Wanted

The room was silent except for the whir of the machine beside me.

I shifted my gaze from his face; pursed lips and eyes that stayed fixated on the screen... to my husband's furrowed brow... to the ceiling and the exam light above me that burned my eyes.

I was just over seven weeks pregnant.

The doctor slid the probe gently across my belly. Too gently. I wished he would press harder, dig deep for answers.

Please just give me an answer.

Any answer.

Please say, "Ahh, there. I found a heartbeat."

Or even "I'm sorry, I found the baby; there is no heartbeat."

But please give me an answer.

Uncomfortable as the place and the situation was, I was glad to be there.

Even the cold gel against my bare skin on a chilly February evening felt comforting somehow.

At least now we will know something. At least now I can get an answer as to what is going on.

Please search hard, doctor, sir. Please do everything you can to figure out what's happening. Why is my body emptying out when it should be growing a life?

My mind knew what was happening, but my heart wanted to keep hoping.

Because that’s what love does, it always hopes.

Please say something.

Don't come up empty...

But he did.

He blamed the machine, it was just an outdated, portable ultrasound machine. I was also just so early on in the pregnancy, he wasn't able to see anything more than the enlarged uterus.

He was gentle and kind, the type of doctor we had prayed we would encounter that afternoon. He explained things and answered questions, but he couldn't give a diagnosis, he was just there to operate the machine.

I held Joel’s hand as I lay on the bed, and we waited.

More nurses, another doctor. Blood work, explanations, pressing around on my belly, internal exam.

Please give me an answer to go on.

Somewhere down the hallway a baby cried. I thought about the baby we were so excited to meet in September. I thought about my three girls back at the condo with their grandparents. We weren't even in our hometown, we were on vacation. Not only that, it was Family Day.

No one plans or expects to lose a family member on Family Day.

Were we really losing the baby today?

Somewhere in the blur of words and procedures I heard the doctor speak the phrase, "...if this was a wanted pregnancy..." And I don't remember a single word after that.

If it was a wanted pregnancy?

Oh, sir. If you only knew just how wanted.

Stop.

Baby, I want you to know right here and right now: you are wanted. You are loved.

So wanted.

So loved.

They sent us back to our condo, encouraged us to pack up and drive the two and a half hours home that night, in case things were to get worse. They couldn't say for sure it was a miscarriage, although they said it seemed likely. They couldn't say for sure that it wasn't an ectopic pregnancy, although they seemed to have ruled it out. They couldn't do any more for us in this town than they'd already done so they recommended we go back to the bigger city where we could get more help, should I need it. So we did; we packed up and went home that night.

I tried to process what was happening.

Was I really losing the baby?

Was this a miscarriage?

Miscarriage.

Stupid word.

How could it be that one. word. could so effortlessly describe everything that I'd just heard, experienced, seen that day? How was it that that one simple word could waltz right into my life, unannounced, becoming an easy label for people to use to describe all of the pain in my heart and the dashing of hopes and dreams and plans?

I'd seen blood on the bathroom floor.

I'd watched my body empty out and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. The feelings were similar to the night that earthquake shook our house; I was helpless and powerless against a force greater than my own will and intentions. I just watched this thing happen to my body, I prayed and I tried to keep on hoping that what was happening was not what seemed to be happening.

And then everything was still. The pain stopped. I soon felt almost… normal. Too normal.
If that was a miscarriage, part of me wanted it to be worse. To give my mind time to wrap around it all. But it happened so fast it didn’t even have time to sink in before it was done.

Worse, because you were more than just a word, more than a medical term like, “miscarriage”. You were a life, and if you were being lost I wanted to feel that loss in every way.

Part of me kept hoping for the best. The rest of me just waited in the silence of the next few days.

But those days went by and it became clear. My hCG levels, those numbers that showed how much of the pregnancy hormone existed in my body, were tested again 48 hours after they had been taken at that little Emergency Clinic on Family Day, and the results came back showing a dramatically lower number. My midwife called me personally to give me the news, along with her condolences. Joel held my hand as he sat beside me, he could hear enough on the other side of the phone to know what she was saying.

That emptying out that I’d borne witness to? That was my body saying goodbye and letting go.

It happened so fast, I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye and let go.

It was over. Just like that.

That was not the answer I wanted, but it was an answer. At least now I had an answer.

I could stop hoping now.

But wait.

No.

I will not lose hope. I will not let go of hope.

I am disappointed. I am sad, and I grieve the loss of my child.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I had rubbed my already-growing belly and smiled?

I loved carrying you around inside.

You were wanted. So wanted. So loved.

I would like to name you Ava. I always liked that name. Your daddy and I thought maybe you were a boy, because you already have three sisters, but we never got to find out. Your tiny body had not yet formed into what you would’ve been here on earth. But now I would like to name you Ava, because Ava means desired. I don’t want anyone to ever think you were not wanted, and I want everyone to know what a blessing your short life was to your mama. I wanted you so very much. You should have seen the way I smiled and laughed and ran to show Daddy when I saw the lines form on that pregnancy test. September seemed like the absolute most perfect month to welcome you into our arms; into our home; into our family. You were due on the second day of Fall, my favorite season.

But Jesus wanted you more. You belong there, with Him. Dancing on those golden streets, endlessly praising Him and never shedding a single tear. I know you love to dance, because I know your sisters and I know your Daddy, and they are forever dancing to one song or another in the Family Room after dinner is done and while I clean up the kitchen. I know you are beautiful. Heavenly. I cannot wait to meet you one day.

Ava also means alive. I know, my child, that you are not gone. You are more alive than ever now.

Seven weeks is young, very young, but not worthless. You were so alive, even then. The knowledge of your presence inside me filled us with such joy, and the dreaming of all you could become gave us so much to look forward to. We loved you then, when you grew inside me... and we love you now; now that you are made whole and alive with Jesus. We know we will see you some day.

Ava also means voice, song, sound. Your life is a song to me. A song of a living hope. Through the growing and the losing of you I am reminded of the hope that I have that remains unshakeable throughout any and every storm that comes my way. Your life and your passing is drawing me closer to the One who created your soul and mine. My perspective of Heaven has changed too, becoming a little brighter, dearer, and a little more real. I know I am held by Jesus as I grieve your loss, and I know you are held by Him and finally whole. He is our living hope, the One who conquered death and therefore fills us with joy even in the face of it. Jesus is the One who heals, gives grace to walk through our trials, and fills us with HOPE in situations that seem, to the soul that doesn’t know Him, hopeless.

Could it be that your sweet song, my dear, will also draw others to the hope we have? It may be that there are those reading this story of ours who have lost much, but do not have this hope in Jesus. What a joy it would be if by writing out my heart here, my baby and I could together be a voice; pointing other broken ones to the Saviour who gives indescribable peace, hope, and healing to all who ask.

So I will not lose hope.

I got my answer, and it was not the answer I wanted.

I want to be pregnant right now. I want to believe the notification that popped up on my phone screen this morning, because I forgot to turn off the app after you passed; I want to believe you are nine weeks today and the size of a grape… eyes and nose and earlobes and gums, even tiny teeth inside those gums, all forming at rapid pace. I wanted to go to that first midwife appointment this coming Monday, maybe hear your heartbeat and grin from ear-to-ear. I wanted to see you on that ultrasounds screen next week, and I wanted finally announce to the world that you were on the way; I couldn't wait to finally post those pictures I took of your sisters on my bed one afternoon, holding the shoes that were meant for you to wear one day. 

I wanted to go buy little matching Big Sister shirts for your twin sissies. I wanted to video your 2-year-old sister talking about the baby in mommy’s tummy, and how she would wrap it and hold it and take care of it when it came out. I didn’t want to have to explain to her in a very simple, toddler-appropriate way that the baby isn’t there anymore. I wanted to keep researching quadruple strollers online, and toddler car seats that would be narrow enough to fit 3 along the back bench of our minivan for your sisters leaving room for your infant seat up front. I wanted to labour and birth you into this world and feel your skin against my own and let the whole world stand still as I soaked in all the glory of a fresh, new, beautiful newborn life that I got the priviledge to cherish and love and raise up for the Lord. I wanted to know you. 
Baby, I wanted you.

But Jesus wanted you more.

And Jesus fills me with hope that even this answer, although fiercely unwanted, is okay. He chose this answer for me, He chose this answer for you, and He never, ever chooses wrong.

This is me saying goodbye and letting go.

I’m giving you back to Jesus, Baby. You, and all the dreams I had for us. I’m giving them to Him. You, my precious Ava Hope, have strengthened my heart in ways that only a blending of grief and hope and love and Jesus can do. You are valuable, and there will never be another you.

There are those who do not realize what a gift life is. There are those who think seven weeks is too young, who think a seven-week-old life is not valuable. They are wrong, my dear, as we know. Every life is valuable.
You will forever be valuable and treasured in my heart.

Live on, sweet baby.

When God is Good

{This piece was begun in December, and slowly... sporadically... I keep coming back to it; adding a bit more here, changing a bit there. Tossing words around, knowing that words cannot always clearly convey that which weighs deeply in a heart. This is such a learning process for me, this Trusting-God-In-Everything thing, and though I am choosing to share this (finally!) completed thought with you, please know that I know I do not have a complete understanding of His way in brokenness.... I am only beginning to grasp the beauty of it, and slowly... sporadically... moving one foot out to stand on bare and complete trust. Pray for me in this? He is good. He knows how to best teach each one of His children. Thank you for graciousness as I pour out my heart a bit...}



God is good -and we know it- when a father stands before the assembly Sunday morning and praises Him for His love and mercy in the healing of his only daughter.

We can't help but rejoice in the goodness and grace that overflows from our Father's heart when before our eyes she stands-

{this young woman whose body had been racked with seizures multiple times a day for the past two years... who had at one point lost the ability to eat or drink anything beyond a teaspoon of water a day for weeks... whose right eye had turned inward and refused to return it's normal, natural position}

-and verbally lifts His name high, praising Him for it all;
for the work He has done in her through it,

...and every wretched symptom is gone.

We know -in moments like these- that God is good and that His mercy endures forever.
We know without a doubt.

And God is still good when, sitting on that Central American porch in the evening light -with tears running down my cheeks-  I am told that the little girl I held and played with all afternoon really isn't loved by many in this world and does have HIV which, they say, causes AIDS and "... damages or destroys the cells of the immune system, leaving [her] unable to fight infections and certain cancers..."

God is still good.

We giggled and shot photos together... we got our fingernails painted yellow together... and decorated ourselves with Christmas stickers. She went from silent and expressionless to bouncy, chattering and full of smiles right before my eyes.

She is an orphan.

Her smile left her face again when we left her there on that sidewalk two hours later. My heart ripped when our truck pulled through those gates that shut her in and we drove away.

Even then when I stand helpless to fight the injustice, even there where children fall asleep every night without hugs and kisses and prayers; God is still good. And He is still on His throne...

...loving and creating and blessing and beautifying 

and showing Himself strong
on behalf of those who fear Him.

It's just that... that.... well, it's in these moments I have a harder time knowing that God is good.



In the middle of the dirt path that stretches through a little Honduran village held captive by witchcraft and VooDoo, I reach down and pick up a small piece of broken ceramic.
Visible evidence of the state of so many lives here.

Broken.

It's here that I watch the tears roll down the beautiful face of a young women as she remembers her husband who only recently left her and her five children to go and be with Jesus.
They suspect he was murdered for his faith.

This village... it is so dark.

She is my sister because we have the same Father. Her name is Dominga. It means "Belonging to God"... and any one who sees her knows that she does. In her I see this beautiful truth coming to life:

He tends his flock like a shepherd:
   He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart; 

 He gently leads those that have young.
 

And in the midst of all the brokenness of this place I see that -indeed-
God is still as good in this place as in any other.


I grasp to know... to truly believe and trust and live out in situations like these... that  
God. Is. Good.
Truly good and kind and wise.
Always.

{Why do we... why do I... always demand proof before I will believe?}

O me of little faith.



And then.....
I got a  text last week that broke my heart like few things do because it hit very close to home.
A dear friend just had her engagement called off.
My first silent question? 

"WHY?!!"

Why, God?? Why her? Why now? Why this.... Oh Jesus, why this??

And the Lord- ever so gently- took my mind that morning back to the simple truth.  

He is good.

Even when things get broken.

{Even when things get broken.}

Days go by... and then silently, with the dawning of the new year, as I am still pondering all these things, the following words float gently into my inbox.... a message from God to me for right now, written by one who also knows brokenness;

"....‘koinonia,’ it means sharing. Sharing — breaking of oneself
and giving oneself away.
We only have what we hand away.

It means sharing out of brokenness to bring healing to community.
We only are broken and this is beautiful: in brokenness,
we are instruments in the hands of the Wounded Healer.

It means in our brokenness, we share in the sufferings of Christ, and this is communion.
God, He calls His people to share –  not out out any sense of perfection –  but out of brokenness, patterning life after the God who broke Himself and gave..."

(Ah! I am beginning to catch on now!)

 ...and it all make sense, this brokenness.
There is a perfect meaning and beuatiful purpose in all of it. 
Brokenness is how He chooses to grow His Body. It's how He chooses to heal. It's how He chooses to purify His Bride. It's how He forms us into His perfect image.


He was broken. He chose brokenness. That captures my heart.

He is good.
He is always good.

Even when things get broken.

Thank you, Jesus.

Run-On Sentences

Sometimes in the stories of our lives there are run-on sentences that exhaust our vocabulary and squeeze the last breaths out of us and steal every last drop from our reserve of energy and strength to go on, throwing us reeling and screaming and aching and gasping and grasping and questioning and bleeding right over the edge into the unknown, and we feel like we've reached the end of all the beauty this story will ever hold and no one- NO.ONE- can explain how or why or when or anything about anything because we all seem to thrive on short-and-sweet; quips, quotes, one-liners, rhymes and reasons; and that makes for confusion when we find ourselves in run-on-sentence-seasons, but really and truly those are the times when we are faced with the best and greatest opportunities to stop and close our lips and be still and trust and KNOW that HE is God and He has got every run-on sentence and every word and line and phrase of these stories of our lives under absolute control.

Hope Containers

Sometimes dreams fall apart.


Sometimes our very favorite dreams burst at the seams and spill our plans onto the floor.
Making a humiliating mess.


Sometimes our dreams break under the pressure and intense heat of reality and our hope leaks out.
Drains to empty.
Only a puddle remains of what once delighted.


My favorite mug gave way last week and split open
-cracked right down the side-
as I poured boiling water over the tea bag.
Tea leaked out onto the stove. Onto the floor.
The cup drained to empty.
Sounded hollow.


I looked at the puddle- the mess- and I looked at the crack down the side.
I thought of my life and my dreams,
and the uncertainties that even now are staring me in the face,
And I thought, Hmm. This seems only fitting.


I leak.


Hope drains.


Where does hope go when dreams shatter?

Where does hope go when its container busts?

Tea on the floor in a puddle,

and slowly...slowly... I am beginning to realize...

Dreams. What are they?

What are dreams anyway? Are they anything more than vapors? Intense desires? Figments of imaginations?

Are dreams strong? Do they last? Are dreams really capable of supporting the weight and the volume of hope?

Were dreams really meant to be hope containers?

There are hopes.... and then there’s hope.

There are things we hoped to do, hoped  to be, hoped to see happen-

things we planned on, made plans for, centered plans around-

Things we established dreams upon....
These are hopes.

And then there’s hope.
What keeps us breathing,
What keeps us alive,
What makes life worth living.

Hopes can die and I can be wounded, but I can go on and live.
HOPE dies, and I find no purpose in life without it.


Hope Containers determine life.


Thoughts swirl in my mind. I am captivated by that crack in my mug and the resemblance it holds to my dreams.
Breaking.


“You are God my Savior...” I read the psalm of another’s pulsing, breaking heart.
“...and my hope is in You all day long.”


My hope is in You.


My hope.


In You.


Dreams give way. They just do.
If hope has been in the dream, when it breaks, the hope leaks out to the floor.
Leaves the dreamer empty.
Creates a mess.
Evaporates.


Maybe dreams were never meant to be hope containers.

“My hope is in You.”


Maybe... just maybe... (my thoughts swirl).


My broken mug won’t hold tea ever again.


Maybe I have been wrong all this time. Maybe I am suddenly seeing things more clearly than ever before.
Looking through the crack.


(Somehow brokenness makes way for clarity.)


Jesus Christ.
He never changes. Never gives way. He is “the same yesterday, today and forever.”
The Solid Rock.
Quite capable of supporting the weight and the volume of hope.

“His love endures forever.”


Not only is He quite capable of containing hope securely-
Not only is He strong enough; not only that-

He is so entirely full of love-
(The epitome of love... Love Embodied)
That we can know that He holds our hope precious. Holds it close.
Won’t bust open and let our hope drain.
Too much love for that.


Dreams can crack and shatter. Hopes can be destroyed.
The very foundations of our worlds can quake and crumble and throw us so off course that we can’t tell up from down. And people can hurt us.
People can hurt and disappoint us, fail us, forget us, turn and betray us, frustrate us, and crush us.
Happenings of life can pierce our hearts right to the deepest most sensitive part
And then turn
Twisting the dagger- deeper, deeper...
Weakening, dizzying, excruciating, blinding pain.
Circumstances can crush, bruise, break, wound;
Scare us right out of our skin-
Leave us confused and bleeding.


All these things and more can happen. Have happened. Will happen.
Because we live in a broken, beat-up, crazy world.


But if my HOPE is in Him

-In Him-

If He holds it, nurtures it, contains it safely-
Then even when everything falls… and my heart breaks... and my dreams fail me... and hopes die...
I won’t lose Hope. It will still be there. Unharmed. Unshaken. Immovable.


Because of the unchangeableness of who He is.
Hope remains.

I could choose to place my hope in dreams,
In people,
In places,
In things,
In feelings,
In experiences,
In words,
In songs,
In beliefs,
In ideas- preconceived or well-rounded, firmly established.
I could choose to place my hope in any of these containers, but when they give way
(and they will give way; all containers in this broken, beat-up world eventually do)-
When they give way hope will leak out and leave me....


...Hopeless.


And I can’t live without hope.
I can’t go on breathing as a hopeless person.

A broken mug, now completely useless for containing liquid, reminds me of hope containers.

Makes me look into my heart and ask the question:

Where is my hope?

Is my hope in Him? Is He my Hope Container?

Inasmuch as HE is my Hope Container, I can say with all confidence
“As for me, I will ALWAYS have hope; I will praise You more and more.” (Psalm 71:14 NIV, emphasis added).


Even when dreams fall apart; crumble; break my heart...
Even when I can’t understand; can’t tell up from down; don’t know what to do....
Even when my heart bleeds and throbs in pain; when I leak; when tears seep out and slide down into my lap right alongside my dreams and hopes and plans...
Even when my heart goes numb; pain no longer draws a response; the world seems cruel, silent, indifferent...
Even THEN.
Even THERE.
WHEREVER I may be-
If my hope is in Him, Him alone- no other container- I will always have hope.


Always.


And the funny, beautiful thing is,
Even that broken “useless” mug now has a new purpose-

It arrests my eyes, takes my thoughts captive, reminds me to ask my heart,
Were is my hope today?



And I think about hope containers. 

“May the God of HOPE fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him,

so that you may OVERFLOW with HOPE by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

Romans 15:13