Years ago I heard a beautiful NPR interview about the first Iraqi Eagle Scout in the United States. The news report opened with a dire description of life in Iraq wherein he and his family feared for their lives every day. One morning he and his young cousins were outside in their front yard playing when a car pulled up and ignited in flame, the driver having detonated a bomb. No one else was around except the children. His 6-year-old cousin was instantly killed and he lost his leg. He and his mother then came to the states and worked to overcome his disability. He joined the Boy Scouts and eventually received the coveted Eagle Scout award. But it was his reaction to the loss of limb that smote my heart. After his doctors told him they needed to amputate his leg he said, “Mom, I know what the doctors decide, I not care, and you not care Mom, this is from God for me.” This is from God for me. The power of those words struck me and I was undone. He wasn’t fighting what had happened to him, he wasn’t blaming anyone, he simply accepted his fate and believed that whatever came was from God. Oh, how simple and how faithful. I yearn to proclaim the same in my life. But I know I haven’t been saying such faithful pronouncements. I have fought God, and I have sought ways to please Him so that He would give me a baby. I have cried and I have pitied myself. But never have I accepted my fate. In my defense, accepting my fate has seemed like giving up. I don’t want to give up. I still want a child. But there is something profound to be gleaned from the wisdom of this boy. I cannot change my barrenness. I know this. I can continue to go to the doctors and I may still not conceive. I have no guarantee. But I don’t think I should just give up on a child either. There is something deeper. A heart change. An acceptance that God is Sovereign. That He has skillfully and perfectly planned the struggle with infertility for my life. “This is from God for me.” It think it is the ‘for me’ that gets me every time. For me. As if it is a gift. Infertility was given to me by God for a reason. It may or may not result in a biological child, but it is for me. And with that I am given some measure of peace, some means of letting go. If there is anything that the Lord is teaching me right now, it is letting go. Accepting what I have been given. When I do this then I can accept each negative result, each miscarriage, each disappointment with the belief that this is for me. It is ‘for me’ from a God who loves me and has my well being in mind. I may not understand it, but I know the Lord enough to know that suffering has been redeemed and given a purpose now that Christ has died for our sins. There is no condemnation for us and so all that we experience must and does have purpose. This is for me. Romans 8: 31-32, 35, 37-39 31 What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? 32 He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? 35 Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? 37 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 38 For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, 39 nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (I searched for hours trying to find this interview, but since it was 8 years old I was unable to locate it. But here is a article about him.) Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
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By Ashley Ward | ashleywardcoaching.com “It just…feels like I’m drowning.” I’ve said this, even though I’ve never actually experienced drowning, or anything close to it. This phrase for me is mere hyperbole; a way to try to explain the overwhelm, the desperation, the ache, the despair. I don’t know exactly how to explain what it feels like to be crushed by grief, to lose someone suddenly, to have my faith shaken, to face memories I would rather forget, to miscarry a baby, to watch my marriage crumble to pieces, to battle anxiety on a daily basis. But you know what I mean, right? You’ve felt it. You’ve lived it. One of my favorite stories in the bible is a woman who felt and lived it, too. Hagar was seemingly a minor biblical character; a slave; really more of a pawn in the story of Sarah and Abraham. She was used for her body; for her fertility, for the story Sarah wanted to write for herself instead of waiting. She was mistreated, and she was afraid. So, alone and pregnant, she flees. And in the desert, alone, she meets God. This would be an excellent time for God to save her. Provide shelter, water, a fresh start — maybe a new family and a new home? Hagar is weary and broken, and when she meets God and tells him why she fled, instead of saving her, He says, “Go back.” He hears her weariness and pain, and He sends her immediately back to the place she’d run from. Not only that, but He sends her back without the promise that everything will be better. He doesn’t promise her safety or comfort or protection. He only promises her hope. After this encounter, Hagar ends up being the only person in the bible to give God a name: El Roi; the God Who Sees. Even without safety and even without rescue from her pain, for Hagar, it was enough that God rescued her in her pain. It was enough that God saw her and was with her. God himself, the one who Sees, is the rescue. Is that enough for me? Is that enough for you? This idea of rescue has changed the way that I pray, and the way that I hope, and the way that I look for God’s provision. I’ve battled severe anxiety for years, with the ebb and flow of good seasons and terrible ones. So many times, I have prayed and asked God to take it away and to heal me of it completely. I have been so encouraged and inspired by people to whom He has answered that same prayer with “yes.” I know that He could answer me that way, too. But for me, so far, his answer when I try to run from my anxiety and when I ask him to rescue me from it, is just what he said to Hagar: “Go back. Stay in it. Do the work.” Sometimes, His rescue in the pain of anxiety is relief, and a good night of sleep. Sometimes, it’s the help of a remarkable therapist to help me untangle what is true from the lies. Sometimes, it’s medication. But always, always, along with this relief, comes this: “I see you. I love you. I’m with you. There’s hope. There’s rest.” I used to think that what I was waiting for was a rescue from my pain. And what I’ve learned is that sometimes, God rescues me in it instead. He has become the God who sees me. But it’s still hard sometimes to hold on, isn’t it? Do I hold the confidence that God is in the business of rescuing me, even when I’m not taken out of the darkness? Do I believe that His presence and His seeing me is enough? Can I look around and point to the places of his faithfulness, even when that faithfulness doesn’t look like I expected? Can I still hold on, even when the suffering lingers beyond what I thought I could endure? Hagar’s belief and God’s faithfulness to her are a continual reminder to me that his kindness and faithfulness exist outside of what I imagine them to be, and looking back at God’s rescues in my life continually moves my eyes forward, expectant that He will be faithful and kind again. Is there a place in your life where you thought you needed to be rescued from your pain, and instead God rescued you in it? How does this impact your faith now, moving forward? How does looking behind equip you to hold onto hope, today? I’d love to hear! About the Author, Ashley Ward: Coach, storyteller, writer, mom, wife. Relentless believer in the kindness of Jesus. Equipping women to find agency and take action in their stories. Find her at ashleywardcoaching.com |
AuthorHi! I'm Brooke. Welcome to Sing O Barren One! I began this blog after years of unexplained infertility that resulted in five years of trying, four miscarriages, one daughter, and continued secondary infertility. While in seminary, I dove into scripture to help me make sense of my pain and struggle. What type of God would allow this? What I found there changed who I was, how I perceived my struggle, and most importantly my view of God. I wrote this blog as an outpouring of my grief and to joyfully share all that God has taught me. Archives
October 2020
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