A Tale of Four Thanksgivings

That first Thanksgiving was hard, so hard that when I think about it I still feel the pain that flowed through my weary body. I remember how I felt that first Thanksgiving, achingly aware that my body was empty. Empty of a baby that I wanted so badly. Empty of the hope of a baby any time soon. I was surrounded by pregnancy in every sphere of my life, and I could barely choke out the words “I’m thankful” when we all shared our Thanksgiving joy around the dinner table. It felt like a lie. I didn’t know how to be thankful when living felt like death and tears came too easily for my comfort.

Little did I know it would take two more years before I would know the joy of pregnancy again.

I remember how I felt that second Thanksgiving. When treatment was inevitable and I had no assurance I would ever hold a baby in my arms this side of heaven. I spent my holiday battling hot flashes and mood swings in a drug induced menopause all in an attempt to get my body to do what I felt in my heart it was supposed to do—carry and sustain a baby. It was a little easier to say the words “I’m thankful” that Thanksgiving. I had seen God work. I could see, though dimly, that through the dark and heavy clouds of loss and infertility, God was doing something in my sad heart. I just didn’t know what it was yet.

I remember the fourth Thanksgiving, smack in the middle of the baby years with twins, spending many hours pumping and feeding and going to the doctor and therapy. I wondered why after all my longing for a baby God would give me such difficulty with their lives. I wanted ease, not discomfort. I wanted simplicity, not complication. I was so overwhelmingly thankful for every ounce of them, yet I struggled with my circumstances that looked different than I anticipated. Yet still, God was doing something.

Here I am on the sixth Thanksgiving. Lord willing, farther along than I was in the beginning. Still waiting for prayers to be answered. Still battling discontentment with the life I have been given with its mundane struggles, sin, and sorrow, yet daily reminded of the rock solid truth that God is a good and faithful God to his people. He doesn’t leave us. He gives us only good things, even if our definition of good is different. This Thanksgiving, I feel like I am coming to terms with the reality of life in a broken world and I am thankful for it in all its complexity.

I’ve had Thanksgivings of want and Thanksgivings of plenty, Thanksgivings of rebellion and Thanksgivings of restoration. It’s easier to say “I’m thankful” than it was in the beginning, but not because I got what I wanted. These children give me much to be thankful for, yes. But it is more than that. I’m thankful that in my darkness and cynicism and unbelief God did not forsake me. I’m thankful that when I wrestled through the lot he was giving me he still pointed me upward and worked faith into my brittle heart. I’m thankful for years of sorrow and loss, because in the loss of what was most precious to me God was found to be infinitely better than any earthly thing. I’ve learned in the wanting that God shows up, that he can be trusted, and that even when the clouds hang low a break in them is coming.

So I’m thankful this Thanksgiving. As I kiss my boys goodnight and tuck them in bed, I’m so very thankful that they are here with me. I’m thankful for their boundless energy and middle of the night cuddles. I’m thankful for the life they bring to our home that was once so strikingly empty and quiet. But I’m equally thankful that God was here with me as he taught me how to wait on his timetable.

Our Third Son

One year ago today, we walked into an ultrasound room with hopeful hearts. We walked out of that very room heartbroken and confused. February 24, 2015 looks very different than February 24, 2014. I spent the better part of that day last year packing for a planned trip to Florida and processing next steps for our unexpected loss, all while weeping uncontrollably over the baby I would never meet.

It was a harder miscarriage than our first. Emotionally it registered about the same, but physically it took its toll on me and dragged on much longer than anyone ever expected. It made us wonder if we could endure another pregnancy, another rise and fall of dreams for a child. So we waited the months that were medically necessary because of the physical effect of the miscarriage and asked God to unite our hearts around the possibility of another baby--a baby we knew in our hearts we ached for.

And God heard our prayer.

We spent the better part of the first half of this pregnancy convinced we were having a girl. All the old wives tales about gender seemed to be leaning pink, so we were pretty sold on a name for the baby should we have a girl. But a boy? We were stumped. We had already used up two names on the sons we currently have, so thinking about another name proved difficult for us. So we didn't.

When the ultrasound technician informed us that our suspicions were false, we were floored. Daniel kept saying "wow" over and over again. We are delighted to add another boy to our brood, we just weren't expecting it this time around.

For weeks we talked about names, wrote down names, looked up names, and then talked about names some more. We could not come to a consensus. As we were driving to the airport for Christmas we settled in to listen to a seminar on parenting. The speaker read from Genesis 4 and when he got to verse 25, we stopped:

And Adam knew his wife again, and she bore a son and called his name Seth, for she said, “God has appointed for me another offspring instead of Abel, for Cain killed him.”

"What about Seth?" Daniel said.

We have always liked the name, we just forgot about it until that moment. Seth means "appointed one" and in particular to the story in Genesis, he is the God-appointed son in place of the one who was lost. So much of this pregnancy has linked us to the baby we lost. We heard Seth's heartbeat the day after our other baby was due. We found out we were pregnant the month we were due with the one we lost. In many ways, we feel like Seth is the joy that has come in the morning (Psalm 30:5). After we talked about this name, and the meaning behind it, we knew that the story of how he came to be would be perfectly woven into his very name, much like the names of his older brothers.

For his middle name we went off from our normal way of naming our kids. So far we have chosen family names for our children. Luke's name is Lucas Daniel (after Daniel). Zach's is Zachary Garrett (after my grandpa), but we could not find a family name that went with Seth! When I first became a Christian I was exposed to the writing of Elisabeth Elliot. Reading her gave me a context for a female Christian writer. Prior to my conversion, I wanted to be a writer. As a new believer, she opened up God's word to me, and gave me a female example to emulate. And he also happens to be due the month my first book releases! Jim Elliot's story influenced Daniel as a college student as well. So we felt it fitting to name him Seth Elliot, to honor the lives of two people who have impacted us greatly.

As I reflect on all God has taught me in the year since our second miscarriage, like our first, I am undone by his goodness once again. In the dark days that followed our loss it felt as if I would never see the sun in my circumstances again, let alone in my own soul. But God is faithful. He restores the years that the locusts of sin, suffering, and loss have eaten. He brings joy out of mourning. He causes the sun to rise in the dark corners of our hearts when his frowning providence seems to tell a different story.

In two and a half months we will meet this precious boy, Seth Elliot. We love him already.

Some Trust in Ultrasounds, But We Trust in the Lord

On September 29 the baby we lost earlier this year was due. Due dates are always hard when there is no baby coming. They are a reminder of what could have been. They are a reminder of a pregnancy that didn't make it to term. They are a reminder of empty arms. I've faced three due dates now with no baby inside of me. One was because the twins were born eight weeks before my due date. The other two were because I lost the baby in the first trimester. So I'm quite familiar with due dates.

But this due date was different. This due date was filled with anticipation. Not with anticipation over the grief I would feel that day, but because I knew what was coming the next day. I would get to see our newest baby for the first time. That's right, I am pregnant again.

I am also very familiar with ultrasounds. I have had a lot of them in my day. With the twins I had more than is possible to remember. But I've always walked into that first ultrasound with the same fear and trembling. Daniel and I barely talk in the waiting room. We know what could happen. We could either walk out of that room with pictures of our new baby or walk out of that room broken over the loss of another. On September 30 we were walking into that room for the fourth time, and at that point we had experienced more bad first ultrasounds than good ones. Because the last time I had an ultrasound was when I was still pregnant with the last baby we lost, the ultrasound log picked me up as being 40 weeks pregnant. So we had to explain to the ultrasound tech that we were in fact there for a our new baby and not the one from February.

We were scared to death.

But in God's kindness he turned our mourning into dancing by letting us see the beating heart of our newest little baby, due May 14, 2015. So far, all is well.

The first trimester is not nice to me, and this pregnancy has been no different. In fact, it's been a whole lot worse. As I'm slowly coming out of the non-stop sickness, thanks to medicine, I have found myself facing the same old fear that always plague me in pregnancy.

Will I lose this baby, too? 

Pregnancy lost its innocence with me a long time ago and I feel like it's God's way of pruning me and causing me to trust him with everything.

I find myself trusting in hearing a heartbeat more than I trust the God who made this baby's heart and keeps it beating this very moment. I find myself trusting in hugging the toilet bowl more than I trust the God who knit this little, nausea inducing baby together in my womb (Ps. 139:13). I find myself trusting in the passing of another week more than I trust the God who sustains the universe and numbers every hair on this little one's head (Luke 12:7, Matt. 10:30).

You see, it's easy to brush my fears off as normative. I've lost babies. I've had a high-risk pregnancy. I've had premature babies who had to spend five weeks in the NICU. Every part of my pregnancy history causes my anxiety to rise and makes me want to think I'm justified in my response to my circumstances.

But I'm not.

My fears are no different than anyone else's fears. We all have life experiences that inform our fears, but we are still called to trust in the God who is sovereign over our very lives.

The verse I keep coming back to is Psalm 20:7:

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.""

Maybe I don't have to deal with enemies seeking to destroy me every single day. But I do have the enemy of my mind that lies to me about God's goodness and care for me and my baby. We can insert any earthly means of assurance into this psalm and the outcome is still the same. God is on the throne and he is the only one worthy of our trust. No ultrasound, fetal doppler, baby kicks, or pregnancy symptom will be the assurance I need to sustain my faith. God alone is my help and my trust.

So it's in him I trust as I walk nervously through another pregnancy. Hopeful and excited for the life he has given us again.

A Momma's Heart Breaks, No Matter Her Culture

It's been a sad cycle of news these last few weeks. We've heard reports of children being slaughtered in Iraq, thousands have died and suffer from Ebola, Robin Williams committed suicide, Michael Brown was killed, an American city is in emotional upheaval reminding us all of our nation's rocky history, and James Foley was murdered for all the world to see. These are just the things I can think of off the top of my head. I know there are more and it's hard to take it all in. I don't respond to major news stories usually. Most of that decision is owing to the fact that I don't know enough about it to offer any credible insight into the situation, and almost all of it is owing to the fact that others (much wiser than I) have better things to say. So I listen and think and talk and pray. But I rarely write about it.

Until now.

I'm not going to offer any commentary on any particular situation. Again, even though I'm writing about the generalities of our sad news cycle, I still don't feel adequate to speak into any one situation. But I am going to speak to one thing that unites a large percentage of our global population.

I'm a mom.

My heart has been slowly breaking as I processed each piece of sad news these last few weeks. With each snippet of story I saw, one thought kept coming to my mind, I wonder how the mothers are doing?

Motherhood is the great equalizer for us as women. It's why we share birth stories with complete strangers. It's why we offer advice with a new mom. "It will get better," we assure her. It's why we cry when we see other mothers sending their children off to college (or the first day of school). We've been there. We know the feeling. We've felt the morning sickness. We've felt the first kicks. We remember the feel of their heads when the nurse first placed them in our arms. We've been up late at night with a sick toddler. We've kissed a skinned knee, packed a lunch, wiped a tear, and never once have we thought we would be the one to say the final goodbye to them. If the thought has crossed our minds, it's been in our deepest nightmares.

But as I've watched the news lately that's all I can think about. The mothers. The mothers who have rocked their babies to sleep and read them books, now burying those same children in the cold, dark, ground. And I can hardly choke back the tears.

Whatever we believe about any situation that is happening in our world (whether or not missionaries should go to places that threaten their lives, who was at fault in the death of an African American teenager, how to handle the suicide of a celebrity, or how to respond to the crisis in Iraq) one thing is certain, the people we are talking about as the latest fodder for the evening news are children of grieving mothers. Whatever is true about them, their mothers lost something that can never be replaced--or at least are facing the possibility of the loss.

And while I have no answers to the many problems facing our world I do have this. Tears. A mother's heart breaks the same no matter where she's from. And this momma is grieving with her.

A Run to Remember

On Saturday our family had the opportunity to run in our first 5k as a family of four. Daniel and I ran one together before we were married, but it hardly counted as a run since I could barely walk the whole thing. This time it meant something to us. We ran in the Race to Remember, which benefits an organization called Mamie's Poppy Plates. This organization provides hand painted plates of footprints and birth stats to families who have lost a child in early infancy or in pregnancy. While we have never experienced infant loss or stillbirth, we have lost two babies to miscarriage and felt like this race was a worthy cause to give our time to.

Leading up to the race I was really anxious and I couldn't put my finger on it. As I drove to pick up our race packets on Friday it hit me. I was aware that running in a race in memory of the two babies we have lost put our grief right out into the open. Of course, it's a race to remember, so it's only fitting that I would remember the babies we don't have with us. It felt so raw and in my face to take part in something that put my loss out in the open. The Internet is one thing. Looking people in the eye who have experienced similar (and far more horrific) losses to my own was freeing and excruciating.

As we stepped inside the park to join the pre-race festivities I felt my self-conscious fear melt away. Everywhere I looked there were families in shirts bearing the names of the babies they have lost. I made a point to read and process every precious name on every shirt. Names of lives desperately wanted. Names of babies who were gone far too soon. Names of boys, girls, full term, premature, and sick babies who never made it through their first few moments of life outside the womb, if they even got that far.

And that was the point.

Every person who chose to run that race on Saturday knew they were running for something more than themselves. Grandfathers ran in honor of their grandchildren. Brothers ran in honor of their sisters. Cousins ran in honor of their cousins. Aunts and uncles ran for their nieces and nephews. And mothers ran for their babies. I read those names because like their family members, I want to remember that their lives mattered, even if they were brief.

The beauty of memory is that we are given the chance to remember what is most precious to us. Even if it is laced with pain, we still have the hope that our memories remind us of happier days. God did not need to bless us with this gift, but he did. Throughout the Bible he tells us to remember, most importantly to remember his kindness to us. On Saturday, like many other mothers who have babies no longer with them, I remembered not just the lives lost, but the goodness of God in the midst of the pain. God gives and God takes away and his name is always worthy of my praise.

(Before the race there was a balloon release in memory of the babies who have died. If you had an early pregnancy loss before you knew the gender you received a white balloon. If you look closely, the above picture is of our two white balloons floating away.)

Hannah's Loss

Whenever I hear someone talk about Hannah from 1 Samuel it is usually because of her great trust in the midst of her barrenness. She is the test case for infertility, really. Barren in a culture that gave women their worth by the fruit of their womb. Reviled by the second wife who bore her husband the multitude of children she so desperately wanted, yet couldn't have. Misunderstood by those around her who observed her grief over her emptiness. Yet, she trusted God in the midst of it all. And God heard her prayer of desperation.

But there is something about Hannah that I often overlook. As I was listening to this sermon the other day I was struck by something in this biblical story.

Hannah lost the son she begged for.

In the wake of her great joy over her precious son, she walked in obedience to a vow she made to God and gave her son back to the One who gave her the gift of life in the first place (1 Samuel 1:11, 22, 28). The pastor I was listening to said that it would be expected for Hannah to respond to such a loss with unimaginable grief. This was pre-Skype, pre-texting, pre-modern mail system. Saying goodbye to her son, Samuel, meant saying goodbye forever. When she left him with Eli she left with him every dream of seeing him grow into a man. Every dream of seeing him learn how to write his name, read a book, or do anything that a normal little boy does. Except for the times when they went up to offer yearly sacrifices, when she left him with Eli that was it. As she promised in that tear filled moment before his conception, she gave her son back to God.

But what does Hannah do? She worships God (1 Samuel 2:1-11). She doesn't shake her fist at him in anger. She doesn't go back on her word. She worships the One who gives all good things to his children. She praises him for his character, his goodness, and his faithfulness to his people. She just kissed her little boy goodbye, left him forever, and all she can do is look to God and praise his name.

What Hannah recognized was that her son was really not hers to claim. He was a gift. God gave him to her and he had the right to take him back. She understood that the focal point of all of her barrenness, all of her pain, and all of her joy in the birth of her son was God. It was not about her getting everything she wished for. It was about God being magnified in her life and in the life of her boy.

And oh, how he was magnified. It was through this longed for boy that God would bring his people back to himself and prepare them for a king. It was through his leadership that the line of David, the line of our Christ, would be established. Hannah's loss was not for naught. It was for us. It was for our joy. It was for our salvation.

Rarely do we see the final outcome of our losses. We don't often get to see the ultimate point of them all, but it doesn't mean it is not there. Hannah never got to see the Christ who was promised. She probably never saw the king who would carry the lineage of our perfect King Jesus. But she trusted the promise nonetheless. She knew her story wasn't the final word. Neither is ours. How do we know this? Because of the loss of another--our precious Christ. It is his loss that assures us that our losses mean something much deeper than the agony we feel in the moment. It is his loss that promises that one day all things will be made right by his once and for all defeat of all things evil. Hannah hoped in the God who would get this done in his time. And so should we. Hannah was able to look in the face of her precious boy as she walked away from him for the last time and know that God would win in the end and her loss was not in vain. The same is true for us, friends. The same is true for us.

The Goodness of God's Ways

I have thought hard about the goodness of God these last three years. What I keep coming back to is that God's ways are not my ways. The bible tells me that and I know it in my soul. April 2 is a "God's ways are not my own" sort of day for me. You see, April 2 is the due date of our first baby. I could have had a three year old today. In previous years I have marked this day with a myriad of emotions. The first year hit me the hardest and each subsequent year has been a little less painful, yet no less impactful.

This year feels more real to me than last year. Maybe it's because last year I was drowning in the ocean of multiple middle of the night feedings and crying newborn twins. But I remembered. Every year I remember. I remember what could have been. I remember what the stinging loss felt like when I first heard the words "there is no baby there." I remember what it felt like to lose the baby. I remember what it felt like to cry out in agony every month that led to that precious babe's due date. Remembering is all I have of this little one.

But this year feels more impactful because I'm walking through another loss of a little one. The pain of the first loss is now wrapped up in the pain of the other. In God's kind providence, the twins' original due date was April 3, the day after our first baby's due date. In many ways, God was showing us the beauty that could come from the ashes of our grief of loss and infertility. He met us in the darkness and gave us hope that he is for us.

So we cling to that truth this year as well. His ways are certaintly not our ways, but in the same way we remember the precious babes we have lost, we also remember all of the good he has done and promises to do for us. Even in the sadness, we are putting our stake of faith in the ground and declaring that he is good and always does good to his children.

It is true, that his ways are so far beyond what we can comprehend. But he has never failed us. Not in the loss of our two babies. Not in our years of infertility. Not in our darkest days of despair. Not once. And that, too, shows us that his ways are not our ways. A God who cares enough to meet us in the darkness, also promises to bring us into the light.

So as we walk through another April 2 with a house less full than we intended, we are thankful. Thankful for the blessings he has given us in these two boys. Thankful for the gifts he gave us in the babes we lost. And thankful that his ways are not our ways. They are always better.

The Stewardship of Pain

Nobody likes pain. I know I don't. We hate pain so much that we do whatever we can to avoid it. We have a headache, we take ibuprofen. We get a leg cramp while running (true confession!), so we stop running. We have surgery, we go under anesthesia. As a society, we have come a long way by means of pain management.

But what about the pain that runs deeper. The pain that settles itself within your very soul. How do you avoid that pain? Some turn to a variety of coping mechanisms. Some simply try to avoid it all together, as if the pain never existed. What is the Christian to do? Do we adopt the world's methods for "pain management," or is there a better, more sustaining way forward in the midst of searing pain?

Jerry Bridges has some helpful words for our pain. In God's providence, Jerry Bridges has been on my nightstand for both of my miscarriages. For the first one, it was Trusting God. This time, it was The Joy of Fearing God. Both times I have been helped tremendously by Bridges careful and God-exalting words.

We usually think of Christian stewardship in terms of money. Some churches have "stewardship campaigns" during which they seek to get their membership to pledge toward the annual church budget. Then the concept of stewardship was broadened to include our time and talents--or as one slogan puts it, "Be a good steward of your time, talents, and treasure." The idea behind these concepts is that whatever resources God has given us, He has entrusted them to us as stewards to use for His glory.

Now apply that idea to pain, either physical or emotional. If we believe God is sovereignly in control of all circumstances of our lives, then our pain is something He has given to us just as much as our time or talents or treasure. He has entrusted the pain to us to be used for His glory...

Closely akin to trusting God in our pain is trusting Him to fulfill His promises, even when we can't imagine how He can fulfill them (225-226).

That is what I want for my own life. I want to steward the pain he gives me for his glory, and ultimately for my own good. This radically changes our perspective on suffering and pain. It takes pain from being something that is against us to something that is given to us as a gift. It is always for our good, even when it feels and seems bleak.

Stewarding our pain well can only be done with the future in view. If we merely looked at the present we would grow weary rather quickly. Instead, like so many who have gone before us, we must look to the eternal home, healing, and rest that awaits us with our Lord. It is impossible to steward our pain well on our own and with tunnel vision. We need God to give us an eternal perspective and the hope that Christ will reign victorious over even the most excruciating pain we face.

Oh Lord, let it be so in my own life, even today.

 

 

It Never Gets Easier, But God is Always Good

"It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

You meet kindred spirits in some of the strangest places sometimes. As I nervously stood in line at my local drugstore I dreaded what I was about to do. I knew I needed the medicine in order to have some form of closure and to complete the miscarriage, but something felt so wrong about it all. Deep within my soul I wanted to scream to all who were around me:

"I'm not having an abortion. I promise. I was pregnant. I wanted this baby!"

Thankfully I didn't have to. But that didn't make the situation any less uncomfortable for me. As the pharmacist asked me the obligatory "are you pregnant?" (which is apparently required when you take medicine like this) my heart ached. I didn't know how to respond. Yes, I kind of was still pregnant. I was still carrying the baby, but the baby was no longer there. So I stumbled to get the words out and eventually confessed that I needed the medicine to help with the process. No one tells you how awkward it will be to do that.

But then something sweet happened. After the pharmacist left, the pharmacy tech continued to finish out my order. As she processed my credit card she mouthed the words "I'm sorry." She went on to tell me how she also had two miscarriages and confirmed my feelings that this really doesn't get any easier.  She understood. She had been there. And she validated my grief and my fears. The Lord met me with comfort even through a process that brought me much dread.

Her words have stayed with me these two weeks since we learned we lost our fourth child. In many ways her words are very true. I used to wonder if having another miscarriage would be easier since I know what to expect or since I have two other children now. But I don't think those things really change the awful reality that there is nothing good and easy about losing a baby. It is true, since I have gone through this before I know what to expect. I know what a miscarriage is like. I know how my heart processes things weeks and months later and I know the dark days that can lie ahead. The knowledge of what to expect makes me prepared, but it doesn't lessen the sting in any way. And having our sweet boys surely gives us great joy in the midst of great sorrow, but having gone through a successful pregnancy only reminds me how wonderful it is to hold that precious babe for the first time. They are a bright spot to our weary souls and a needed distraction from the chaos of our lives right now, but we still feel the loss of their sibling acutely.

As I've walked through miscarriage, infertility, and now another miscarriage I have quickly learned that there is nothing easy about living in this sin-cursed world. The stain of sin is all around us. Sometimes we are impacted by it directly. Sometimes we see the effects from a distance. But it never makes it easy. If it were easy then this would be our home. Right now our eyes are veiled to the glory that will one day be revealed, but our hearts know it is coming. Our hearts know that one day this will all be made right and we will understand God's purposes behind it all. Right now we only see darkness, but our hearts tell us there is light coming. And that is what we cling to. With tears in our eyes and lumps in our throat we are begging God for more faith through this dark valley of loss.

And we trust him.

The same God who brought us through our first miscarriage and infertility will sustain us through this loss as well. The same God who gave this barren woman arms full of two precious children will not leave me to myself. His love is sure. His ways are always good even when they feel utterly awful. By his grace we are (and beg to continue) walking by faith in his good ways and not by the sight that is so clouded by our circumstances.

"The Lord has promised good to me. His word my hope secures. He will my shield and portion be as long as life endures."

The Frowning Providence of Miscarriage

Pregnancy has always been a bittersweet experience for me. We lost our first baby through miscarriage after a few short weeks in my womb. After two years of surgery, medicine, tests, and begging God for another child, God graciously gave us the twins. They have been the greatest earthly joy in our lives. But my pregnancy with them wasn't easy either, leading me to deliver them eight weeks early. We love having children and long for more, but we always enter pregnancy with a slight hesitancy. We know how it could end. We know how uncertain it can be. The innocence has been lost for us.

It was with that cautious fear and expectant hope that we began walking through another pregnancy. In mid-January we were overjoyed with the news that God had given us another life. We were so excited to see the twins with another sibling who was so close in age to them. But we were a little nervous. Would this pregnancy proceed as planned? Or would it unexpectedly end? Would it be complication free? Or would I face another difficult pregnancy? Early on we learned that my progesterone was low, which only heightened our fear. But we also felt a calm that only the Lord could provide. We had seen him walk with us through so much already and wanted to trust him completely with this little one he had given us.

Pregnancy symptoms came on early and with full force, leading us to believe that all was well. We scheduled our first appointment and went last Monday fully expecting to see our wiggly, 9 week baby on an ultrasound.

But that was not to be.

I knew something was wrong when the ultrasound tech took longer than I was used to. With the twins, she found two of them within seconds. This time she struggled to find even one. Within minutes our worst fears were realized. The baby had never fully developed, but the sac did. Essentially, my body had been thinking I was growing a baby all along, which explained all of my pregnancy symptoms.

To say that we are heartbroken would be an understatement. It's been a week and we still are trying to process the reality that we are walking this road for a second time. Miscarriage is so ugly and so raw. It takes the hopes and dreams of expectant parents and dashes them on an ultrasound table or the bathroom floor. It takes something that should bring the greatest joy and ushers in the greatest pain.

And we are feeling all of it.

The twins have been such a bright spot for us in these dark days. They don't know that Mommy and Daddy are grieving, but they do give us love and affection regardless of our tears and pain. They are a balm to our broken souls.

We have been comforted by the truth that God never lets us go. The loss of our third baby was not a surprise to him. He is a good and loving Father who walks with us through even the darkest of days. And we have felt that mercy, too. We learned with our first miscarriage and subsequent infertility that God is working good even in our pain. It is through tear-filled eyes that we long to see his goodness in the midst of this sorrow, too.

"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face."

How Christians Approach Death: Post at Her.meneutics

Like many of you, I was heartbroken over the December shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. As a mom pregnant with two little boys, all I could think about were those parents who went searching for their children only to find out they had been killed by a mad man. I wanted to know the names of these children. I wanted to know how to pray for these families. And my heart continued to break more and more.

One mother of the slain children wrote about the process of identifying her son. It is difficult to read, but moving as you get a glimpse of a mother's love even as she views her son's lifeless body. Her decision to come forward caused a journalist to write about how we owe it to these families to listen to their stories, even the gruesome ones. And I agree.

I wrote a post last week at Her.meneutics that ties her assertions to our responsibility as Christians to grieve with people. Here is an excerpt:

"When Lazarus died Jesus went to him even when he was warned that the smell of his dead friend's body would be overpowering (John 11:38-40). Not even a decomposing body could deter him because he knew that he had power over death. As those who trust in this Christ who has victory over death, we owe it to the grieving not to run from death but to run towards it with them, to look death in the face and walk with them in their pain. But also to acknowledge, like Jesus did, that for those who are in Christ that this death does not have the final word (John 11:4).

Not only did Jesus choose to face the death of his friend, but he willing took on flesh in order to defeat death and sin. Jesus became a human being who could die so that little ones, like Noah Pozner, would one day be whole and new—and unstained by the atrocities that ripped them from this world.

 

As Christians we can look at death and refuse to turn our faces away because we know the One who conquered death by his own and is coming again to make all things new (Rev. 21:5). We owe it to grieving families to enter their pain and hear their stories."

 

You can read the rest here.

You Are Not Forgotten This Christmas (A Repost)

I wrote this post last Christmas, but I think it's relevant for this one as well. It's easy to get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of Christmas and miss the fact that many people feel very alone and forgotten during the Christmas season. If that is you this Christmas, I pray that this post is an encouragement to you.

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For many people the Christmas season is a joyous time filled with family gatherings, way too much (good) food, and an abundance of gifts. But for some, it’s far from the most wonderful time of the year. Christmas is only a reminder of what is missing, or broken, or not right. Christmas only highlights the fact that they feel completely forgotten by God.

It’s easy to make that leap if you are walking through a difficult season of your life. The external circumstances are grim and there seems to be no relief at the end of the dark tunnel you are staring down. If this is your life this Christmas season, you have far more in common with the biblical characters surrounding the Christmas story than you might think. The people who make up the birth account of our Christ are a very unlikely cast of characters. They are an old couple who are burdened with childlessness, a poor teenage virgin with a husband from an obscure town, and the Savior himself—born in a manger, not a much deserved royal palace. Christ’s descent to earth was (and still is) a loud call to all of us that we have not been forgotten.

Zechariah and Elizabeth
Consider this unlikely couple. Every external observation implies that they are long forgotten by God. Luke tells us that while they have asked God for a child for many years, they have now reached old age with no child to call their own. In this culture barrenness meant certain reproach for Elizabeth. She would be viewed by her community as defective and unable to do the very thing she was created to do—bring life into the world. When the women around her experienced pregnancy after pregnancy, Elizabeth was an outsider looking into a world she couldn’t know. Zechariah surely faced tremendous pressure also as he cared for his wife, grieved his own loss of having no heir, and fulfilled his God-given duties as priest. While many would give into the temptation to sin by taking the matter into their own hands, or turning from the God who made them, we are given a small glimpse into Zechariah and Elizabeth’s response to their lifelong infertility. They were righteous. They entrusted themselves to a faithful God, believing in his promises to them, and trusting that he would work good in their lives. They hoped in him alone and believed that he was not finished with them yet.

And he wasn’t.

We know from the rest of the story that God answers their prayer for a child, and not just any child, but the child who would be the promised forerunner to the Messiah. This old couple who waited years for God to answer their longing for a child, now have one who plays a pivotal role in the greatest story of history—the story of Jesus.

Mary and Joseph
By the time the angel appeared to Mary, and ultimately Joseph, the people of Israel had experienced over 400 years of silence from God. Many Jewish people died having never witnessed any revelation, prophetic voice, or tangible act from God. And that took its toll on God’s people. Many Israelites turned away, determining that God’s promises could not really be true. Mary and Joseph, who Luke tells us are righteous people, represent the faithful few. They are the ones who held on to the Old Testament promises even when it seemed like God would never act. It was through this seemingly insignificant girl that the Savior would come into the world. In a cave filled with animals, in a small town far away from home, she would give birth to the Messiah with her loyal husband by her side. No one would have expected it from them.

And that is how God works. He takes the forgotten, the outcast, the insignificant and shows them his kindness and greatness by glorifying himself through them, sometimes in some of the most surprising ways.

Christ the Savior
But no one shows that we are not forgotten more than the Savior himself. Isaiah 53 says:

“He was despised and rejected by men;
a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was wounded for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his stripes we are healed.”

He was momentarily forgotten, afflicted, and separated from God the Father so you would never have to be. That holy night in Bethlehem was moving towards this very reality. Christmas is the precursor to Easter. The incarnation proves that God keeps his promises, and the atonement on the cross seals that promise for good, making us God’s own children. It proves that you are not forgotten because God can never forget his own.

The wonder of Christmas is that we weren’t forgotten. And he showed up in the lives of people who the world viewed as forgotten and of little worth. God became man to rescue us from our sin and bring us into fellowship with himself. He made himself nothing, identifying with lowly and despised people to show that no one is forgotten regardless of their circumstances. You are not forgotten this Christmas, or anytime of the year. The manger where this little baby lay all those years ago is proof of that

The Unchanging Goodness of God

"Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am in distress; my eye is wasted with grief; my soul and my body also. For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing." - Psalm 31:9-10

I read this psalm, through tears, on April 1, 2011. I still remember exactly where I was sitting when these words ministered to my soul. It was a rainy spring night. Daniel was at a bachelor party for a friend. I was sitting alone on the couch in our living room. It was the exact same place I sat weeping over our miscarriage seven and a half months earlier. And now I was faced with the due date of our precious baby and my womb was still empty. I was overcome with grief and pain. The sorrow surprised me. I thought I had come to terms with our loss, and yet here I was again grieving the shattered dreams and trying to pick up the pieces.

My womb would continue to stay empty for another year and a half. In those months and years following God showed up in ways I never could have imagined. I learned things about his character, his goodness, and my sin in ways I never would have known had everything worked out the way I planned it to be. For that I will be forever thankful. Miscarriage and infertility changed me, but it didn't destroy me, and that is all because of his amazing grace.

On August 1, I read that psalm again. It wasn't intentional, I was just reading through the psalms of the day. But just a few minutes before I read this psalm my life changed drastically.

I was pregnant.

I still have to pinch myself when I write those words. I am pregnant. It feels so surreal. As I read Psalm 31 again that morning I saw a little note penciled next to verses 9-10. A very different Courtney wrote, "My prayer. 4-10-11." It's been too long to see the dried tears on the pages of my Bible, but I'm sure they are there. For two years the psalms have been my comfort in my grief. They have carried me and reminded me of the faithfulness of God. They have given me hope that God will keep his promises to me, namely to give me a future with him forever. They have been my lifeline.

And they still are, just in different ways.

It would be easy to claim God's goodness in our unexpected blessing of twins at the expense of seeing his goodness in our miscarriage and infertility. But I assure you, his goodness has not changed. God is the same God today as he was on August 11, 2010 (when we lost our baby). He is the same God today as he was on October 25, 2011 (when we found out we needed more treatment for my endometriosis). In fact, it has only become clearer to me. God is over our sorrow and our joy. He is sovereign over our barrenness and our fullness. He is God in the lean years and the years of plenty. Circumstances do not dictate his goodness. And that is our hope.

The reality that God is unchanging in every aspect of his character is what carries us when our souls give way to sorrow and when the wave of blessing overwhelms us. Isn't that so comforting? We live in a world where devastating changes can happen in an instant. But we serve a God who never changes.

This has been my constant companion throughout this pregnancy. God is over every detail of our lives and he is always working all things for our good. Even when our circumstances cannot be trusted (which we all can attest to that), we can trust in the God who never changes.

There is a Better Sacrifice

Like many in our country I have been amazed by the stories of the men who gave their lives to protect the women in theater nine nearly two weeks ago. It has caused many to stop and reflect on the nature of manhood and the inherent desire in men to protect women in a moment of crisis. And many would say that is a good thing. We are thankful for the heroes, the protectors, and the men who gave the greatest sacrifice in the face of tremendous danger.

But in a lot of ways these stories fascinate us because we all feel the weight of what it means to sacrifice your life. We have grown up hearing stories of war heroes, ordinary men, and family members who considered the needs of others before themselves. And as much as our praise of such men is rooted in the God given understanding that men are supposed to protect, there is also a God given recognition that we all need a sacrifice in our place, even if that knowledge is masked by pride and sin. In the terrifying moments of danger threatening to overtake us, none of us would tell a would-be hero, “I would rather not have the sacrifice, thank you. I will take my chances.” Yet we do it all of the time when a far greater danger crouches at our door seeking to devour us. Our need for a sacrifice to absorb the violence of our sin is far greater than what any ordinary human being can ensure. They can only buy us a few more years, and after that comes judgment. But Christ has taken it all upon himself, and promises that no amount of earthly torment can take away the protection and provision that his substitutionary death accomplishes.

We are drawn to the stories of sacrifice and heroism because we all want to believe that this world is not as bad as it seems, and that there is hope in the midst of chaos. We all want to believe that when terror strikes we will have a sacrifice ready to take our place. And there is. His name is Jesus. He is the perfect protector, provider, and healer when everything else around us threatens to undo us. While we can praise these men who gave their lives for their family and friends, we must not let our praise stop there. There is a better sacrifice for us. It is a sacrifice that abolishes death and destruction. These men bravely gave their lives, but it cost them something that cannot be reversed apart from the sacrifice of another.

James Taranto of the Wall Street Journal tweeted earlier last week, somewhat insensitively, that he hoped these women were worthy of the sacrifice. He went on to explain that he meant that these women had been given a gift in the sacrifice, namely the gift of life. It is now their responsibility to use that gift well, essentially proving their worthiness of the sacrifice.

But if sacrifice is defined in terms of the worthiness of the recipient, then it is not really sacrifice at all, is it? What motivated these men to cover these women we will never fully know. But for many of us, we know what would motivate us. Love. Even if they had been fighting with their girlfriends’ right up to the start of the movie, these men probably would have still given their lives. Yet we want to know the details. We want to know the backstory to the relationship. We want to know that she was worth his life being taken from him. Why? Because like our gravitation towards sacrificial imagery, we like to know that the one receiving the sacrifice is worth it in the end. If one of these women had been cheating on her boyfriend, or ready to break-up with him, we would not appreciate the sacrifice as much. If she squanders her life over the next twenty years, we think he will have died in vain.

And a lot of times this is why it is so hard for us to accept the sacrifice of Christ. When Jesus died for sinners, like you and me, it had nothing to do with our worthiness as a recipient of his death. Yet, he did it anyway. He took every ounce of our sin on himself and covers us with his righteousness instead, protecting us from the horrific wrath to come, and there is nothing we did to deserve it. In fact, everything we have ever done proves we don’t deserve a lick of it.

The discussion surrounding these Aurora three and the women they saved is going to be around for a while, and it should. Over time stories may emerge about these men that portray them as less than ideal sacrifices. But it shouldn’t startle us. A mere earthly sacrifice by a boyfriend or husband, while noble and good,  is not enough to remove the stain of sin. We need a greater sacrifice. The Old Testament saints knew this well when they continually had to return to the altar to make atonement for their sins. The blood of bulls and goats can no more take away sin than the blood of an imperfect man. We all need Jesus as our sacrifice.

So let us have the discussion about the great sacrifices made in Aurora. But let us not end there. As Christians, it should cause us to remember the even greater sacrifice that enables us to lay our lives down not only for our friends, but our enemies as well. It should compel us to tell those around us that the reason we are drawn to heroic tales is because we have a void in our souls telling us that we need to be rescued as well. And it should give us greater hope that no matter the sacrifice we make on this earth, we have been rescued from the greatest enemy of all—our sin. There is a day coming when this will all be over and we will be with our rescuer forever.

Lessons from Unanswered Prayers

I have said it before on this blog, and the Lord keeps bringing me back to it. The psalms are filled with tremendous encouragement and hope for the weary Christian. In them we find honest human emotion: joy, pain, sorrow, happiness, and the like. There is something for everyone in the psalms. In the last few years I have repeatedly gone back to this precious book. I have found encouragement, hope, comfort, and peace from God through these inspired writers.

Psalm 13 is such a psalm. Essentially, it is the cry of one who faces unanswered prayers. This psalm is so short, yet so powerful. It begins with an honest question:

“How long, O Lord?”

It's almost like he couldn't even complete the request. All he could get out was this pleading phrase, "How long?" David is begging God for relief from suffering, from isolation, and from his enemies. This is a very real circumstance. It’s not hypothetical. David feels forgotten, abandoned, and alone. So he cries out to God for deliverance.

David faces two forms of attack: mental and physical. In the mental attack he is barraged with feelings of abandonment from God. In the physical attack his enemies threaten to rejoice over his perceived defeat. David faces suffering on all fronts and so he cries out to God for relief.

Have you ever done that? Have you ever, in the quiet corners of your house, screamed this very question “How long, O Lord?” You can almost hear David’s pain in the words. And yet, his words imply something deep and profound about God. God is the one who has given him this trial. God is the one who has caused his sorrow. God is the one who has hidden his face, even if only for a moment. And by his very plea, David is showing that he believes that this God has the power to change it all.

Sometimes that is where it is hardest to trust. We believe that God is sovereign. We believe that God can change our circumstance. But by his silence he is showing us that relief is not his plan for us. We can learn a lot from David here. After recounting his trials the psalm takes a dramatic turn towards hope.

And then the most important words appear. Such simple words leads to such an important claim.

“But I have trusted in your steadfast love.”

What is David’s hope in his despair and longing? It is remembering and trusting in the God who loves him and is always for his good. Notice that David’s circumstances have not necessarily changed. God may or may not given him the exact answer he was looking for. Regardless, David responds proactively to his pain and despair. This is the same hope for us.

What do you do when the answer does not come like you hope or relief is a distant dream? Here are two implications from verses 5-6.

1. Trust in God and his character. Sometimes we cannot see that he is good and does good for us. Life is hard and painful. It does not always feel good. This is where trust comes in. This is where remembering that God is a good, compassionate, loving, and merciful God is a bedrock of hope for us. We must cling to this when we cannot see the good with our eyes.
2. Worship him for all he has done. Even when the answer does not come, or is less than what you hoped for, there are a thousand good blessings he has already bestowed on you in this season. Some you can see. Some you cannot. But they are there and he is worthy of our worship for them.

There are a million reasons why I am thankful for the Bible. One of them is that through it I can see that my experience is not an isolated one. There are saints who have gone before me. God has shown himself faithful time and time again. And he is worthy of my trust. While I may cry out "how long, O Lord?" I can trust that regardless of the outcome I have an answer to this burning question. His steadfast love never ceases and he is always for my good.

A Quiet Father's Day

Our little apartment is pretty quiet this morning. There is no fanfare, no breakfast in bed, and no presents waiting on the table. At first glance, we are just another married couple getting ready for church on a Sunday morning. But we are more than that. There is a father here, just not according to the world’s definition of fatherhood.

You see, my sweet husband was only a father for six and a half short weeks nearly two years ago. But that little pea-sized baby made him the happiest father around for that short time. He loved that baby. He prayed for that baby. And he even rearranged his life in preparation for that baby.

There should be a nearly fourteen month old running around our living room rather than the painful silence that reminds us of what could have been. But we wait and pray, still begging God to be pleased to give us another on this side of heaven.

In the days surrounding Mother’s Day we talk a lot in evangelical circles about how to mourn with the hurting and be sensitive to the infertile on an otherwise joyous day. Bereaved fathers, wannabe fathers, and infertile fathers are sometimes overlooked. But they are there. And many are hurting just as much as their wives are; they just deal with it differently sometimes. For some, few times exacerbate their painful longings like a day devoted to the one thing they desperately want but can’t seem to have. Remember them. Pray for them. Honor them for their trust in God in spite of uncertain circumstances. It will mean a lot to them.

So we will celebrate my husband today. Not in the way we would have if we had a bubbly toddler in our home, but we will celebrate nonetheless. He is a father, and a good one. And he will be a good father to every subsequent child the Lord sees fit to give us. We long for that day. Until then, we give thanks that God gave us that little one two years ago and long for the day when we see him again.

Infertility Does Not Define You

One of the constant struggles in my journey of infertility is to not believe the lie that I am defined by my infertility. Many times it feels like if you were to look up the word infertile in the dictionary my picture would be there staring back at you. Of course, it is easy to feel this way. Regardless of the medical condition causing the problem, the diagnosis from the doctor is that for the time being I am infertile. Infertility is keeping me from getting pregnant. Treatments, medicine, tests, and the like occupy my thoughts. I talk about it with my friends and family. I’m on a first name basis with my doctor. When it takes up so much of your time and money it only takes a few short steps to get to the point where you think it makes you who you are.  

Maybe you are like me. Maybe you are dealing with infertility and find yourself defined by what ails you. Maybe you look in the mirror and only see a woman with a faulty womb or hormonal imbalance rather than a daughter of King Jesus. I know I have.

After Mother’s Day it’s especially easy to dwell on these feelings. Amid the plethora of “happy mother’s day” niceties a couple of days ago you want to scream “It’s not a happy day and I’m not a mother!” Or maybe you are dealing with the aftermath of feeling like you stuck out like a sore thumb, surrounded by the happy moms and babies while your arms were noticeably empty.

I suppose the struggle with finding our identity in our circumstances is not unique to the infertile woman. The man who faces another week of chemotherapy surely wrestles with feeling like his cancer defines him. The unemployed college graduate with mounting college debt must fight the temptation to believe that a job will provide the identity she needs to make it in the world. But there is something about infertility that hits at the core of who you are as a woman. God created women to bear and nurture life. Prior to a diagnosis of infertility, many infertile women never imagined they would be facing this suffering. They thought motherhood would come naturally and easily. Bringing life into the world is a unique and glorious task given only to women. And when you can’t even do that, it jars you. But does it define you?

The reality is that as believers we can rest in the fact that our identity is not in our sufferings, disappointments, or losses. After our miscarriage I had to fight to believe that people didn’t see a big “M” on my chest whenever I walked into a room. We don’t bear the scarlet letter of our sufferings. While they do mark us and shape us, they do not have the final word in our life. We bear the name of Christ, who bore the most horrid scarlet letter for us so we could now be identified with him. This means that no matter what suffering we face, even as personal and deep as infertility is, our identity is not wrapped up in the trial. Because we are identified with Christ, one day we will no longer bear the scars of our suffering. What glorious news this is! Consider the words of Paul to the Philippians:

“But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him (Phil. 3:7-9a).

This verse has been on my mind ever since Sunday. Paul is saying that any good thing and any gain he could have had before he counts as trash compared to knowing Christ and being found in him. Paul’s, and our, identity is wrapped up in knowing Christ and being known by Christ. Can I say this with Paul, that every gain I could have had, even the amazing gain of having a child of my own, is loss compared to knowing Christ? Sometimes I’m there. Other times I struggle to believe it. But I must remember that the lack of a child does not define me. Christ defines me. How could Paul face suffering in such great magnitude and yet still be joyful in the Lord? How could Paul endure hardship and alienation from people he loved and not turn his back on God? At times he must have felt like the only thing that defined his life was humiliation, pain, and trials, yet he remained steadfast until the end. Why? Because knowing Christ and being identified with him far outweighed every loss he experienced.

The family of God is made up of scarred, broken, suffering people. We have lost treasured possessions and loved ones, faced dashed dreams and expectations, weathered disappointment and sorrow. But all of these realities will not have the final say in our life. Because of Christ, every earthly gain we could have received is nothing compared to what we will get one day when we see Christ face to face. We are merely pilgrims on this earth, waiting for our final home in heaven. What we face on this earth does not define us because this is not all we have to look forward to. Yes, it pains us to walk through suffering. Yes, we weep and cry out to God for mercy and relief. Yes, we grieve and mourn over loss. But one day the God who started the good work in us, and secured our identity in Christ, will bring it all to completion. And it will have all been worth it.

It is tempting to look at my suffering and believe that it makes me who I am. It is tempting to believe that I can never be anything more than a childless woman. It is tempting to believe that my infertility makes me less of a woman and of lesser value in God’s economy. And Satan wants nothing more than for me (and you) to believe those lies. Christ secured our identity before we were even formed in our mother’s womb and long before we even knew we would be infertile. He bought us with his precious blood and paid for our sin so we could be brought into his family and given a home. This is our hope when we feel the ugly lies creeping in that tell us we are not worth anything because of our faulty bodies. We have value and identity not because of our own intrinsic worth, but because of the worth of Christ. And that is what defines us. Remember this truth, dear sister, when you see another negative pregnancy test or bleak diagnosis. You are a child of God. And God gives you your identity.

Finding Your Home on Mother's Day (repost)

I wrote and posted this last Mother's Day, but I thought it might be helpful to post it again for myself and all my readers out there who feel like Mother's Day is not for them. May it encourage you today, dear sister.

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“He gives the barren woman a home, making her the joyous mother of children.” –Psalm 113:9


Barrenness and empty arms have a way of making a woman feel homeless and out of place. Whether your barrenness is due to infertility or loss of a child, Mother’s Day can make you feel like you don’t belong at church or even in your circle of friends. You may be surrounded by pregnant women, newborn babies, or families with quivers full of children, and your arms ache to be a part of the club. But you’re not. Is there a place for you in God’s house? He hasn’t yet made you the joyous mother of children, does he still have a home for you? Maybe you recently lost a child through miscarriage, stillbirth, or in infancy, or maybe you are waiting for God to open your womb. You might feel like the Psalmist in Psalm 77 who says:

“In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord; in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying; my soul refused to be comforted. When I remember God, I moan; when I meditate, my spirit faints” (Psalm 77:2-3).

In all of your pain and sorrow you desperately want God to hear your prayer and comfort you in this dark season. Mother’s Day can be a stark reminder that there is a deep longing in your soul for a baby you long to hold, either in heaven or yet to be formed. And when you cry out to the Lord it seems like he isn’t there either.

I assure you, he is. Behind the dark clouds and frowning providence of this season is a God who cares about every detail of your grief. He may never remove the suffering in this life, but there is a grace for that. There is a tender-hearted Savior for that sorrow. His entire earthly ministry was to people who were outsiders, misfits, and people who did not fit within the world’s definition of worthy and perfect. Women who can’t celebrate Mother’s Day.

This Savior is not aloof to your pain this day. He knows it and has created a home for you in his house, in his Kingdom. While your home may not include children, know that he has prepared a place for you. You belong in his Kingdom and he is there to comfort you in your affliction. If you are a mother who has lost your precious child through miscarriage, stillbirth, or some other means, or if you are in the painful throes of infertility, hear the Savior’s call to you today:

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30).

Even if you feel homeless and alone on this otherwise joyous day, know this my dear grieving sister, there is a place for you.

Thank You for the Trial

After our miscarriage a friend of mine (who had also experienced a miscarriage) relayed a conversation she had with another friend who, after reflecting back on her own pregnancy loss and infertility, was able to thank God for the suffering and the pain because of what it did in her own life. As we talked about our own trials we both commented that while it would be good and helpful to get to that realization in our own life, it was hard to see that far ahead in our own season of loss.

On April 2nd our baby should have turned one. Last year, as I approached the due date for the first time, fear was my constant companion. All I wanted to do was sleep through the day and pretend like it wasn’t happening. April 2nd looked very different for me than I hoped it would. Initially it was supposed to be our baby’s due date. After our miscarriage I at least hoped I would be pregnant again, leaving something to look forward to.

This year was much different. While I still have an empty womb, I didn’t dread April 2nd like I did last year. In fact, in a lot of ways it was a normal day for me. Daniel and I spent some time reflecting together. I was able to journal some. But sadness and darkness did not hover over us, and for that I’m grateful.

Over the last couple of years I have listened to the Come Weary Saints CD from Sovereign Grace over and over, and so many of the songs on there have ministered to my soul in some of my most discouraging days. One song in particular really hits home for me. It goes like this:

Every Day

In Your grace, You know where I walk
You know when I fall
You know all my ways
In Your love, I know You allow
What I cannot grasp
To bring You praise

Thank You for the trials
For the fire, for the pain
Thank You for the strength
Knowing You have ordained
Every day

Your great power is shown when I’m weak
You help me to see
Your love in this place
Perfect peace is filling my mind
And drawing my heart
To praise You again

In my uncertainty, Your Word is all I need
To know You’re with me every day

The first time I really listened to the words I thought to myself “that is not my heart at all!” I could not fathom how I could honestly thank God for this trial of miscarriage and subsequent infertility. I didn’t understand how it could be used for good in my life. Even though the lyrics seemed so true and right to me, I thought that my trial surely could not fit this category.

And then something amazing happened. Walking through another April 2nd, and another year of waiting, did something to my heart. I don’t know when it changed, but now I can honestly say to the Lord, “thank you for this trial, not because I like it, and not because it is good to be unable to conceive, but because through this trial I have seen your glory and your goodness in ways I never would have seen before.” Now it took nearly two years to get to this point, but I think this is what Paul is talking about in Romans 5:3-5 when he says that we “rejoice in our sufferings.” Not because they are pleasant. Not because they are easy or fun. But because it is through our suffering that trust is born, that hope is forged, that our eyes our opened to seeing God for who he is. I would not lean on the Savior in such desperate dependence if I had never faced this trial—and I know this is not the last trial I will ever face. I would not long for heaven and unending fellowship with the Savior if I had gotten everything I prayed for these last couple of years. Do I cry more now? Yes. Does life seem more serious now? Yes. Do I wish it all could have come another way? Absolutely. But do I also have more hope and joy in the Savior because of what he has done in my life? Yes, and as Romans says this will never put me to shame.

I’m sure that there will be a lot of other moments where I am not as thankful for the trial of infertility as I am right now, but I want to savor this moment and use it to prepare for the hard ones to come. If you are facing a trial today, dear Christian, and you (like I did for so long) find it difficult to be thankful or see God’s hand in it, remember this. The very fact that you struggle to remain faithful is evidence of God’s kind working in your life. Just hold on. The Christian life is not about microwavable results. It’s a slow process that often takes time, tears, and patience. God has promised to work all things together for good in our life (Romans 8:28), and while sometimes we don’t see that good for many years, you can trust that he is working a thousand merciful details behind the curtain of your pain, and one day it will be visible to you.

So if you cannot thank God for the trial today, keep plodding—even if it is a tear-stained plodding. And when you feel like you cannot hold on any longer, you can trust that our gracious God is holding on to you. And he will never let you go.

Death is Swallowed Up in Victory

This morning my husband said that if Christ has not been raised than what we are doing (gathering on a Sunday morning for worship) is a big waste of our time. If Christ didn't rise from the dead we should all just go home and enjoy a lazy Sunday afternoon, rather than rise early to be with God's people in worship. But as our other pastor so helpfully reminded us this morning, Christ did rise from the dead. He did exactly what he said he would do on that third day in the tomb. He got up, effectively conquering death once and for all.

I still remember the year that this really hit home for me. It was only two years ago. Even though I had been a believer for a number of years I had never faced an Easter where the hope of the resurrection carried so much power in my own life. My grandpa had passed away a couple of months earlier and I remember barely being able to get through "I Stand Amazed" without weeping. Prior to my grandpa's death the hope of the resurrection, while a crucial aspect of my faith in Christ, was only something I read about and talked about in general terms. This time it was real. It was my hope, that even though my grandpa died and was returning to dust, because of his trust in Christ I would see him again.

And then we lost our baby a few months later. In seven months time my understanding of the resurrection, and Jesus' conquering of death, went from paying lip service on Easter to a precious promise in dark moments of grief. If Jesus did not rise from the dead, than surely I (a grieving mom) should be most pitied. But he did rise. And the truth of his resurrection is the proof that my baby will one day rise as well. What a precious, precious promise.

As we've walked through more death, more sorrow, and more suffering in these past couple of years all that Jesus accomplished on the Cross and in his resurrection means more to me than ever. My tears, my loss, my pain, and most importantly, my sin will not have the last word in my life. Yes, Jesus overcame sin and death, but he also secured the hope of a brighter future. Colossians 1:18 says: "He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent." His resurrection is the beginning of the new creation promised to us. By trusting in him, we are trusting that one day all will be made right. And oh, what a day that will be.

As we ate with friends this afternoon, I told everyone that I really think Easter Sunday should be our greatest time of feasting. For those of us in Christ, it's a celebration. It's an expectant anticipation that what we are celebrating now is only a glimpse of the glory that will one day be revealed. And I don't know about you, but I can't wait for that day. The resurrection is the stamp of certainty that all of God's promises are true, right, and good.

"Jesus has overcome, and the grave is overwhelmed. The victory is won. Christ is risen from the dead. And I will rise when he calls my name. No more sorrow. No more pain. I will rise on eagle's wings. Before my God, fall on my knees and rise!"

He is risen. He is risen, indeed. Hallelujah!