night moon blog photoToday I was looking at my children, all three of them. After many years, I’m still painfully aware of the ones who are missing. The babies who vanished from me before they even had a name. The lost lives I still grieve. And the one I knew more intimately than the rest…

When my five year old daughter tells me she wants a sister, I cringe inside. I feel like a trader to the one I’ve buried. To the one who rests with Jesus. How do you explain to a five year old that she does have a sister, but won’t meet her until heaven? I don’t want to answer the questions that will undoubtedly follow. And so silence echoes loudly in the room as I contemplate uttering the missing girl’s name. It seems wrong that her life goes unnoticed.

I often say I’m a survivor of miscarriage, stillbirth, and infertility. It is true. I did, in fact, survive it. There is something holy that happens when you survive something. There is a certain metaphysical strength that takes over and consumes you. It wraps you up, pulls you in, and whispers grace.

This kind of grace reaches in to the dark places and causes breathing to regulate.

Once upon a time I used to believe in the pretty words which say, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” I don’t believe that anymore. This life can get ugly and we are often thrown things we cannot handle. If we could handle the bedlam that happens to us there would be no use for this great, big, amazing God who holds the world in His hands. It’s the very fact that we cannot handle these tragic events that pushes us straight into Him. We are weak, but He is strong. We cannot handle “it” and we were never meant to. But He can. And, do you see, this is the whole point?

We spend a lot of time blaming God and asking questions. We turn our fists to the sky and scream out our whys. We gouge Him instead of give to Him. We ignore His scars and only look at our own. And when I say we, I mean me.

I’ve spent too much time wrapped up in all consuming anger and believed in clichés to make myself feel better. I asked questions and screamed to the heavens when I’ve not received answers. I’ve begged and pleaded. I’ve done everything wrong, and most everything right. And still nothing made sense.

It won’t always make sense.

And after all these years and all this pain, I think the reality that not everything makes sense is a beautifully complex part of Christianity, and I’ve learned to accept it…

If everything made sense, what would be the point of hope?

If everything made sense, why would I need to press in for His wisdom?

In my opinion, to believe God won’t give me more than I can handle allows room to say that maybe I can handle it on my own. I’ve lived long enough to know I can’t do anything without Christ.

My pastor once preached a sermon entitled, “It’s hopeless and I’m helpless.” He preached it with joy, because when a situation is hopeless, then we are forced to go to the source of all hope. His name is Jesus.

There is a plan for you. It’s divine and holy, and probably consists of some portions you will not be able to handle, but do not fear, He can.

There is a peace that comes like rain in the middle of the desert. Let that peace rule you today. I know I am.

And let the peace of God rule in your hearts, to which also you were called in one body; and be thankful.

-Colossians 3:15

You are known and loved by Him. He has not forgotten you.





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