.

So what of the pain of grief in the face of infertility? What do we do with that?

My sister-in-law is 41 weeks pregnant today. All topics of conversation anywhere I go revolve around the baby: when she'll deliver, how bad contractions are, is she dilated, is she effaced, when will they induce.... all the questions.  It is as though it's all people can talk about, and, it seems that most of them just see me as a primary source of information.

On Monday I made seven meals. I woke up, went to the store, spent nearly $100 on food, and cooked all day until my feet hurt. Their freezer is now full, and my heart is aching.  I couldn't tell if the tears were just from all the onions I chopped.

Lean in.

On Wednesday, I took my niece to pick out a gift for the new baby. And we came home and felt the movements and the kicks and the contractions. From the outside, looking in, not knowing if I will ever know such kicks firsthand. That night, I painted her toenails since she cannot reach over her swollen belly.

Lean in. Lean in.

Last night, my niece asked me if I had a baby in my belly. I told her that I didn't. And she said, "Well, that's pretty sad, huh?"   Oh, kiddo, you have no idea.

Today, I stopped by the church for music practice. Everyone asked me how she's doing and when she'll deliver and if she's dropped; and they forgot to ask about me. And so I smiled and answered their questions and told them how excited I am to be an aunt five times over.

Lean in. Lean in. Lean in.

Pain is a gift. This pain is reminding me - reminding me of the broken world in which we live, and reminding me that this is not my home and my broken body does not mean I have a broken spirit. It is reminding me of my misplaced hope. Pain is a warning, a life raft that tells me to look up, lean in to the One who is comfort and the One who is good and the One in whom all my hope must rest.