trust
I wish I could trust like I used to. I wish I could have faith like I used to. Before we lost our daughters, I felt as if my faith was unshakable. As if nothing could rock the trust I had. And then June 3rd, 2007 came...and I was rocked...not to the core...but still rocked. My faith came crashing in. My faith hit a road block. But after the initial crushing pain dissipated a bit, I realized that maybe, just maybe losing Jorai happened for a reason. Maybe there is something positive that could shine through this darkness. And for awhile, my trust didn't seem to be so distant. My faith, I realized was still standing.
But then came Selah and once again, I was rocked to the core...though this time I felt different. I felt a darkness I've never felt before. I felt it to my core. I felt torn. Ripped actually. Ripped from my faith. Ripped from my trust. Though I know Truth and Love...I know it stands waiting for me to return, I just can't seem to trust it.
I wish trust came easily for me. I wish I could be like others...others who have gone through loss and seem to only use it for good, seem to only become stronger in their faith. Why can't it just be easy for me...why is it so hard? Why is it so hard to open His word? Why is it so hard to talk with Him? Why is it all so hard. It was never hard. But now...now it's just so hard. I just wish it wasn't so hard.
When I read about Job, I feel crappy. As if my faith must never have been firmly planted. How could he have gone through so much pain and suffering yet still call out to the One he trusts and believes in. I have friends who've gone through losses that have also pushed the darkness away, the fear away, and trusted. How do they do it?
Here I sit. At 20 weeks. The point of no return. The point where if I were to lose this child within me, if I were to lose my son, I would have to deliver him and hold him and see his all too tiny and silent body. I wouldn't come home to balloons, holding a sleepy baby...I'd just have an empty soul...and in time another plastic box filled with a tablespoon of ashes. It shakes me to the core. It scares me beyond all I can imagine. Don't get me wrong...I do think positively of this pregnancy. I think of what it will be like to watch Asher and his brother grow and laugh and play together. I dream of the chance to hold his warm body and hear his cries. I dream of bathing him and nursing him and rocking him to sleep. I dream of watching him sleep and listening to him breathe beside me. But I fear that none of those dream will come to fruition. I fear I will spend another horrific day and night in the hospital to deliver and hold a lifeless child. The fear grips me. I try not to let it take hold, but it does. I try to shake it, but it returns. I try to trust that things will be OK this time, but I can't. I can't trust.
I just can't.
But then came Selah and once again, I was rocked to the core...though this time I felt different. I felt a darkness I've never felt before. I felt it to my core. I felt torn. Ripped actually. Ripped from my faith. Ripped from my trust. Though I know Truth and Love...I know it stands waiting for me to return, I just can't seem to trust it.
I wish trust came easily for me. I wish I could be like others...others who have gone through loss and seem to only use it for good, seem to only become stronger in their faith. Why can't it just be easy for me...why is it so hard? Why is it so hard to open His word? Why is it so hard to talk with Him? Why is it all so hard. It was never hard. But now...now it's just so hard. I just wish it wasn't so hard.
When I read about Job, I feel crappy. As if my faith must never have been firmly planted. How could he have gone through so much pain and suffering yet still call out to the One he trusts and believes in. I have friends who've gone through losses that have also pushed the darkness away, the fear away, and trusted. How do they do it?
Here I sit. At 20 weeks. The point of no return. The point where if I were to lose this child within me, if I were to lose my son, I would have to deliver him and hold him and see his all too tiny and silent body. I wouldn't come home to balloons, holding a sleepy baby...I'd just have an empty soul...and in time another plastic box filled with a tablespoon of ashes. It shakes me to the core. It scares me beyond all I can imagine. Don't get me wrong...I do think positively of this pregnancy. I think of what it will be like to watch Asher and his brother grow and laugh and play together. I dream of the chance to hold his warm body and hear his cries. I dream of bathing him and nursing him and rocking him to sleep. I dream of watching him sleep and listening to him breathe beside me. But I fear that none of those dream will come to fruition. I fear I will spend another horrific day and night in the hospital to deliver and hold a lifeless child. The fear grips me. I try not to let it take hold, but it does. I try to shake it, but it returns. I try to trust that things will be OK this time, but I can't. I can't trust.
I just can't.
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