This week, I attended the inaugural writing workshop of the Frederick Buechner Center at Princeton University. I was excited to re-connect with pastoral colleagues and hear one of my preaching sheros, Barbara Brown Taylor talk about writing.
During the Q&A time of Taylor’s last morning lecture on telling the truth in writing (great topic, right?), she responded to a question from the audience.
She talked about how nervous this speaking engagement made her: “Really the first Buechner lectures? No pressure, really? . . . Well, I did it. And, now and I’m so glad it’s over.”
You should have seen the huge grins that filled the faces in the pews.
We knew she didn’t have to say this. She was Barbara Brown Taylor after all! We hung on her eloquent sentences and well-coordinated hand gestures.
But, BBT felt anxiety about speaking at Princeton?
But, you and I live in a world of gaps where super human labels are the norm.
Teacher, student.
Mentor, mentee.
Parent, child.
We get stuck in these places, these roles.
We allow ravines to divide us and fill the gap with expectations, convention and keeping everything nicely polished on LinkedIn.
We fill the gap with tears wiped away too soon while proclaiming, “I wouldn’t want to scare her.”
We fill the gap with reliance on being “all-knowing” so that our grown-up card isn’t suddenly yanked.
And we let our shiniest parts be known.
Our degrees.
Our clean houses.
Our biggest accomplishments at work.
We put away our insecurities, our fears and our deepest complexities in the attic, next to that Christmas decoration box we only get down once a year.
(And leaping the into the vulnerability ravine).
On Wednesday at lunch, I sat with a pastoral colleague, woman who was becoming a new friend. Our stories of child loss rose to the surface. We both knew a God who did not heal, who made us angry, and whose “perfect plans” felt unfair at the deepest levels.
We both cried for the gut-wrenching loss that feels so invisible to most and what it means to live in a world that doesn’t acknowledge our way of mothering.
Later, my friend said, “Thank you for sharing your pain with me. You don’t know how good it was to know someone who has felt all of those things too.”
I took a deep breath in thanksgiving of how the gap closed so quickly from a stranger to a friend. Our willingness to risk talking about our “ugly” brought us this gift.
Not everyone has ears to hear the ugly. Not every audience is open enough to receive our fears.
But what gaps can be closed among us when we don’t try to be so perfect!
It's the week of Mother's Day. And it's that time of year that the church struggles to know what to do with women who aren't mothers in the traditional sense.
Pastors muse about, "Who gets a rose and who doesn't?"
The church ladies are known to whisper: "What should we do since ___ doesn't have kids?"
And, women without children can't imagine feeling safe in worship services.
I recently did this interview over at Amateur Nester's blog with two other pastors about expanding the conversation between infertility and the church. I wanted to share it again here because I think these words might be helpful to all of us struggling to be more sensitive to those who find this Sunday to be a very hard day. If you'd like to see the full post, you can read it over here.
EH: I [struggled] too. You are not alone. To live in a very fertile world and to have the desire to parent (which is a natural God-given desire) and then not be able to without a road of intense hardship is difficult. It is very easy to feel like God has abandoned you or forgot you. Or loves your pregnant friends more than you.
Don’t beat yourself up about these feelings. Be honest about them. Share your faith struggles with somebody who can handle them (and not everybody can!). Stay close to people who are dealing with pain, especially older women. Let them be your teachers even if they have never been through infertility or child loss themselves. Talk about suffering with them. Read the book of Job, even together. Let God be with you in the pain to the degree that this is possible for you. For, this will be your way out.
EH: Stay at home. Do something makes you feel good about yourself.
Last Mother’s Day, I was in between churches so I didn’t have to attend. Instead of going to services, I went to a class at the gym, ate lunch with a good friend and then took myself shopping for a Mother’s Day gift.
EH: When people ask me why I don’t have children, I tell them. Or in small groups of women if this is something that comes up, I share. But if they don’t, this isn’t something I keep to myself. If I’m a crying mess about my own heartbreak, I’m not doing my job as a pastor which is to shepherd and lead others.
I don’t believe it is the role of a pastor to “throw up” their struggles on the congregation. Rather, this is what counselors, friends and family members are for. In being a pastor that doesn’t share the ins-and-outs of my infertility with the congregations I’ve served, it has given me an outlet to remember that I’m not as much of a failure as my body makes me feel.
This does not mean that my own struggles with infertility and child loss have not enriched and informed my own preaching and teaching. For example, over the years, I’ve preached during Advent while going through IVF. I’ve lead a baby funeral after just having my own miscarriage. I’ve even preached on Easter when I was convinced God didn’t love me. These experiences have helped me be more in tune with where most people in the church are at one point or another: unsure of God’s presence and fighting to have some kind of faith. I believe my struggles with infertility have benefited my congregations, even if they didn’t know the specific reason.
EH: The church can stop saying stupid stuff like, “Everything happens for a reason” or “If you just pray harder. . . “ or “In God’s time . . .” These clichés are of no help to infertile women, or anyone going through a time of intense suffering for that matter.
Pastors need to do a better job of creating a climate of authenticity in church life. I mean, everybody is going through something. It could be infertility. It could be something loss of a loved one. It could be anything. We need to be able to talk to each other and abide with each other through the good times and the bad. Pastors set the tone for this kind of communal life.
EH: The resources I have to share deal with a theology of suffering.
One of my favorite books on this topic is Learning to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor. She has a lot of powerful things to say about how the “dark” times of life aren’t necessarily bad or full of God’s judgment on us, but rather an opportunity to more fully understand who God is!
I’m also a fan of Richard Lischer’s book, Stations of the Heart. Dr. Lischer was one of my professors in seminary and lost his son to cancer while his wife was pregnant with her first child. It’s one of the most real books I’ve ever read on grief and the forms it takes.
And Anne Lamott’s book, Stitches: A Handbook of Meaning, Hope and Repair is one of the best books I’ve read about what it means to walk with another person through suffering. Anne Lamott simply tells it like it is!
Few of us intentionally set out to hurt those we love.
But we do.
Angry words come out of our mouths.
Jokes that seem funny to us, offend.
We forget birthdays.
But even worse than this, often our exclamations of joy can rub deeper wounds into a loved one's pain.
I know I've been guilty of such.
But, the clash of pain and joy is not something you learn about early in life.
From where I sit, I believe, it's often a lesson that tackles us in our 20s and 30s when age no longer equals simultaneous activity with our peers. College, relationships, birthing, etc all come (or not) at a unique pace.
My first hint of this lesson came when I visited a mentor's house while home on a college break.
My friend suffered from depression (though I didn't have any idea what this meant back then) and toxic friendships. She really needed a friend to sit and hear her pain. It had been a tough week.
But she was my mentor, so I wanted to tell her my stories before any of that.
So, I charged right in.
I pulled out a photo album I'd put together and started showing her what I'd been up to. Pages after pages of posed pictures and happy faces. I was so proud of the new college friends I'd made.
But I could tell as we neared the end of my "show and tell" hour that sadness found its way to her face. Though I didn't have the courage to tell her what I noticed, the truth was this: my joy rubbed against her pain.
*******
A year ago, I sat with another friend, a peer who was visiting my home for the first time.
I was so excited that she'd come to visit that I was eager to share all those things you can only see when you are in a person's home. I gave a tour, especially of our new basement remodel. I showed her the framed pictures in my office. Hours later I pulled out old pictures from the upstairs bookshelf including my wedding album. On auto pilot, I told her the stories.
But again, the same thing happened.
As much as my friend tried to engage what I told her about the happy day in Southern Georgia when I became a Hagan, by the last couple of pages she was done. My friend loved me, but she was single. She didn't want to see any more pictures of me in a white dress.
Whereas my wedding album told a story of a fulfilling union for me, my wedding album to her said, "You're alone."
My joy rubbed up against her pain.
*******
I've been on the other side of this conflict too.
Friends have gone on and about their babies, and then sent more emails about baby #2 and #5.
My Facebook feed is full of ultrasound pictures (even some in 4D!)
And invitations to baby showers fill the mailbox.
It's joy rubbing up against my pain. It's a stomach sinking, crappy feeling that I am learning how to endure.
Because at this juncture of the Hagan household, children in the home is not something we can have (though we want).
Every time I hear stories after stories of pregnancy and "the cutest thing" my child said today from a well-meaning friend, I want to be happy and supportive. Yet, my heart aches.
But, I believe in community. I believe in sharing in the joy and pain other's lives. My faith gives me this desire.
Is there a way to be better and ask others to be better in return?
There many not be easy answers. If any answers at all.
Our world is full of both joy and pain.
All I know is this: "I'm sorry" and "How can I be a good friend to you? with a spoon full of self-awareness is a good start.
Jesus said: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid.” John 14: 27
I have waited with many who are waiting to have children. Often this path is not full of peace.
My daughter found the pathway to peace to be a difficult one. As they were thinking about a second child after having the first one through an IVF procedure, she asked, “Am I being selfish in pursuing this a second time? Am I trying to play God?”
God gave her peace when God spoke to her heart that in whatever direction they took, God was still in control, and that her desire to pursue God’s will was enough. They had a second child, a beautiful boy.
After this IVF procedure they froze two embryos, so having a third procedure was not a hard decision for them. They were open to having more children. But, then they miscarried.
My daughter found herself asking, “Why?” Finally, realizing that her question would most likely not be answered, she asked God to give her peace with the two sons He had given to her. She says that “there came a day when God revealed to me that these two were all I needed, and I was okay. Since then, I have realized that I need to simply pursue God more than pursuing anything else, and that is enough.”
Peace, as the world defines it, comes when life is in the order you want it to be -- enough money, the right family, the right place to live, on and on, and so peace, when it seems to come, is only fleeting and shallow because life is always changing. The world’s peace does not last.
But as I see it, the “the peace of God that transcends all understanding” can only come from knowing that we are secure in our Father’s hands, that God knows what God is doing with our lives even when we don’t have a clue, and that loving us and transforming us into looking like Jesus IS Jesus’ way. “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to humankind on whom His favor rests,” the angels say to the shepherds.
With my daughter, like so many of us who are waiting this Advent, peace is something we learn.
When life is exploding around me, I have to purpose to remember that God loves me and peace will come as I receive. When I am covered up in insecurity and fear, I am to remember that I am God’s treasured possession and that God will not let go of me and peace will come. When I am degrading myself, I need to learn to receive His words over me that I am the “apple of His eye” and peace will come.
One who is learning God’s peace doesn’t have an anaesthetized look, where she is bleary eyed or in denial of the rigor of life, but one who can have a holy boldness to go on (even when she is shaking within), knowing that “our momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4: 17, 18 NIV) In essence, peace comes through relationship.
Israel only had peace from staying in relationship with Almighty God. When they strayed from the relationship, war came, captivity came, and darkness invaded their souls. Ironically, Jesus came during the time of “Pax Romana,” a forced military peace imposed by the Roman Empire, but their forced peace only rendered moral decay, confusion, and frantic searching. Jesus came and brought the peace that the world could not give, the peace that comes only through being in a vital and vibrant relationship with Him. When the angel came to Mary and told her she would become pregnant through the Holy Spirit, she said, “How can this be?” When told, “Nothing is impossible with God,” she proclaimed, “I am the LORD’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.” God’s peace gave her the strength to be the mother of the Son of God!
Our exhortation is to be like Mary saying, “May it be to me as You have said, LORD?” and as we do, as we obey, as we seek relationship with Him, peace will come.
Let us pray:
I want to stay focused on You, Jesus, not on all of those things that deprive me of the peace that You have to give to me. Jesus, show me again and again that You are enough, and that in You, “SHALOM” will come. Amen.
Fourth Sunday of Advent
There was also a prophet, Anna, the daughter of Penuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was very old; she had lived with her husband seven years after her marriage, and then was a widow until she was eighty-four. She never left the temple but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying. Coming up to them at that very moment, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem. Luke 2: 36-38
These last five years, my prayers have often included these words over and over again: “How long O Lord? How long will you keep us childless?”
There’s not a lot of peace in this. Asking for the same thing over and over. Being stuck.
I’ve heard from a lot of couples dealing with infertility the feeling of being “stuck” in an endless process without a lot of hope, and it is frustrating beyond words. It is so easy to feel perpetually impatient.
Our culture helps us learn this kind of impatience. If we want something, we are told to make it happen now. If we don’t get what we want, we are told to try harder or take another route. If we want babies and can’t have them, there’s a specialized field of medicine for this. There are adoption agencies ready to receive our applications.
But sometimes even when we do all the right things and open ourselves up to all the kinds of possibilities that the Spirit could move forth in our life, we still find ourselves with empty hands waiting.
On my own waiting journey, Simeon and Anna have become two of my waiting heroes. Night and day both of these seniors devoted themselves to prayer and waiting for Jesus to arrive in the temple. They waited and waited. And they waited some more.
Scripture tells us that Anna was 84, a widow for many years. Her entire purpose after her husband died was to be on this waiting journey—to be that prophetic voice that spoke the truth about baby Jesus who was yet to be born.
And then one day Jesus arrived at the temple with Mary and Joseph. Anna knew immediately who Jesus was and blessed him in a way only someone who had been waiting for years and years could offer. She spoke truth. Jesus was God’s Son. Jesus would be the one who redeemed Israel. Jesus was God with us.
Though a vocation of waiting is not something I would have chosen (and I wonder if Simeon and Anna would have chosen it either?), I have come to realize that the longer I wait, the more peace-filled my waiting becomes.
Of course there are days when I still want to throw complaints up to the heavens of “Why me?” But more often now, contentment lives in me where dread used to be. This doesn’t mean that I’ve given up on my calling to motherhood either. I know I will be a mother to some little person sometime in my future.
But in the meantime my path is filled with meaningful work, and I wait. I find peace along the way. Who I am right now is ok. What I am doing right now is good. When children come into our home, we’ll be ready. Where the next step of our journey will take us, I do not know. How our waiting will come to an end, only God knows.
Deep peace. Deep peace of Christ to you as you wait on this day.
Let us pray:
God who waits with us, help us have the strength this day to wait with you. Help us to wait with the big unknown questions of our lives. Help us to wait when we see others so easily having what we want. Help us to find your gift of peace along our own journey of waiting. Amen.
[If you missed Beth's post on a "Love That Groans" check it out here.]
You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace;
And the mountains and hills will burst into song before you,
And all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Isaiah 55: 12
But the angel of the LORD said to them, ‘Do not be afraid;
I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Luke 2:10
Though coming from different points in the Biblical story, both of these passages have a common theme -- joy will come. For the people of Israel in captivity, joy would come at some point. For the shepherds on that hillside that night stunned by a “Heavenly Host,” great joy would come to all people. For the disciples in the upper room in Jerusalem after Jesus had ascended, praying and very likely living in fear and obeying Jesus’ command to not leave Jerusalem but to “wait for the gift my Father promised,” joy was to come later. The operative word for me in all of these passages is “will”. Joy will come!
But what about joy in the midst of the pain of waiting? Waiting doesn’t seem to solicit an inner attitude of joy, at least not naturally, especially during those difficult seasons of our lives, including the season of waiting for children.
It is so easy to become obsessed by what we want and for it to dominate most of our brain power. Easily, we “tune out” the rest of the world and “tune in” only to ourselves. Our obsession with what we want can turn into a road toward despair, and joy becomes illusive.
Joy was illusive for my daughter when she and her husband were trying to have children and nothing was working. She wanted a clear-cut answer from God on what direction to take, and even found herself saying to the Lord, “If I’m not meant to have kids at all, please take this desire away from me.” She didn’t know how to let go of her desire because of its strength within her. She found moments of joy in the classroom where she taught elementary children but was very troubled with God’s apparent silence in what they should do.
I have a beautiful calligraphic design on a plague that hangs in my living room. At first site, it looks like a pretty design, but with a lingering look the design reveals the word-“JOY”. Sometimes we have to look for joy in our most vulnerable moments. It is an intentional choice, a choice that says nothing has the right to steal my joy, and that my want for something better can actually rob me of what is right there in front of my face that will bring me that illusive joy for which I am looking. Psalm 34:7 says, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” We forget the first part of that verse -- to delight in the Lord and concentrate on what God will give to us, and in doing so, we forget what is most important -- to find joy in the LORD.
Finally, my daughter and son-in-law reached a point where they said, “Let’s just try this idea of IVF,” not knowing whether it was right or wrong. The decision brought relief. A form of joy came in making the decision and trusting that, right or wrong, God would be reveled in the process. In essence, joy came when trust came, and trust involves a letting go and trusting that God will reveal Jesus to us. There is great joy in pursuing God with no other agenda other than to know Jesus.
Jesus had so much confidence in the Father’s love for Him that Hebrews 12: 2 says, “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider Him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” It’s the ONLY way I know to have joy in the midst of waiting -- to fix our eyes where they belong, to trust and delight in Jesus, to remain in Jesus’ love, and to not miss what He has for us in that day. Joy is Jesus’ gift to us, and it is His command to learn contentment in any and every situation.
Let us pray:
I have to admit, LORD, I have to learn contentment in any and every situation, especially when I do not know which way to turn and there is only confusion. I want my desire for You to be stronger than my desire for what I want. So here and now, help me to surrender to You, and to desire You before all other things. Your Son surrendered Himself to Your will and Your way; help me to do the same.
[If you missed Elizabeth's post on "Love That Groans" check it out]
Nehemiah said, “Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared. This day is holy to our Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10
For a woman expecting but not yet expecting a baby, Advent can be a miserable time.
While songs of “peace on earth, goodwill to men” and “joy the world, the Lord has come!” are being blasted on the radio, this time for the wait-ers among us can often feel more like Holy Week than it does Advent.
But it is the holiday season, and most of us want to be happy. We want to be able to put whatever is bothering us aside and rejoice as the scripture exhorts us too. We want joy—even as much as our life circumstances aren’t naturally joyful.
I would love to offer that joy is a formula that can be followed as many preachers offer: Jesus first, Others second, and Yourself last. I’d love to suggest that joy is an emotion of the will that we can just pray harder to make happen. Or, if we force ourselves to sing one more Christmas carol or bake one more sheet of cookies, the joy of the Christmas spirit will find us.
Maybe you’re better at joy than I, but it has been my experience that seeking joy in the midst of waiting for children does not come through formulas and cookies. Throughout my journey to become a mother, I’ve waited through some of the darkest days of my life.
I’ve had to cry until I’ve run out of tears.
I’ve had to sit among the rocks and dirt in my backyard.
I’ve had to pull myself out of bed, brush my teeth and go to work without clean socks.
And this is all I’ve done and then repeated. I needed to attend to my own grief. There was just no other way to get through the day.
And slowly my spirit began to move just a little. It moved toward hope—that the next day would be brighter than the one before. It moved toward love—that someone needed me to notice their pain so getting out of bed was, in fact, a really great idea. And finally it moved toward joy—that though sorrow lasts for the night, in the morning joy comes.
Light came forth from the darkness. And this light was called joy.
And every time it happened—joy happened— it has surprised me. Every time over these past five years when I’ve found a smile on my face (when I had every reason to keep crying), when I’ve found a desire to make dinner (not just have take-out for the 10th time), and when I’ve called my doctor and said “Let’s try again” (when I could have easily given up), joy has become one of waiting’s greatest gifts.
Joy, I believe, is completely nonsensical.
How could a grieving mother-to-be like me smile on a week when her doctor gives her some worst-case scenario news?
How could a grieving mother-to-be like me laugh when a toddler dances around the church parlor, a little one the same age as a child who could have been my own?
How could a grieving mother-to-be like me delight in a childless season of life, even when what she wants more than anything is to mother one particular child?
I’ve done these very things, and it’s joy, I tell you. Pure joy.
Joy, as we discover it in our waiting seasons reminds us of this: we can be happy even in imperfection. We don’t need a “due date” for the work of our callings to be in motion. Jesus brings us true joy. The kingdom of God may not be in its day of fulfillment in our lives, but joy is still ours for the taking as we wait.
Let us pray:
Lord Jesus, today we wait on joy. We wait for its movement to come into our lives to fill up the loneliness, the heartache and the disappointments that loom around us and in us. We wait today for your coming. Amen.
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:4-7
I have personally experienced Advent waiting and Advent rejoicing in a direct and obvious way. My first pregnancy occurred my last year of seminary, as I awaited a call, graduation and the birth of a healthy, wanted baby in February. My second pregnancy also extended through the Advent season, though it ended earlier, December 27, also with a healthy baby. My third time around, the baby came in late November, right on time. Advent that year involved less literal and spiritual waiting in favor of more mundane concerns---waiting for the baby to learn to breastfeed, waiting for him to sleep longer than three hours at a time.
It would be easy to write about the joy of those three events, and I do not minimize their beauty in the slightest. But I've seen too much, witnessed too much, in ten years of ministry, to leave it there.
I have been knocked over by the pain of caring for people whose IVF has failed.
Again.
I have seen the shell-shocked look of parents, still reeling from a miscarriage, trying to keep their heads down and survive The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.
And I have walked with a family in the church I serve who lost not one, but two sons to the same devastating illness. Both boys had received bone marrow transplants at a hospital in Minnesota to try to halt the disease's progression. Neither boy lived to see his 9th birthday.
It seems strange to talk about their stories in a devotional about joy. But joy is a strange visitor.
Yes, sometimes she bursts into the house unbidden. She charms everyone at the party, kicking up her heels, leaving a trail of flushed faces and smiles in her wake. You couldn't evict her if you tried, assuming you'd want to, and who would want to? She is the largest force in the universe.
Other times, joy passes through as quick as a flash---a scent of home, a snort of laughter, a shimmer of the transcendent. By the time you notice her, almost lock eyes with her, she's gone again, and the worry and waiting are back.
The family's story is theirs to tell, but as one who walked alongside them, the joy I saw was the second kind. It was a flash of dove wing, inexplicable and brief, amid the wringing of hands and wordless prayers. There was the day post-transplant when the marrow count started to grow, the visit from members of the Minnesota Vikings NFL team, a conversation about "normal things" during an afternoon off from the hospital.
I've always been struck, and mystified, by the double meaning in Paul's words. Apparently the Greek word for "rejoice" is the same as "farewell." I've never quite known what to do with that… except that maybe there's a bit of letting go at work in our pursuit of joy. This family has a quote on their wall that's attributed to Joseph Campbell: “We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” We cannot kidnap joy and hold her against her will. But we can look for her, and live in a posture of expectant trust that she will show up.
As I write this, the family has completed the paperwork and home study to adopt a boy from the Ukraine. And so our congregation waits with them again. But it is a feisty kind of waiting, a vigilant and hopeful waiting. Joy will burst in and stay a spell. Or she will shine momentarily and be gone, only to return at another moment. But she will come. We are certain of this.
Let us pray:
God of Joy, give me an expectant and ready heart to receive you, however and whenever you arrive. Amen.
The Rev. MaryAnn McKibben Dana is a mother of three, the pastor of Idylwood Presbyterian Church in Falls Church, VA, and the author of Sabbath in the Suburbs: A Family's Experiment with Holy Time through Chalice Press. She is a frequent speaker and conference leader and is co-chair of NEXT Church, a movement that seeks to call forth and nurture vibrant and creative ministry in the PC(USA). This Advent is an active one, as she is hoping for her second book to come to birth, as well as her first marathon in January.
Yet the LORD longs to be gracious to you;
He rises to show you compassion,
for the Lord is a God of justice.
Blessed are all who wait for Him! Isaiah 30:18
I am a woman in her 60’s -- a wife, mom, grandmother of five and a friend, among the other “hats and titles that everyone wears.” Only one of my five grandchildren came easily. Whereas I never had the struggle of personal infertility, I have prayed, longed for, and groaned with others who did. Because I was divinely designed with an innate desire to move toward others who are hurting, many times I have found myself in the place of listening to others and interceding for them, trying to read beneath their words when it was too painful for them to talk about their struggles. In essence, it was a “love that groaned” for them even when they did not know it. Sometimes, their refusal to talk about their struggle felt like rejection of me, but I learned I needed to give that up and wait -- waiting, loving, praying, and taking my eyes off of the rejection I felt and concentrating on how painful their waiting was.
“Waiting is oh, so hard!” said a young friend of mine. This mom, now a mother of four adopted children said to me, “With waiting, a baby easily becomes your idol. The appointments, daily shots consume your thoughts and conversations, and it can be a very isolating time unless you have someone else traveling the same road. Even then, it is painful when one conceives and the other does not. When we did IVF, it was very private. I was surprised when I saw acquaintances in the waiting room and was not sure whether or not I could talk to them about it.” This mom went through a necessary season of “groaning” before she could see the larger perspective of what was to happen with her life.
Her joy came when God clearly spoke to her about birth moms. She says, “I had never truly considered their perspective, and God gave me a certainty that adoption was the path for us to follow.”
Larger perspectives don’t come easily. For me, it means that I have to be honest about my human frailty that can become myopic -- centered only on my own difficulties. It is a wonderful act of God’s grace when God carries us beyond that place of groaning to a wider perspective that sees the greater need that is around us. This mom ‘s world changed when she began to consider the plight of the birth moms from whom she would receive her adopted children.
I do believe that “good things (can) come to those who wait.” After all, we have a God who “when the time had fully come, sent forth His Son, born of a woman, born under the Law, to redeem those under the Law, that we might receive the full right of sons.” (Galatians 4: 4, 5, NIV)
Waiting often entails groaning because it hurts to wait for that which seems to be so right, so ripe, and so ready for NOW. But history shows us that God’s timing is perfect, and if I wrap my mind around the scope of humanity and the scope of God’s love, then I am released from my inner clamoring to a place where love can be birthed in me through faith in a God much greater than I can grasp.
I can only imagine how disillusioned, despairing, and confused the people of Israel were when they were captured by the Assyrians and later on the Babylonians and were taken to lands far away from home, longing and groaning for their Messiah to deliver them, how they must have cried, “When, O LORD, when will He come?”
And I can only imagine the pathos of God seeing Israel in excruciating struggle through all of their years of waiting, watching them take the matter into their own hands, creating lifeless idols, seeking out alliances with ungodly nations, trying to make life work. Did God groan? I think so, because God loves us.
Does God hurt when I demand His timing to change for my life when I forge ahead? Probably.
But when I can grasp, even just a little, His great mercy and love in waiting to send Jesus when He did, then I will understand that in “repentance and rest is my salvation; in quietness and trust is my strength.” (Isaiah 30:15, NIV).
Let us pray:
Oh God, thank You that I can come to You in my pain and be honest about it. Please, oh Lord, help me to know that there is a larger perspective even when it is not apparent to me. And especially, Lord, help me to trust, even when I think You are silent. Amen.
“Therefore, since through God’s mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart.” II Corinthians 4:1
I have been in labor for almost five years.
There have been ultrasounds.
There has been blood work.
There has been pain: both physical and emotional.
I feel called to motherhood. It’s as strong as the calling I felt to enter the pastorate ten years ago. It’s as strong as the calling that I felt to marry over six years ago. But, I am still a childless mother. My bio below lists no children in our immediate family.
When I first began the journey toward motherhood, I was naïve.
After being married a year, I thought we’d start trying to have kids and then nine months later pop out a beautiful baby. I saw so many of my friends become mothers so easily. My mind and body felt strong. I saw no groaning up ahead. Why would childbirth not happen easily for me?
I had no idea the process of waiting for a baby can extend Advent after Advent, year after year.
I had no idea that labor pains sometimes can feel like the awkwardness of attending a party and being asked by a stranger “Why don’t you have children?” It’s finding your way to a polite response, though what you really want to say is “bug off.”
I had no idea that labor pains can feel like a dear friend telling you she’s pregnant with her third. It’s finding a way to say with a smile and a hug, “Congratulations!” You are happy for her, but . . .
I had no idea that I’d have to invite doctors and lawyers and friends into the process—a process that should have been all about love between my husband and me but instead became a process that included contracts, test tubes, and diagrams of the fertilization process between an egg and a sperm.
Through this painful waiting, I’ve asked God a few questions:
Where are you God when what seemed so sure fell through again?
Where are you God when I had to preach about a teenaged girl having a baby again?
Where are you when my college girlfriends gather to talk about their babies, and I have nothing to offer again?
Throughout this journey of motherhood I’ve always had a choice.
I’ve had a choice to believe that God has clothed me in the scarlet letter of infertility (and God hasn’t).
I’ve had a choice to believe that this wait is punishment for some un-confessed wrongdoing (I don’t believe it is).
I’ve had a choice to believe that I will never welcome children into our family (I still believe we will).
At this juncture of the journey I choose to believe that the desires of my heart will come to fulfillment, somehow, someway. As I continue to wait, I’ve been given the opportunity to experience God’s love at a deeper level than I ever could have imagined. Friends blessed me with deep expressions of kindness that have healed parts of me that I didn’t know were so broken. My husband and I have leaped into the certainty of “No matter what, we are going to get through this together.” And my faith has come to the other side of knowing for sure that even as this season of waiting labors on, my waiting is not in vain. God’s kingdom is coming though it is not already here.
Like Paul told the believers in Corinth, “we have this great ministry, we don’t lose heart,” God has reminded me of this time and time again. And it has been love that has carried me through this labor—love of what my heart has seen, though my eyes have not. In God’s kingdom, we groan together and wait.
Let us pray:
God, Advent can be such a hard time for those of us who are in the middle of waiting for what is to come. Help us to find your love for us even in the midst of the pains of labor that endure for the night. We pray together for your light to come. Amen.
Elizabeth is an ordained minister in the Baptist tradition, a freelance writer and a social media consultant who divides her time between Arlington, VA and Oklahoma City, OK with her husband Kevin. She blogs regularly at “Preacher on the Plaza” (this site). This Advent Elizabeth is hoping for the gift of being present in the moment.
