Last Sunday was Opposite Day.
Uptempo music, people dancing on stage, hands lifted, streamers falling in rainbow cascades from the ceiling. It was a celebration of celebrations.
I watched it from the front row. Not participating but practicing my poker face. It was joy-loaded worship all around me and I was sneaking tears and clenching my jaw. Trying to hold it together. My body was there in the front, my eyes locked on the colorful screen and the words that spelled God’s goodness. But my mind was not.
My mind was in the bathroom (the less than awesome bathroom) of the Crest Theater, locked in a brown-beige stall, crying into 1-ply toilet paper. Screaming at God.
Two days prior we had found out—entirely unexpectedly—that I wasn’t the only one with fertility issues. Trev brought complications to the table too. Our chances had slimmed considerably.
I’d like to say that when I heard my doctor relaying this information to me over the phone, I channeled my inner Han Solo, bucked up and told her, “Don’t tell me the odds!” and hung up with a roguish smile and a concrete faith.
I did not.
It took two days to hit, but when it did it hit hard. We might not be out of the race yet, but conceiving will be significantly more difficult than it already was. You know what’s interesting, though? Trev and I are really in this together now.
He’s been an amazing, unbelievable support and rock to me this whole time. But now we both have skin in the game like we didn’t before. And as sad as it is and unfair as it seems, it’s also sort of beautiful.
We mourn this, we celebrate this, we whatever this – together.
This week I prayed for wonder. I sat in the car bawling my face off with one song on repeat, asking Jesus to show me something. To fill me with wonder, to do that A-Team thing again, to give me joy and hold me up because I needed it badly.
And because (dangit) I know He wouldn’t allow this to happen and give me a voice if He wasn’t going to do something with it.
So do something. I’m ready.
It was the longest prayer I’ve prayed in months. And all week, He showed up in the details. Bits of encouragement here and there, little handholds of hope to reach for. Moments of peace.
I have no idea what’s going to happen. But I do know in child-bearing or barrenness, God will move. The story will (continue to) be a beautiful one. And the wonder it brings will far outweigh the pain.
Isaiah 55:10-13 The Voice (VOICE)
For as rain and snow can’t go back once they’ve fallen,
but soak into the ground
And nourish the plants that grow,
providing seed to the farmer and bread for the hungry,
So it is when I declare something.
My word will go out and not return to Me empty,
But it will do what I wanted;
it will accomplish what I determined.
For you will go out in joy, be led home in peace.
And as you go the land itself will break out in cheers;
The mountains and the hills will erupt in song,
and the trees of the field will clap their hands.
Prickly thorns and nasty briers will give way
to luxurious shade trees, sweet and good.
And they’ll remind you of the Eternal One
and how God can be trusted absolutely and forever.