Bitter and Sweet

Sometimes I am truly amazed when I stop and think of the path my life has taken.  When I evaluate the places I’ve gone and the person I’ve become and the people that walk this life with me, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.  It’s not that I have everything I’ve ever dreamed of, but somehow, as I get older and my hindsight vision becomes more acute, it has become clear that my little nook in this world is so much better than anything I could have dreamed up for myself.

I love those moments of complete clarity, when however brief it may be, I am able to look past the day’s stress or heartache and just melt into a still, quiet peace and understanding that I am right where I’m supposed to be.  That somehow, despite my human error and selfishness and shortsightedness, God has guided me through this messy life and made something sweet.  And it may not be perfect and there are still some rough edges, but somehow it is all right.

These moments don’t happen often for me, usually because I’m too busy to look for them.  Sometimes they are so quick and mundane that it’s easy to miss them.  Just a few weeks ago, on a Friday night, Steve took me out for a Chinese dinner.  We drove to the restaurant in our new-to-us 1994 GMC truck.  It was pouring – early spring rain, warm air, dusky gray and orange sky.  I kept stealing glances at my husband.  He was so proud to be driving that truck – sad to have sold his sporty 2007 Mazda, but happy and confident that this truck would be a better fit for us financially.  I felt so taken care of.  So safe.  So madly in love with this man.  Just as I was sorting through these thoughts, Steve looked over and winked and told me that I was a “truck girl”… his truck girl.  I love it.

I felt this warm contentment a few months ago too, at a funeral.  Kelly, my friend since before I could talk, and her husband Ben had just placed their baby girl in the arms of Jesus.  It was an impossibly sad situation.  Even though we’d all known since before her birth that this day would come, our hearts were torn apart.  And yet, when the funeral was over and all of our friends gathered together for a meal, my heart had never felt so full.  This particular group of friends is truly incredible.  We’ve been through so much together – Grade school and college.  Dating and break-ups.  Weddings and funerals.  Births and deaths.  Growth and change.  Arguments and restoration.  Irritation and appreciation.  Love and move love.  Somehow, we’ve stayed together all these years.  We just fit.  And no matter what happens, I know that they’ve got my back, just as I’ve got theirs.  It’s beautiful, to feel that kind of connection.  To have relationships that make you feel like you are part of something great and special and God-given.

The older I get, the more necessary I find it to recount these moments.  To swallow life whole – the bitter and the sweet.  To trace my path with gratitude and thanksgiving.  Because no matter how hard it has been, every step along the way has shaped me into who I am today... and who I am still becoming.  The periods of waiting are long, but there is a purpose in them.  So I rejoice and keep looking for moments of warmth—those tiny packages from God—to carry me through.

Let me wrap this up with a quote from a book called Bittersweet by Shauna Niequist.  Knowing my infertility struggle, my boss gave me this book to borrow, and it has encouraged my heart in so many ways.  I was sobbing (good tears!) after reading these words from the prologue:

… Bittersweet is the idea that in all things there is both something broken and something beautiful, that there is a sliver of lightness on even the darkest of nights, a shadow of hope in every heartbreak, and that rejoicing is no less rich when it contains a splinter of sadness.

Bittersweet is the practice of believing that we really do need both the bitter and the sweet, and that a life of nothing but sweetness rots both your teeth and your soul.  Bitter is what makes us strong, what forces us to push through, what helps us earn the lines on our faces and the calluses on our hands.  Sweet is nice enough, but bittersweet is beautiful, nuanced, full of depth and complexity.  Bittersweet is courageous, gutsy, earthy.  (Niequest 11)

Amen!

Tuesday's Child

Of all the character traits in all the world, the one that I wish I came by naturally is grace.  Ever since I heard the “Monday’s Child” poem when I was young, I wanted to be Tuesday’s child – full of grace.

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child works hard for a living,

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

Can you guess which day I was born on?  Wednesday.  Full of freaking woe.  I mean, really.  Talk about giving a child a complex.  ;-)

But anyway… back to grace.  In my mind, I have this image of a woman full of grace.  And I want to be just like her.  She is natural and beautiful.  She wears long bohemian skits and her hair lies effortlessly past her shoulders.  Somehow, her wavy locks are always blowing (in the ever-present gentle breeze of this magical world that exists only in my mind). :-)  She is thin, without being skinny, and vibrant, without being showy.  She buys all of her vegetables at the farmers market and carries them in a hand-woven basket.  She bakes her own bread and always has fresh flowers in the kitchen.  I’m pretty sure that she’s a vegetarian too and eats only organic foods.

Everyone loves her.  She is kind and tender-hearted and generous.  She speaks thoughtful words of wisdom and is quick to forgive.  Her actions are full of compassion.  She carries herself with confidence.  She is bold, but gentle.  She seeks peace and restoration.  She has a hearty laugh and a good sense of humor – never sarcastic or belittling.  She demonstrates love in all she does.

She is full of grace.

But I am far from this vision of perfection.  Grace does not come so naturally to me.  It takes practice, I guess.  And 30 years in, I’m still falling short.

So why all this talk of grace?

I guess it’s been on my mind a lot lately as I’ve considered the ways in which I’ve responded to my infertility.  Particularly in light of other people’s blessings.  When you’ve been trying to conceive for as long as Steve and I have, it is only natural to receive news of many, many, many friends who have become pregnant as we’ve waited.  And, I won’t lie to you here – it tears my heart into pieces.  It’s hard to adequately explain what it feels like.  It’s kind of like getting pummeled in the gut, having your lungs collapse, and then being expected to smile and jump around and do back flips of joy.  It’s impossible.  It’s impossible because I want to be happy for my friends, and I try to be happy for my friends, but inside I feel empty.  Like I have failed.  Like I’ve been forgotten.

And yet… I know that there is great happiness in new life, and I have been working and willing myself to find it – no matter what my situation.  The pregnancies of my friends have nothing to do with me.  (I know, I know – I’m totally stating the obvious there, but it’s something that I need to tell myself time and time again.)  As Steve reminded me a few weeks ago (after breaking down following the news of yet another friend’s exciting news), “The world keeps turning, Beth.  People will continue to get pregnant.”  Hard to hear… but true.

It still hurts.  I hate that I’ve become that friend – the one that people are scared to share their happy news with.  I get “special” emails and phone calls: “Umm, so Beth.  I just wanted you to hear it right from me.  I’m pregnant.  I’m so sorry – I know how hard this is for you!”  While I appreciate my dear friends’ sensitivity, I also hate it.  I hate that they think they have to apologize for their blessing.  I hate that they are hesitant to invite me to share in their joy.

And I hate that I haven’t showed more grace.

I will never be the woman full of grace that exists in my imagination.  But I can choose to respond in grace instead of resentment.  I can choose joy instead of bitterness.  I can choose hope instead of despair.

I’m gonna choose to be Tuesday’s child.  :-)

Hope

I’ve been floundering a bit in writing this second post on my new blog.  After all of the amazing feedback I got from the first post, I feel like a brand new person!  My love tank is full, my spirits are lifted, my soul is energized.  I mean, what more can I say?  I had no idea that “going public” with my infertility struggle would be so refreshing!  I thank you all for your gracious words and thoughtful prayers.

As I reflect on this journey, I’ve found myself struggling with a few comments from (well-meaning and wonderful) people about the prospect of getting pregnant. 

“Hang in there!  You’ll be pregnant before you know it!”

“I have a feeling it’s going to happen any time now!”

“You’re going to get pregnant soon -- I just know it!”

“You’re going to be such a wonderful mommy when the time comes!”

It doesn’t upset me to hear these words, because I know the intention was to provide encouragement and hope.  In fact, I’ve said these words to myself on more than one occasion.  But let’s just be really honest here -- No one (except God) knows if Steve and I will ever have children.  The truth is that, despite our best efforts, it might not ever happen.  So to tell myself “Oh, it’s going to happen any time now” not only fills me with potentially false hope, but it places my hope in the wrong thing altogether.

Too often, I find myself putting my hope in my future child.  Idolizing this child, so to speak.  I’ve spent countless hours agonizing over this baby, wondering... When will he/she be here?  What will we name him/her?  What will he/she look like?  Why is this taking so long?  What are we doing wrong?  Won’t life just be perfect and complete and “whole” after Little Lougee arrives?

See what I’m doing?  Instead of trusting in God to handle my future, I’m spending all of my energy hoping in a future that I think I deserve and am entitled to.  Now don’t get me wrong -- I’m not saying that it’s wrong of me to hope and pray for a child.  But as a Christian, I need to focus on God’s plan for me right here and right now, instead of waiting for my dreams to come to fruition.  

How many opportunities have I missed out on in this past year and a half because my heart and mind were too preoccupied with what may be instead of what is?

I didn’t even realize I was doing this until recently when I read (at my sister’s recommendation) a book called Sacred Waiting by David Timms.  In his chapter about Abraham (who waited years and years and years for a child), Timms wrote something that was uncomfortably true for me:

Something happens to us when God tarries to answer a prayer or fulfill a promise. Subtly, imperceptibly, we fall deeper in love with the promise than the One who makes the promise. We fantasize about the gift rather than the Giver. We spend so much time imagining what life will be like that we fail to live life as it is. Our future vision blinds us to our present blessings. (Timms 40)

I don’t want to get all “preachy,” so I’m not going to belabor the point.  But I thank God for helping me to be aware of what was going on in my head.  I’m working daily, now, at being very deliberate in where I place my trust and more “present” and in tune with the blessings that are right in front of me.

(HA!  This is starting to sound like a horrendously cheesy Nickleback song....)  ;-)

So let’s wrap this up.  The whole time I’ve been writing this post, I’ve had an old hymn in my head.  (I adore old hymns -- I think they are so rich and hauntingly beautiful.)  Let me close by posting my two favorite verses...

The Solid Rock

Edward Mote, circa 1834

My hope is built on nothing less

Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness;

I dare not trust the sweetest frame,

But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

Refrain:

On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;

All other ground is sinking sand,

All other ground is sinking sand.

His oath, His covenant, His blood

Support me in the whelming flood;

When all around my soul gives way,

He then is all my hope and stay.