There is a story of a man who loved a multitude. He fed the hungry, gave comfort to the brokenhearted, spoke life in dead places, played with children, and cared for the sick. He was every man's friend, a gentle soul who gave and expected nothing in return. People sought him out, desperate just to be near him, just to experience the peace that exuded from his being. He was capable of making each person feel special, significant, wanted. He was the ultimate humanitarian.
This man, so full of love for people, so desperate to see others' lives overflowing with abundance, died at the hands of those he served. A whisper started a whirlwind fueled by ignorance, guilt, and jealousy. The multitude to whom he had given his heart - his whole life - were suddenly calling for his death, seeking him out, blood-lust pumping through their thirsty veins. In the cover of night, they hunted him down, captured him, and tortured him. They punctured holes in his side, ripped the flesh from his back, stabbed thorns into his scalp, and beat him senseless. His blood spilled to the ground; his muscle tissue dangled in pieces from his bones. In a final act of cruelty, the mob of people who witnessed firsthand the goodness in this man's heart ended his life: death by crucifixion.
Death by crucifixion: the most beautiful death this world has ever known. Oh, the sight itself was ugly: a body mutilated, ravaged, destroyed; anguish seeping from torn flesh; agony etched in facial features. That moment in time speaks of pain most men never endure. The man who loved the multitude hung on his cross, looked upon those that nailed him to it, and released his last breath. When peace invaded his body and his eyes closed that final time, there on his lips lingered not the taste of bitterness but the sweet, sweet flavor of forgiveness, forgiveness marinated in love.
His name is Christ. His pain is the most beautiful thing in all the world.
With His pain comes our redemption. With His pain comes our freedom. With His pain comes our healing. With His pain comes our salvation.
The phrase "pain is beauty" truly does define my entire life. Yes, my heart has been broken. The past has clouded my present. My insecurities have led me to attempt to maintain impossible standards. My pain, like yours, has been very real. But it is not my pain that makes my life beautiful. It is His.
I am part of the multitude. He has given His life over to me. He has loved me. He has cared for me. He has clothed me and fed me. He has healed my sickness. He has given me everything He has - His very life - forever suspended in one of the most brutal moments in history. And while His death was hideous, I am the ugly one. I have spit in His face, pushed thorns into his skull, and driven nails through his hands. It was my anger-filled, insecurity-ridden heart that prowled in the darkness, looking to trap Him and tear him limb from limb. I am the one who demanded the death of the Son of Man, the One who devoted His whole life to me. And this Man gave me everything I asked of Him. He gave me His all.
I caused His pain, yet when He whispers into the ear of His Father, He doesn't speak words of hate or words of revenge. He doesn't map out retaliation. When He whispers into the ear of His Father, on His lips is the sound of forgiveness, the song of redemption. I am His Beloved. Despite my turning on Him, He takes care of me. He heals my blemishes. He erases my invalidity. Through all of His pain, He has turned His heart toward me and loved me back to beauty.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Women Who Count
Today, ladies all across the nation filled church pews, restaurants, and homes with their children by their sides and smiles on their faces, proud to be a mother and thankful to be honored by their family and their friends. Their hearts were full of love for their babies (no matter how old) and gratitude for the blessings that have been poured out on their lives. People flooded them with hugs, kisses, cards, flowers, phone calls, praise, and well-wishes, and these beautiful, strong, selfless mothers truly deserved every gift that reached their hands and every kind word that met their ears.
Today, in the middle of all the celebrations of the women we cherish and hold dear to our hearts, there were ladies who filled church pews, restaurants, and homes who felt anything but thankful, anything but honored. These women smiled though they didn't mean it, struggled solitarily through the comments, the questions, and especially the silence, and bit their tongues when words that were less than kind met their ears. I know because I was one of them.
Today, I was bombarded with many empty comments ranging from, "You can celebrate next year," to "I don't know if you count." You see, I am currently seven months pregnant, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, there is much confusion as to my maternal status. The problem with the whole situation is this: I have been a mother for a year now. It was a year ago, after all, that I first watched as a little, blankly white screen produced a clear blue plus sign, and my whole world changed.
In one moment one year ago in the tiny bathroom of my rental house, I became a mother. I can't explain with precision of language exactly what happened inside me or how it happened, but in an instant, I was no longer a young woman alive for myself and my happiness. Instead, I became consciously aware that my position in the universe had shifted; I existed now for the health and the well-being of someone else: my child. I was filled with excitement, anticipation, anxiety, hope, fear, joy, and maybe even a little dread, and my mind began to race with visions of nurseries, flashes of future baseball games and dance recitals, bows and frills, dirt and laughter. My whole self was consumed with beauty of what was happening to my life, to my family.
Two weeks later on a Wednesday morning, I sat in a doctor's office while someone explained to me how Methotrexate would end my ectopic pregnancy. Two weeks later on a Wednesday afternoon, I stood in an exam room as a nurse injected my body with the poison that would kill my child. Two weeks later on a Wednesday night, all my dreams broke in pieces around me as my body went into labor in an attempt to rid itself of what was harming it: the child to whom I was supposed to give life.
On Friday morning, surgeons took me into an emergency surgery to cut out the tube where my baby was still growing. I awoke in a hospital room not only missing part of my body but also missing my baby, and as a result, missing my heart.
Shame crippled me. Fear devoured me. Anger consumed me. They ran through every inch of my soul. I didn't feel like a real woman. I truly believed my husband would leave me. I doubted I ever would know joy again. I couldn't believe the injustice in those who abuse and abandon their children being allowed to birth them in the first place. Everything I thought I understood about life and about love was challenged, and I was a broken person.
When I woke up this morning, one of my first thoughts was of the child I lost a year ago and of the pain I experienced. For some reason, I knew that today my motherhood would be called into question, and I would have no proof in my arms to shut down the naysayers. It doesn't matter that my stomach is growing with the promise of a child due in two months; I knew some would doubt the mother I now know myself to be. Today, I prepared myself for the emptiness of a Mother's Day without a child to hold, steeled myself for the words and even for the silence I knew was coming. I was not alone in those preparations.
When they awoke this morning, women everywhere were readying themselves for the emotional battles they would endure throughout the day. Today, there were many women who instead of feeling celebrated, felt shamed; instead of feeling honored, felt afraid; instead of feeling loved, felt angered. There are women all around who have lost children, experienced miscarriages, and dealt with infertility. There are women all around who are mothers but who have no physical evidence of that in their lives. There are women all around who are forgotten, overlooked, or ignored because their children aren't in their arms, aren't standing beside them, or did not come from their own wombs.
Today, I want to tell those women that I see you. I recognize you. I know your pain. I share your heartache. You are a woman who gave your body to another person even if that person was never born here on Earth. You are a woman who gave your best to a child whose life is no longer lived in this world. You are a woman who gave your love to another whose own mother couldn't fill the gaps. You are a woman who longs every day to share your light with a tiny baby all your own snuggled in your arms.
You are a woman worth celebrating. You are a woman filled with goodness. You are a woman clothed in dignity and strength. You are a woman to be honored.
Despite the accusations, despite the unanswered questions, despite the broken dreams and the shattered hearts, you are a mother - one who nurtures, one who cares, one who gives, one who loves.
Happy Mother's Day to you, a woman I celebrate, a woman I honor, a woman who counts.
Today, in the middle of all the celebrations of the women we cherish and hold dear to our hearts, there were ladies who filled church pews, restaurants, and homes who felt anything but thankful, anything but honored. These women smiled though they didn't mean it, struggled solitarily through the comments, the questions, and especially the silence, and bit their tongues when words that were less than kind met their ears. I know because I was one of them.
Today, I was bombarded with many empty comments ranging from, "You can celebrate next year," to "I don't know if you count." You see, I am currently seven months pregnant, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, there is much confusion as to my maternal status. The problem with the whole situation is this: I have been a mother for a year now. It was a year ago, after all, that I first watched as a little, blankly white screen produced a clear blue plus sign, and my whole world changed.
In one moment one year ago in the tiny bathroom of my rental house, I became a mother. I can't explain with precision of language exactly what happened inside me or how it happened, but in an instant, I was no longer a young woman alive for myself and my happiness. Instead, I became consciously aware that my position in the universe had shifted; I existed now for the health and the well-being of someone else: my child. I was filled with excitement, anticipation, anxiety, hope, fear, joy, and maybe even a little dread, and my mind began to race with visions of nurseries, flashes of future baseball games and dance recitals, bows and frills, dirt and laughter. My whole self was consumed with beauty of what was happening to my life, to my family.
Two weeks later on a Wednesday morning, I sat in a doctor's office while someone explained to me how Methotrexate would end my ectopic pregnancy. Two weeks later on a Wednesday afternoon, I stood in an exam room as a nurse injected my body with the poison that would kill my child. Two weeks later on a Wednesday night, all my dreams broke in pieces around me as my body went into labor in an attempt to rid itself of what was harming it: the child to whom I was supposed to give life.
On Friday morning, surgeons took me into an emergency surgery to cut out the tube where my baby was still growing. I awoke in a hospital room not only missing part of my body but also missing my baby, and as a result, missing my heart.
Shame crippled me. Fear devoured me. Anger consumed me. They ran through every inch of my soul. I didn't feel like a real woman. I truly believed my husband would leave me. I doubted I ever would know joy again. I couldn't believe the injustice in those who abuse and abandon their children being allowed to birth them in the first place. Everything I thought I understood about life and about love was challenged, and I was a broken person.
When I woke up this morning, one of my first thoughts was of the child I lost a year ago and of the pain I experienced. For some reason, I knew that today my motherhood would be called into question, and I would have no proof in my arms to shut down the naysayers. It doesn't matter that my stomach is growing with the promise of a child due in two months; I knew some would doubt the mother I now know myself to be. Today, I prepared myself for the emptiness of a Mother's Day without a child to hold, steeled myself for the words and even for the silence I knew was coming. I was not alone in those preparations.
When they awoke this morning, women everywhere were readying themselves for the emotional battles they would endure throughout the day. Today, there were many women who instead of feeling celebrated, felt shamed; instead of feeling honored, felt afraid; instead of feeling loved, felt angered. There are women all around who have lost children, experienced miscarriages, and dealt with infertility. There are women all around who are mothers but who have no physical evidence of that in their lives. There are women all around who are forgotten, overlooked, or ignored because their children aren't in their arms, aren't standing beside them, or did not come from their own wombs.
Today, I want to tell those women that I see you. I recognize you. I know your pain. I share your heartache. You are a woman who gave your body to another person even if that person was never born here on Earth. You are a woman who gave your best to a child whose life is no longer lived in this world. You are a woman who gave your love to another whose own mother couldn't fill the gaps. You are a woman who longs every day to share your light with a tiny baby all your own snuggled in your arms.
You are a woman worth celebrating. You are a woman filled with goodness. You are a woman clothed in dignity and strength. You are a woman to be honored.
Despite the accusations, despite the unanswered questions, despite the broken dreams and the shattered hearts, you are a mother - one who nurtures, one who cares, one who gives, one who loves.
Happy Mother's Day to you, a woman I celebrate, a woman I honor, a woman who counts.
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