Beautiful post about vulnerability...
http://saltwaterandhoney.org/blog/why-the-book-is-always-better-than-the-film
Couldn't put it better myself.
Saturday, 31 August 2013
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
Light and Shadow
Life is full of light and shadow,
Oh the joy and oh the sorrow.
Thus begins one of my favourite songs, by David Crowder Band. I spent much of my early twenties being amazed as I saw that these words are true. I couldn't believe the amount of struggle and pain that my friends had, along with all the joy and good news.
Growing up, there were obviously shadows: grandparents dying, friends losing their parents, huge struggles with body image and lots of grief over boys I fancied who didn't fancy me (!)... Which, while they seem very hard at the time, looking back (and hearing other people talk about their own childhood) I see that these weren't deep shadows. They were more like those half shadows you get from a streetlamp at dusk. There was a huge amount of light in our home: music, faith, structure, support, love etc etc.
Perhaps this is one reason for my amazement at the situations in which my friends and I found ourselves.
Over the past 4/5 years, that amazement has gone. There's no surprise any more. Life is hard.
We have seen (in our lives and in others') many causes for joy over the past few years: new jobs, new homes, new babies, amazing holidays, wonderful music-making, friendship groups formed, new missionaries sent, new couples, new engagements......
But oh the sorrow: children losing a parent at a young age, miscarriages, divorces, jobs lost, stories of abuse, cancer diagnoses, addictions, depression, broken relationships...
I'm no longer surprised by the sorrow. But I am often surprised at people's response. Someone very recently, on receiving some devastating news, told me how aware they were of their blessings. Another friend constantly amazed me throughout her diagnosis and treatment of cancer, with her positivity, her attitude of looking for the good in her circumstance, and her willingness to use her 'trial' to serve others.
The song continues: Yet will He bring dark to light, Yet will He bring day from night.
Last year, after our miscarriage, someone (who, when he said this, didn't know about the miscarriage) told me how much joy he saw in me. That I seemed more joyful than I had after only 2/3 years of trying for a baby. Soon after, I wrote these words:
"I am amazed at how I can still find joy in other people's babies. Others' pregnancies are still harder, but I still love babies and want to be around them. I am amazed at how much grace I feel is being given to me, to not only cope with our loss, but to more than cope.
I've almost thrived on it. It's like I've said to myself, "I was always petrified of having a miscarriage, but now I know that I can get through it. What else is there to fear?" Of course, that wasn't myself but God telling me that I am stronger than I think - because He is stronger than I think.
I would never have believed, had someone told me 2 years ago, that I would feel more peace, more contentment, more upheld in prayer, more trusting in God now, after 4 years of infertility, than I did after 2 years!
Steve spoke yesterday about God taking us through the storm, not around it. Of course, in one sense, I wish this storm hadn't come our way. But when I think of all that God has wrought in me over these years, how could I bypass that growth just so my impatience could be satisfied?
The situation will change, one day. But the beauty grown from this season will remain."
Oh the joy and oh the sorrow.
Thus begins one of my favourite songs, by David Crowder Band. I spent much of my early twenties being amazed as I saw that these words are true. I couldn't believe the amount of struggle and pain that my friends had, along with all the joy and good news.
Growing up, there were obviously shadows: grandparents dying, friends losing their parents, huge struggles with body image and lots of grief over boys I fancied who didn't fancy me (!)... Which, while they seem very hard at the time, looking back (and hearing other people talk about their own childhood) I see that these weren't deep shadows. They were more like those half shadows you get from a streetlamp at dusk. There was a huge amount of light in our home: music, faith, structure, support, love etc etc.
Perhaps this is one reason for my amazement at the situations in which my friends and I found ourselves.
Over the past 4/5 years, that amazement has gone. There's no surprise any more. Life is hard.
We have seen (in our lives and in others') many causes for joy over the past few years: new jobs, new homes, new babies, amazing holidays, wonderful music-making, friendship groups formed, new missionaries sent, new couples, new engagements......
But oh the sorrow: children losing a parent at a young age, miscarriages, divorces, jobs lost, stories of abuse, cancer diagnoses, addictions, depression, broken relationships...
I'm no longer surprised by the sorrow. But I am often surprised at people's response. Someone very recently, on receiving some devastating news, told me how aware they were of their blessings. Another friend constantly amazed me throughout her diagnosis and treatment of cancer, with her positivity, her attitude of looking for the good in her circumstance, and her willingness to use her 'trial' to serve others.
The song continues: Yet will He bring dark to light, Yet will He bring day from night.
Last year, after our miscarriage, someone (who, when he said this, didn't know about the miscarriage) told me how much joy he saw in me. That I seemed more joyful than I had after only 2/3 years of trying for a baby. Soon after, I wrote these words:
"I am amazed at how I can still find joy in other people's babies. Others' pregnancies are still harder, but I still love babies and want to be around them. I am amazed at how much grace I feel is being given to me, to not only cope with our loss, but to more than cope.
I've almost thrived on it. It's like I've said to myself, "I was always petrified of having a miscarriage, but now I know that I can get through it. What else is there to fear?" Of course, that wasn't myself but God telling me that I am stronger than I think - because He is stronger than I think.
I would never have believed, had someone told me 2 years ago, that I would feel more peace, more contentment, more upheld in prayer, more trusting in God now, after 4 years of infertility, than I did after 2 years!
Steve spoke yesterday about God taking us through the storm, not around it. Of course, in one sense, I wish this storm hadn't come our way. But when I think of all that God has wrought in me over these years, how could I bypass that growth just so my impatience could be satisfied?
The situation will change, one day. But the beauty grown from this season will remain."
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
What's in the name?
We don't long for a son more than we long for a daughter. We would love lots of daughters and sons, or just one daughter, or twin sons. Whatever our future family looks like, we will love them.
So why 'Hoping for a Samuel'?
Surely any Christian who has struggled with infertility has looked more than once at the story of Hannah. Her husband has another wife, who is uber-fertile and pops out babies like there's no tomorrow. But Hannah is barren. Totally devastating at any point in history. But in addition to the longing and sorrow, was the shame that she would have felt; ancient societies saw it as a great disgrace for a woman not to be able to bear children.
Hannah goes to the temple to pray, whilst everyone else is celebrating a big festival. She is distraught. As she prays, she cries so much that she appears drunk. The priest, Eli, first tells her to take her drunken self out of the temple - then realises she's sober, but sorrowful, and he blesses her. He asks the Lord to grant her request. Doesn't say that God defiinitely will answer her prayer - in fact, Eli might not have even known what Hannah was praying about - but Eli is on her side.
And the end of Hannah's story is that she does get pregnant. Her son is Samuel, one of the most significant prophets in the Old Testament. It's likely that Hannah spent very few years with her longed-for son, because 'after he was weaned' she took him to the temple (back to Eli) to learn to be a priest. All those years waiting for a baby, and she has only a few years with him.
There is a lot to relate to in Hannah's story. I have certainly felt pangs (an understatement) of jealousy when other women get pregnant, especially 'by accident'. I have cried lots, at church, at home, on trains, in the car. I often like to cry alone. But I very much appreciate the comfort of knowing someone is praying for and thinking of me.
So back to the title. We hope that God will give us a child. We hope for an answer to our prayer, just like Hannah found in her son Samuel. But it's more than that. It's saying, I'm going to be like Hannah who went to worship in the midst of her distress. We don't know whether we will eventually get pregnant naturally, or whether we'll adopt, or never have a family. But I'm going to worship.
There's this wonderful chorus to an old hymn:
Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
look full in His wonderful face
and the things of the earth will grow strangely dim
in the light of His Glory and Grace.
After almost 5 years of struggle, I can tell you with utmost confidence that these words are powerfully, wonderfully true.
So why 'Hoping for a Samuel'?
Surely any Christian who has struggled with infertility has looked more than once at the story of Hannah. Her husband has another wife, who is uber-fertile and pops out babies like there's no tomorrow. But Hannah is barren. Totally devastating at any point in history. But in addition to the longing and sorrow, was the shame that she would have felt; ancient societies saw it as a great disgrace for a woman not to be able to bear children.
Hannah goes to the temple to pray, whilst everyone else is celebrating a big festival. She is distraught. As she prays, she cries so much that she appears drunk. The priest, Eli, first tells her to take her drunken self out of the temple - then realises she's sober, but sorrowful, and he blesses her. He asks the Lord to grant her request. Doesn't say that God defiinitely will answer her prayer - in fact, Eli might not have even known what Hannah was praying about - but Eli is on her side.
And the end of Hannah's story is that she does get pregnant. Her son is Samuel, one of the most significant prophets in the Old Testament. It's likely that Hannah spent very few years with her longed-for son, because 'after he was weaned' she took him to the temple (back to Eli) to learn to be a priest. All those years waiting for a baby, and she has only a few years with him.
There is a lot to relate to in Hannah's story. I have certainly felt pangs (an understatement) of jealousy when other women get pregnant, especially 'by accident'. I have cried lots, at church, at home, on trains, in the car. I often like to cry alone. But I very much appreciate the comfort of knowing someone is praying for and thinking of me.
So back to the title. We hope that God will give us a child. We hope for an answer to our prayer, just like Hannah found in her son Samuel. But it's more than that. It's saying, I'm going to be like Hannah who went to worship in the midst of her distress. We don't know whether we will eventually get pregnant naturally, or whether we'll adopt, or never have a family. But I'm going to worship.
There's this wonderful chorus to an old hymn:
Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
look full in His wonderful face
and the things of the earth will grow strangely dim
in the light of His Glory and Grace.
After almost 5 years of struggle, I can tell you with utmost confidence that these words are powerfully, wonderfully true.
Wednesday, 7 August 2013
Relentless
Infertility is relentless. It consumes your thoughts, your diets, your reaction to your own body, your timetable. People often say to me how hard the disappointment must be each month, month after month, year after year. And yes, that is the worst part emotionally. But, in fact, the whole month is taken over: first by the period (grieving over the lack of pregnancy on top of the usual hormones and pains), then begins the wait for ovulation (which for someone like me with PCOS is a longer wait than 'normal', all the time thinking "am I eating right? are we having sex at the right time? have we missed this month's chance?"), then the dreaded '2 Week Wait' (all the time thinking "has it worked?" and trying desperately not to calculate dates or imagine being pregnant). It's a relentless trial for emotions, thought-life and conversation.
We first told others about our troubles with getting pregnant after about 18 months. We were met with sad looks and surprise (we both seem very healthy) but with assurances that it would happen soon. After all, my cycles were even longer at that time, so 18 months probably only meant 15 cycles and thus 15 opportunities to conceive. Now it's been over 4 1/2 years and I can't bring myself to count the number of opportunities lost; we must be verging on 50. You'd think it gets easier to deal with the disappointment. And in some ways it does, because I know that many times before I have got on with life, continued to work, eat, sing, laugh and enjoy life. But somehow the surprise that this month hasn't been the miracle month doesn't go away.
Perhaps I'm just too darn hopeful. I hope that, despite years of evidence to the contrary, we are physically capable of getting pregnant. I hold out hope that one day I'll have that big belly and be able to complain about horrid pregnancy symptoms. I hope that, since we started quite young, we still have time on our side. I still hope that it might happen naturally and without too much intervention (naive, perhaps, but hope is stubborn and strong). I hope that we won't just stop at one, that we might even have twins and that I'll be pregnant more than once in my life.
Those are the stubborn and, as I say, potentially naive hopes.
But there are other hopes that have grown over the past few years.
I hope that our experience of infertility will help us to counsel and support couples going through the same thing in the future. I hope that my experience of miscarriage will give me the only line that is of use to a woman in that situation: "I know how you feel." I hope that I have grown in faith and in worship, and that my life will reflect the spiritual learning that has gone along with our struggle. I hope that this wait, this long wait when at times I feel I am hanging by a thread, this long relentless wait, will be something I look back on when life gets tough in future - and I'll be able to say, "I got through that with God. With my friend Jesus and with the comfort that worshipping Him brought", so I can get through the next wait, the next struggle - without relenting.
We first told others about our troubles with getting pregnant after about 18 months. We were met with sad looks and surprise (we both seem very healthy) but with assurances that it would happen soon. After all, my cycles were even longer at that time, so 18 months probably only meant 15 cycles and thus 15 opportunities to conceive. Now it's been over 4 1/2 years and I can't bring myself to count the number of opportunities lost; we must be verging on 50. You'd think it gets easier to deal with the disappointment. And in some ways it does, because I know that many times before I have got on with life, continued to work, eat, sing, laugh and enjoy life. But somehow the surprise that this month hasn't been the miracle month doesn't go away.
Perhaps I'm just too darn hopeful. I hope that, despite years of evidence to the contrary, we are physically capable of getting pregnant. I hold out hope that one day I'll have that big belly and be able to complain about horrid pregnancy symptoms. I hope that, since we started quite young, we still have time on our side. I still hope that it might happen naturally and without too much intervention (naive, perhaps, but hope is stubborn and strong). I hope that we won't just stop at one, that we might even have twins and that I'll be pregnant more than once in my life.
Those are the stubborn and, as I say, potentially naive hopes.
But there are other hopes that have grown over the past few years.
I hope that our experience of infertility will help us to counsel and support couples going through the same thing in the future. I hope that my experience of miscarriage will give me the only line that is of use to a woman in that situation: "I know how you feel." I hope that I have grown in faith and in worship, and that my life will reflect the spiritual learning that has gone along with our struggle. I hope that this wait, this long wait when at times I feel I am hanging by a thread, this long relentless wait, will be something I look back on when life gets tough in future - and I'll be able to say, "I got through that with God. With my friend Jesus and with the comfort that worshipping Him brought", so I can get through the next wait, the next struggle - without relenting.
A little background
It was 5 years ago this summer that I first got really broody. We had taken our youth group camping, to Soul Survivor. As youthworkers we'd always imagined youthwork and babies as fairly incompatible but at this camp, for the first time, I saw people just like me with babies. And still doing youthwork. And still camping. The latter was not so exciting, but the possibility that our lifestyle might still work with a baby or two got me very excited.
So we started 'trying'. (Such an awful term. As if you just sit there in a state of 'zen', imagining yourself pregnant until it becomes a reality) We prayed about it but didn't tell anyone, as we imagined the first time we'd need to talk about this would be to announce good news. I looked at all the stats: each cycle you have a 25% chance of getting pregnant; most couples will conceive within 6 months; 90% will conceive within 1 year. I was torn between "I can't wait" and "I actually hope I don't get pregnant before my big sister!"
My cycles were long and we didn't know many of the details (ovulation predictor kits, cycle length and its effect etc.) that we know now. And we took a month off every now and then, so as not to have a baby at a particularly busy time of the ministry year. Looking back, taking a month 'off' seems laughable, as it's so unlikely we would have conceived anyway.
After 18 months of heartache, we told more people and went to the doctor about our struggles. He didn't seem too troubled by our infertility (technically, if you don't conceive after 1 year, you're classed as infertile, but it doesn't mean you can't possibly have kids) but he sent us off for tests. Hubbie is fine, for which we are very thankful. But several tests later (one of which was particularly horrid and felt like being blown up like a balloon) I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovaries. My GP put me on Metformin, which is supposed to help regulate insulin, and sent me to the Gynaecologist. At this point we were thinking, Great, now we know the problem, we can fix it.
Fast forward 6-9 months and we eventually get to see the Gyn. He asks me if I want IVF. Straight out. I think I was 26 at this point. The wonderful system says, let's not do more investigations, let's not try to level out these hormones, let's take all the hope of doing this naturally away. I think the doctors just want as much control as possible. When I said no (at least, 'not yet') to IVF, he then offered IUI - if you're not sure what IUI is, you can look it up, but it's delicately nicknamed 'turkey-basting'. We did not get on well with that and actually really disliked the clinic. Everyone there was lovely - great nurses - but the place has a strangeness that it's hard to pinpoint.
Back we go to the Gyn. For a while, I'd been wondering why he hadn't prescribed me Clomid, which is meant to boost ovulation, especially in women with PCOS. He'd dismissed it at our first appointment, but finally after a bit of pushing from hubbie and a lot of crying from me (!) he prescribed it. I'm a Clomid baby, so I was hopeful that this would help us.
Well, it did - 3 cycles into Clomid, we got pregnant. Ah, 3 weeks of joy and hope after 3 and 1/2 years of disappointment. But at our 8 week scan we were told that the foetus hadn't developed (called a 'Blighted Ovum') and we had had a 'missed miscarriage'. 3 weeks later I physically miscarried. Totally devastating. A year later and it still makes me well up every time I think about it.
Since then we've had 9 more months of Clomid, with no discernible effect. And a couple of weeks ago the Gyn told us we couldn't have any more, but that the next stage might be to have FSH injections, which 'force' ovulation. Sounds lovely.
Right now, I'm investigating 'ttcn' (trying to conceive naturally) which is basically about getting your body into the best state possible for having a baby. For the moment, we just want to carry on trying naturally rather than move onto more invasive approaches - partly because every time we see the Gyn, he says, "There's no reason why you shouldn't get pregnant." Which is encouraging. And highly frustrating!
So we started 'trying'. (Such an awful term. As if you just sit there in a state of 'zen', imagining yourself pregnant until it becomes a reality) We prayed about it but didn't tell anyone, as we imagined the first time we'd need to talk about this would be to announce good news. I looked at all the stats: each cycle you have a 25% chance of getting pregnant; most couples will conceive within 6 months; 90% will conceive within 1 year. I was torn between "I can't wait" and "I actually hope I don't get pregnant before my big sister!"
My cycles were long and we didn't know many of the details (ovulation predictor kits, cycle length and its effect etc.) that we know now. And we took a month off every now and then, so as not to have a baby at a particularly busy time of the ministry year. Looking back, taking a month 'off' seems laughable, as it's so unlikely we would have conceived anyway.
After 18 months of heartache, we told more people and went to the doctor about our struggles. He didn't seem too troubled by our infertility (technically, if you don't conceive after 1 year, you're classed as infertile, but it doesn't mean you can't possibly have kids) but he sent us off for tests. Hubbie is fine, for which we are very thankful. But several tests later (one of which was particularly horrid and felt like being blown up like a balloon) I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovaries. My GP put me on Metformin, which is supposed to help regulate insulin, and sent me to the Gynaecologist. At this point we were thinking, Great, now we know the problem, we can fix it.
Fast forward 6-9 months and we eventually get to see the Gyn. He asks me if I want IVF. Straight out. I think I was 26 at this point. The wonderful system says, let's not do more investigations, let's not try to level out these hormones, let's take all the hope of doing this naturally away. I think the doctors just want as much control as possible. When I said no (at least, 'not yet') to IVF, he then offered IUI - if you're not sure what IUI is, you can look it up, but it's delicately nicknamed 'turkey-basting'. We did not get on well with that and actually really disliked the clinic. Everyone there was lovely - great nurses - but the place has a strangeness that it's hard to pinpoint.
Back we go to the Gyn. For a while, I'd been wondering why he hadn't prescribed me Clomid, which is meant to boost ovulation, especially in women with PCOS. He'd dismissed it at our first appointment, but finally after a bit of pushing from hubbie and a lot of crying from me (!) he prescribed it. I'm a Clomid baby, so I was hopeful that this would help us.
Well, it did - 3 cycles into Clomid, we got pregnant. Ah, 3 weeks of joy and hope after 3 and 1/2 years of disappointment. But at our 8 week scan we were told that the foetus hadn't developed (called a 'Blighted Ovum') and we had had a 'missed miscarriage'. 3 weeks later I physically miscarried. Totally devastating. A year later and it still makes me well up every time I think about it.
Since then we've had 9 more months of Clomid, with no discernible effect. And a couple of weeks ago the Gyn told us we couldn't have any more, but that the next stage might be to have FSH injections, which 'force' ovulation. Sounds lovely.
Right now, I'm investigating 'ttcn' (trying to conceive naturally) which is basically about getting your body into the best state possible for having a baby. For the moment, we just want to carry on trying naturally rather than move onto more invasive approaches - partly because every time we see the Gyn, he says, "There's no reason why you shouldn't get pregnant." Which is encouraging. And highly frustrating!
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