Some difficult questions have led me back to one of the most excruciating times in my life.
And, I am wrestling with the agonizing depth of those questions, wrestling just like I did all those years ago, around my kitchen table, searching for answers to the impossible. You know, the kind of life and death questions that will change the course of things and define everything else, every other moment for the rest of your life. Those kind of questions squeeze your chest tight and lay heavy in your depths. You can’t escape those kinds of questions, not even when you sleep.
I have stayed away from these questions, because they are difficult, riddled with personal conviction, and uncomfortable to address.
There isn’t anything black and white or easy about hearing that your child, the child in your womb, the one you would do anything to protect, the one you prayed for and longed for, dreamed dreams for…is most certainly going to die. Some people know right away what kind of choice they would make if they heard those words…”incompatible with life”. Or, they may tell you they would know the answer.
Maybe they would. Maybe they would be brave enough, see clearly through the fog enough not to wrestle in that moment.
I wasn’t. I wrestled.
I wrestled like most mothers, hearing frightening words about what can happen to a baby growing in a womb without amniotic fluid. I wrestled like no other time in my life, wondering what was right. What did God expect from me? What could my family endure? What would it be like to stand beside another grave? Was there any easier way, and was there anything I could do to spare my son pain, or my family?
I asked the hard questions. I wavered. I hesitated. I didn’t know if I had the faith for what lay ahead, carrying a baby doomed to die.
In my mother-mind, I had visions of a damaged and broken body, that could be harmed by growing without fluid. Doctors don’t know how scary those clinical words sound to a mother. It wasn’t so easy, choosing life this way. Not so cut and dry. It was a nitty-gritty, messy, dirty faith that carried me through those days. A faith full of fear and doubt…that just kept desperately believing even when I didn’t see. Real faith, the kind that separates the men from the boys, the kind that tells you who your God really is, that kind of faith is desperate like that, a clawing, grasping kind of clinging.
I carried my son. I have never regretted that choice, not for one moment. And, if a mother ever stands before me, filled with fear from a diagnosis, I will gladly tell her the story of my Thomas Patrick, and so many others. I will encourage her to carry that sweet life and fill the time with as many memories and as much love as possible, every moment she is given. I will walk with her, and give her whatever resources I can. And, I will pray and weep with her. And, if she is close by, I will even help her dress that sweet baby and take his or her pictures. I will hold that life in my hands and honor every life that crosses my path, and every grieving heart that stands before me.
But, I remember well the agony of that decision. And, because I understand that so many families do not even know they can carry a baby with a fatal diagnosis, some are not given that choice. I also understand there are so many medical conditions, and even times when a mother’s choices are limited….because of that…I would not stand in judgment over a parent who wanted her baby desperately, and was told delivering her baby early would be best, if she made a different choice. There are a myriad of circumstances a parent faces that we cannot even imagine. It isn’t so simple sometimes.
And, I don’t have all the answers.
What I do know is that our God’s love and grace are so beyond our comprehension. He loves us with a scandalous grace, a grace we don’t deserve. He goes where no one else will. My Jesus would look into the twisted pain of a grieving heart, regardless of circumstances, and offer comfort and peace the world could never give or understand. I do know that He has called me to be a vessel of that grace and comfort to every grieving parent who crosses my path and to honor the precious life of every baby I have the privilege of meeting. I do know that.
God doesn’t care about the level of brokenness. He doesn’t view some as more or less broken and sinful or deserving of grace than others. We are all the same broken mess in His eyes. I stand beside the hospital bed of mothers from all walks of life, mothers from all backgrounds and faiths, mothers with all kinds of broken. But, only one thing matters in that moment. Regardless of who we are before, or what we’ve done, in that moment, we are just two grieving mothers. And, nothing else matters, but comforting that pain with the comfort we have been given, as our Jesus stands in the midst, stroking the straggly hair of his broken girls, wiping the tears, holding us close.
But You are God, Ready to pardon, Gracious and merciful, Slow to anger, Abundant in kindness, And did not forsake them.
“Even when they made a molded calf for themselves, And said, ‘This is your god That brought you up out of Egypt,’ And worked great provocations, Yet in Your manifold mercies You did not forsake them in the wilderness. The pillar of the cloud did not depart from them by day, To lead them on the road; Nor the pillar of fire by night, To show them light, And the way they should go. ~ Nehemiah 9:17b-19
Our God never leaves us. Even when we “deserve” to be left, (and that includes all of us at one time or another). That’s the scandalous grace of the One who laid down His life, so that we could live.