On Tuesday, I went to a woman's house to buy a stroller for a friend (it was a surprise for her, that's why I'm only now writing about this). This woman was wonderful, and we shared a bit about ourselves. When she saw that I could navigate around a Peg Perego stroller like nobody's business, she asked me, naturally, "Wow! Do you have kids?"
How do you reply to this question when your only child, whom you barely had the chance to hold, is no longer with you?
In my case, it went something like this: "Nn--. Ye--. Well, sort of."
And then I felt guilty. For saying "sort of."
I shared with her my story of how our first baby girl, Genna, came early and her lungs weren't developed enough for her to survive outside the womb. How we had a very short hour and forty-three minutes with her.
I did not share with her, though, how guilty I feel. Because I believe that over the past four months, I have tried to forget.
I don't think this was intentional, necessarily. I think it was more a subconscious reaction to grief. I'm going to admit something: There have been many times over the past several months in which I have not thought about my daughter for several days at a time. Not consciously, at least.
It is difficult to go through something so heart-wrenching and be all put-back-together quickly. I think if that happens, something is wrong. But I think that I have had problems dealing with the how of the grieving process. Let me explain why.
I believe that my daughter is in heaven with Jesus right now. I believe she was the moment after she breathed her last. Which means that "she" (or rather, her soul) was no longer part of her body, which I was holding when she died. I believe that the tiny body that we buried in May is not my daughter. It is merely a shell, the housing for her soul, if you will.
Because of my faith, I logically know that she is in better hands, in the best place, really, that she could ever be. And logically, I know - have seen proof - that so much good has come about in the wake of her death. And for this I am so grateful. And I know that I will see her again...someday.
But the thing I'm having trouble with is the sadness. The mourning of the loss of a part of my husband and me that we will never get back in this life. The loss of the opportunity to raise my daughter. And I allow myself to feel that sadness sometimes, but then I feel guilty for feeling sad, because I feel like I am being selfish. And so I have had problems balancing how to grieve properly. I will have times where I can talk about Genna happily. And then I occasionally have moments, typically when I am by myself, where I just break down, I miss her so much. And I can't for the life of me find a balance.
But I think that maybe just allowing myself to feel whatever feelings come is the first step. And my biggest comfort has come in knowing that my God has experienced the same feelings before. When Jesus died on the cross, He and God were separated for a time. God had to look away because Jesus took the sins of the world upon Himself. And when He died, God felt that loss. He grieved for a time, because He didn't have His Son with Him. He knows what I'm going through.
And the best part is that there was a happy ending to that story: Jesus is alive, and the separation was not permanent. God has His Son back, forever.
And one day, I will have my daughter back too. All I can do for now is hold God's hand.
September 18, 2008
September 16, 2008
Pottery by God
Last week in church, as we were singing our worship songs, a vision struck me. We were singing the words, "You're the potter, I'm the clay; mold and make me yours today," and I suddenly had this vision:
I was standing in a room full of all kinds of pottery. There were plates, mugs, bowls, saucers, basins, pitchers, etc. All different shapes, sizes, colors. Some glazed, some unglazed. Some with ridges, some smooth. Some up high on shelves, some on counter-tops, some on benches. There was a potting wheel, too. And all around the room was a feeling of work in progress - it felt like the potter was never going to be done potting.
And I began to realize that, beyond the cliche of the potter and the clay, God really does mold us. He shapes us with his hands. And each of us is made for something different. Plates are made to serve food to people, pitchers to pour out water, vases to hold flowers. A plate cannot ever be a vase, and a vase cannot be a bowl, and a bowl cannot be a pitcher, and a pitcher cannot be a plate. If the plate were to choose not to do the plate's job, then it would be placed on a shelf, because it could not do anything else. And once it decided to do what it was made to do, it would have to be thoroughly cleaned inside and out before it could be used for its purpose again.
Even in sets of things - like a service of eight plates, for instance - each plate is slightly different from the rest, because each was hand-shaped by the potter. The ridges and swells may be wider or smaller, or there may be more or fewer. The coloring may vary, the shininess of the glaze may be duller or brighter. Each one is extraordinary, because there is no ordinary when each thing is hand-made.
And I realized, as I looked around that potting room, that we are clay and God is the Potter. We must each do what we were made to do. Some of us were made to be pastors, and we will never be satisfied until we are doing what we were called to do. Some were made to be writers, or artists, or teachers, or managers, or musicians, or fighter pilots. And we must each do what we are called to do. We can run from it all we like, but we will never be happy - really happy - until we are performing the function for which God made us.
So, if you are a pitcher, stop trying to be a vase. Sure, perhaps you can hold flowers nicely. But everyone knows that a pitcher's purpose is to pour out water for thirsty people. So be the pitcher you were meant to be. Or if you are a plate, stop trying to be a mug. Stop fighting what God made you to be, and be who you are in Christ.
(I'm pretty sure I'm an inkwell.)
I was standing in a room full of all kinds of pottery. There were plates, mugs, bowls, saucers, basins, pitchers, etc. All different shapes, sizes, colors. Some glazed, some unglazed. Some with ridges, some smooth. Some up high on shelves, some on counter-tops, some on benches. There was a potting wheel, too. And all around the room was a feeling of work in progress - it felt like the potter was never going to be done potting.
And I began to realize that, beyond the cliche of the potter and the clay, God really does mold us. He shapes us with his hands. And each of us is made for something different. Plates are made to serve food to people, pitchers to pour out water, vases to hold flowers. A plate cannot ever be a vase, and a vase cannot be a bowl, and a bowl cannot be a pitcher, and a pitcher cannot be a plate. If the plate were to choose not to do the plate's job, then it would be placed on a shelf, because it could not do anything else. And once it decided to do what it was made to do, it would have to be thoroughly cleaned inside and out before it could be used for its purpose again.
Even in sets of things - like a service of eight plates, for instance - each plate is slightly different from the rest, because each was hand-shaped by the potter. The ridges and swells may be wider or smaller, or there may be more or fewer. The coloring may vary, the shininess of the glaze may be duller or brighter. Each one is extraordinary, because there is no ordinary when each thing is hand-made.
And I realized, as I looked around that potting room, that we are clay and God is the Potter. We must each do what we were made to do. Some of us were made to be pastors, and we will never be satisfied until we are doing what we were called to do. Some were made to be writers, or artists, or teachers, or managers, or musicians, or fighter pilots. And we must each do what we are called to do. We can run from it all we like, but we will never be happy - really happy - until we are performing the function for which God made us.
So, if you are a pitcher, stop trying to be a vase. Sure, perhaps you can hold flowers nicely. But everyone knows that a pitcher's purpose is to pour out water for thirsty people. So be the pitcher you were meant to be. Or if you are a plate, stop trying to be a mug. Stop fighting what God made you to be, and be who you are in Christ.
(I'm pretty sure I'm an inkwell.)
September 2, 2008
Perspectives; or, God - In and Out of the box
I came across an old blog (from another site) yesterday. I'd forgotten I'd written it, but it truly intrigued me and made me think again. So I decided to post it here as well. And although it's not Christmas, it's still interesting. (I wrote it less than a week before Christmas in 2007).
...
Last night I had a rough night of sleep. I woke up around 5 am after having nightmares. I was praying to try to calm my mind and spirit, and started thinking about God-stuff. I started out thinking of the Nativity, since we're so close to Christmas. Here's sort of how my thought process went. (Sorry if it seems sloppy, my mind goes all over the place.)
Everyone thinks of the birth of Christ as leading up to the Greatest Sacrifice - His death for our salvation. But I think I have to disagree with this viewpoint. There was a greater sacrifice that came first, that we think about and talk about all the time, and yet we overlook. The Baby Jesus. People sometimes use the phrase "you can't put God in a box." Well, in a way that's true. We can't (shouldn't) limit God by placing our own parameters around Him. But that's because He did it already Himself. He placed Himself in the box of human flesh. God is this infinite, all-seeing, all-knowing, all-present God, outside Time and Space and History and Future. And yet, He chose to limit Himself. For our sake. The Son part of the Trinity pretty much gave up his essential God-ness in order to place Himself in our shoes. It's sort of like an author and her characters. The author has the omnipotent, omnipresent viewpoint: The story, all of it - beginning, middle, end - happens, is happening, is always happening, in her mind. She knows, sees, the characters at every stage of development, and at any moment, she can see the character at any or all of the stages. She knows who's good, who's bad, who's right, who's wrong. She knows, sees, the outcome of each plot, each subplot. But the characters don't. They think, feel, live, from the moment, from their limited viewpoint.
Essentially, God became a character in His own story. He took Himself out of His infinite God-ness and placed Himself in a finite, frail, human body. A body that pees and poops and drools and aches and hurts and cries and feels pain. And He placed Himself into a soul that feels emotion, triumph, joy, sadness, tenderness, anger, love. And that rages with itself against itself. He became human. For us. He felt everything that humans feel. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Think about that for a minute. People throw around the phrase, "Jesus went through all the same temptations you and I go through." But what are the implications of that? Do we really think about it, let it sink in? Or do we just brush it aside as something we've known already? If Jesus went through all the same trials we do -- How many little temptations do we face each day without even realizing they're there? How many times, when Jesus was trying to be God to a prostitute, did his humanness try to take over? How many times did He really just want to smack one of His disciples up side the head, and think, "Why, oh why must I be God right now?" How many times did He want to throw a fit growing up, or talk back to His mother, or hit one of His brothers? How often was He tempted to steal? Did He ever envy the kings and emporers of His day, knowing that while He was greater than they, He was required to suffer as a human?
I sort of just let my thoughts wander on this topic. It's amazing, really, to think about what all "humanness" meant to Jesus. God basically caged himself for 33 years. He felt time. How often did his soul ache from not being able to be fully himself? I know a little of that feeling when I can't get to my writing for a long time, because writing is such an expression of who I am, that to be unable to express myself makes me feel less myself. Does this make sense? And yes, God is "outside" of time, but He willingly placed Himself in Time, so that He could better understand us.
I was talking to my husband about all this tonight, and he brought up an interesting point. When Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, it wasn't just about disobedience. It was about them having something that belonged to God. What did they eat? Fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Perspective. They attained viewpoint. They saw a little more like God saw. And so, to fix the breach, God had to see a little more like we see.
...
Last night I had a rough night of sleep. I woke up around 5 am after having nightmares. I was praying to try to calm my mind and spirit, and started thinking about God-stuff. I started out thinking of the Nativity, since we're so close to Christmas. Here's sort of how my thought process went. (Sorry if it seems sloppy, my mind goes all over the place.)
Everyone thinks of the birth of Christ as leading up to the Greatest Sacrifice - His death for our salvation. But I think I have to disagree with this viewpoint. There was a greater sacrifice that came first, that we think about and talk about all the time, and yet we overlook. The Baby Jesus. People sometimes use the phrase "you can't put God in a box." Well, in a way that's true. We can't (shouldn't) limit God by placing our own parameters around Him. But that's because He did it already Himself. He placed Himself in the box of human flesh. God is this infinite, all-seeing, all-knowing, all-present God, outside Time and Space and History and Future. And yet, He chose to limit Himself. For our sake. The Son part of the Trinity pretty much gave up his essential God-ness in order to place Himself in our shoes. It's sort of like an author and her characters. The author has the omnipotent, omnipresent viewpoint: The story, all of it - beginning, middle, end - happens, is happening, is always happening, in her mind. She knows, sees, the characters at every stage of development, and at any moment, she can see the character at any or all of the stages. She knows who's good, who's bad, who's right, who's wrong. She knows, sees, the outcome of each plot, each subplot. But the characters don't. They think, feel, live, from the moment, from their limited viewpoint.
Essentially, God became a character in His own story. He took Himself out of His infinite God-ness and placed Himself in a finite, frail, human body. A body that pees and poops and drools and aches and hurts and cries and feels pain. And He placed Himself into a soul that feels emotion, triumph, joy, sadness, tenderness, anger, love. And that rages with itself against itself. He became human. For us. He felt everything that humans feel. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Think about that for a minute. People throw around the phrase, "Jesus went through all the same temptations you and I go through." But what are the implications of that? Do we really think about it, let it sink in? Or do we just brush it aside as something we've known already? If Jesus went through all the same trials we do -- How many little temptations do we face each day without even realizing they're there? How many times, when Jesus was trying to be God to a prostitute, did his humanness try to take over? How many times did He really just want to smack one of His disciples up side the head, and think, "Why, oh why must I be God right now?" How many times did He want to throw a fit growing up, or talk back to His mother, or hit one of His brothers? How often was He tempted to steal? Did He ever envy the kings and emporers of His day, knowing that while He was greater than they, He was required to suffer as a human?
I sort of just let my thoughts wander on this topic. It's amazing, really, to think about what all "humanness" meant to Jesus. God basically caged himself for 33 years. He felt time. How often did his soul ache from not being able to be fully himself? I know a little of that feeling when I can't get to my writing for a long time, because writing is such an expression of who I am, that to be unable to express myself makes me feel less myself. Does this make sense? And yes, God is "outside" of time, but He willingly placed Himself in Time, so that He could better understand us.
I was talking to my husband about all this tonight, and he brought up an interesting point. When Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, it wasn't just about disobedience. It was about them having something that belonged to God. What did they eat? Fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Perspective. They attained viewpoint. They saw a little more like God saw. And so, to fix the breach, God had to see a little more like we see.
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