Unfinished Business

I thought we were pregnant this month. I really did.  I know, I know... I say that every month; but this month had all the signs, all the symptoms, everything was adding up. It all made sense. That is, until the cramps started and we were sent spiraling back to square one.

Three or four nights ago, I asked Cole if he thought we had grown at all over the course of the last two years in regards to our infertility. As sure as I was that we were pregnant, I had this moment of panic: What if we finally got that which we had been praying for, hoping for, working towards for the last two years and we were no different than when we started? What if our "situation" gets resolved and we remain unchanged? Would these last two years have been for nothing?

After all, I still feel the same empty longing that I have felt every.single.month. for the last two years. I still feel the same disappointment that I have felt every.single.month. for the last two years. I still vacillate between high hope and apathy. I still try to manage our infertility on my own. My prayers are still so stifled.

There was a point about one year into this journey that I viewed this trial as an opportunity. I had hoped that this would blow my prayer life wide open and suddenly my dependence upon the Lord would be all-consuming and I would spend hours and hours in the Word. And yet, here I am, two years later, still limping along two weeks by two weeks.

And so, God, in His unending grace, has given me more time rather than a baby.  He has given me more time to turn to Him, more time to learn to rely on Him. He has given me more time with just the two of us so He can finish His unfinished business in me.  What a good, good Father.

Sit in the Pain

In high school, my entire world fell apart. Granted, when one is in high school, her world is ridiculously small.  My two best friends left my school – leaving me friendless and questioning everything.  I felt empty and sad and lonely and hurt. So much sophomore pain.  In an effort to survive, I threw myself into any and every activity that school provided – both within the classroom and without.  Knowledge Bowl, Golf Team, ASB, Worship Team – you name it, I was on it. I found a new circle of friends and I moved on. Though a large part of me still felt lost, I chose to ignore the pain.

I graduated and headed to college. Somehow, even with this brand new start, the empty, sad, lonely hurt found me there too. So, I explored the big city, found a job at the library, played the piano for hours - but I could not shake the pain. So I moved home.

I lived with my parents while attending a local university. I was sad, lonely, empty. I was at a new university and felt completely on the outside. So, I threw myself into church activities and Bible studies and game nights. I smiled and laughed and forced my feet into running shoes in the name of cheap therapy. The pain was stuffed away, left to be dealt with another day.

When I look back over my life, I have seen a pattern of running. Running away from the uncomfortable, running away from the pain.  If I can distract myself with other things, it is almost as though I can deny the pain exists.  Rather than face the pain, I either attempt to fix it or I flee it. A few months ago, in the midst of this crazy, heart-wrenching journey, a phrase came to mind that has stuck with me:

Sit in the pain.

I am a fixer. I am a mover and a shaker. And I get things done. If it's broken, I'll find a way to fix it. If it runs inefficiently, I'll change the process. If it hurts, I run, I distract myself, I numb it away. I don't let pain wash over me. Rather, I jump the waves and pretend like it's not splashing my ankles.

In this season of infertility, I find myself falling into those same tendencies. I could just "fix it" by continuing to run every test known to mankind or by jumping into the adoption process. I could run from it by continuing to immerse myself in work and ministry. But, lately, I've sensed that God is calling me to a third alternative: Rest. Sit. Stay. Feel.

Like gold refined, I want to force my hand to the fire to allow the heat of this trial to incinerate those human parts of me that cling so fiercely. I want the heat of suffering to build in me the character of Jesus for the glory of God. I want this pain to have purpose.