Thursday, April 25, 2013


The Boy-Man took a hard hit in the chest during lacrosse practice . . . 

I had shared this personal story on Twitter and the day afterwards a question permeated my thoughts:

     What if . . . He didn't? Would I still think God is good, then?

The truth is, I might not.

It was ten years ago on the same day when my son could have died from the direct hit by a lacrosse ball, that a routine ultrasound discovered the nearly five-month-old baby growing inside of me no longer had a heartbeat.

The first thing my groom said to me that day as we were sitting in the doctor's office was, "Talk to me. Keep talking to me." He sensed this could drive a wedge between us. God gave him discernment that this part in our story would have a huge impact on our relationship. And the next day when I delivered her, he allowed the space between us to fill with quiet and prayed for peace in the silence.

So many people tried to shrug off the magnitude of that experience, commenting about how normal and common miscarriages are. Nothing anyone said helped. No one knew how I felt.

I tried to conceal the gut-wrenching ache and stuff  it down as I felt shame for my pain.

How dare I feel sad when there are women who carry full-term and deliver dead babies?! 

I cried on my way home from work every day for exactly two weeks, and then lived in a stupor with crassness searing deep into my attitude for months. I hadn't realized the length to my grieving, nor had I considered that some people might assign a time table to grief, when suddenly a loved one spatted at me to "get over it!"

That I would ever get over this was something I dismissed as impossible. I wasn't sure I'd ever heal from the wounds of all those years ago.

Slamming the door shut, I kept friends and even family out of my heart and my life. I tortured myself as I assigned blame that wasn't mine for the taking. Even after birthing a healthy miracle, I still found myself searching for an answer.

It took nearly eight years for a tipping point, a moment when I was ready to hear God and for my perspective to shift:

That baby had purpose. Her story still has purpose. 

Greeting our 8 year-old Boy-Man as he awoke the morning after his scary lacrosse incident, I hugged him a little longer, and that question filled my heart:

     Would I'd still think He's good if . . . ? 

The truth is, God's grace wins, no matter what. All can be counted as a gift.

     Even if . . .
     Even when . . . 

I can trust this is truth. And this I must believe, for my spirit aches with a knowing that it is.

That moment when my groom responded with an immediacy to the prompting he had to pull me tight and plead with me to stay near him . . .

     and then . . .

All those moments that have stood between us like a thin and fragile rope, as though our whole story of togetherness was dangling in the wind and poised to be shredded apart . . .

     and even . . .

The moments of not even being sure I liked him or wanted to stay . . .

With all of this, there has been purpose.

I can be sure He's grown us closer to His heart, widened our faith, and stretched our ability to comprehend truth . . . in the happy, even ugly, and especially brutally painful, parts of our story.

And even when I don't see it or believe it, the truth remains: All. Is. For. Purpose. 


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