The (Holy) Ghostwriter
Can I be honest here? The morning after we publicly announced our pregnancy, I woke up with the MOST anxiety I've had in recent history. The pit was dark and deep and not explainable. While I recognized this baby as SUCH an unforeseen gift, I equally felt disconnected from any good emotions attached to her. Removed. People's tears and happiness for us seemed to be happening elsewhere, perhaps on a distant planet. Fear and worry were my constant companions.
This is control's calling card. (I speak from YEARS of expertise trying to subdue the ugly internal-Laura control beast. We call her "Bad Laura" or "Badura" for short.) As with our adoption, making this pregnancy public increasingly confronted us (Read: Me) with the vulnerability of failure. Because I can't manage the baby's growth or health beyond what I am physically doing for myself. Historically, Badura has done a crap job of controlling infertility treatments, foster placements, and an Ethiopian adoption process. Not a stellar track record. And I find that past failures or lost dreams can taint how we view God and our future. It becomes easier to believe that there's good in store for OTHERS, that God loves THEM unconditionally. He might be on the fence about us though, or at least ME.
But that's a load of bull doo-doo. As I said in a post about unanswered prayer, "You cannot measure God’s love in your life by the (negative or positive) answers you receive to your prayers." Those are human, American standards. Not that we can't pray and hope for the best, but -if an outcome isn't positive- we don't have to carry that as a punishment either (regardless of how it FEELS). Our limited vision concerning tragedies and triumphs doesn't change God's character. He is the same God throughout our entire roller coaster journey and His affection for us never changes.
Nice words, but hard to remember IN THE MIDST of a situation. Like when we found out baby girl was going to need a second ultrasound to clarify an anomaly detected in the first. This Mama lost her mind. Legitimately. Even Chick-Fil-A fries, a milkshake, and Netflix only dulled the crazy. My brain, medicated once more with Zoloft (A safe pregnancy drug = Evidence Jesus exists), was All.Over.The.Place. "Here it comes," I thought. "The complication I KNEW would happen because, of course, it would." My upset words to God quickly became desperate. Lying in bed that night, I felt paralyzed by fear of the unknown, the worst-case scenario. The lack of control.
And then Jesus (or, as I jokingly told my friends, the Zoloft) clearly spoke, a truth arrow piercing my messed-up mindspace: "This baby IS a miracle. This is YOUR story, but you have to let ME write it." Wow. I heard the above phrase as through the ears of a child. Like a patient parent whispering to their toddler "driving" behind the steering wheel of a parked car, "The real deal, little one, is my responsibility. It's fun to pretend, but you're safest with me at the helm. Hands off, I've got this. And no matter how strongly you assert your 'authority,' I won't relinquish control. Because I love you."
Long story short (Too late!), the second ultrasound quelled our concerns. But even if it hadn't, God would be no less present in our story. As believers, we aren't promised a perfect life or happy endings on this earth. However we ARE promised the strength of a faithful Savior by our side. I am trying (Key word: Trying!) to rest and rejoice in that. To give thanks for the blessings of today: Breath in my lungs, a husband to hold, a miracle girl kicking my kidneys. I can't control tomorrow, I can't foresee the next chapter. This isn't an excuse to linger on a fainting couch (Except, okay, maybe if you're pregnant?) or eke out a passive slug existence. We can choose to fully, abundantly participate in our days, packing the script of life's pages. Ultimately though, we have to trust the wisdom of the Guy holding the pen.
This is control's calling card. (I speak from YEARS of expertise trying to subdue the ugly internal-Laura control beast. We call her "Bad Laura" or "Badura" for short.) As with our adoption, making this pregnancy public increasingly confronted us (Read: Me) with the vulnerability of failure. Because I can't manage the baby's growth or health beyond what I am physically doing for myself. Historically, Badura has done a crap job of controlling infertility treatments, foster placements, and an Ethiopian adoption process. Not a stellar track record. And I find that past failures or lost dreams can taint how we view God and our future. It becomes easier to believe that there's good in store for OTHERS, that God loves THEM unconditionally. He might be on the fence about us though, or at least ME.
But that's a load of bull doo-doo. As I said in a post about unanswered prayer, "You cannot measure God’s love in your life by the (negative or positive) answers you receive to your prayers." Those are human, American standards. Not that we can't pray and hope for the best, but -if an outcome isn't positive- we don't have to carry that as a punishment either (regardless of how it FEELS). Our limited vision concerning tragedies and triumphs doesn't change God's character. He is the same God throughout our entire roller coaster journey and His affection for us never changes.
Nice words, but hard to remember IN THE MIDST of a situation. Like when we found out baby girl was going to need a second ultrasound to clarify an anomaly detected in the first. This Mama lost her mind. Legitimately. Even Chick-Fil-A fries, a milkshake, and Netflix only dulled the crazy. My brain, medicated once more with Zoloft (A safe pregnancy drug = Evidence Jesus exists), was All.Over.The.Place. "Here it comes," I thought. "The complication I KNEW would happen because, of course, it would." My upset words to God quickly became desperate. Lying in bed that night, I felt paralyzed by fear of the unknown, the worst-case scenario. The lack of control.
And then Jesus (or, as I jokingly told my friends, the Zoloft) clearly spoke, a truth arrow piercing my messed-up mindspace: "This baby IS a miracle. This is YOUR story, but you have to let ME write it." Wow. I heard the above phrase as through the ears of a child. Like a patient parent whispering to their toddler "driving" behind the steering wheel of a parked car, "The real deal, little one, is my responsibility. It's fun to pretend, but you're safest with me at the helm. Hands off, I've got this. And no matter how strongly you assert your 'authority,' I won't relinquish control. Because I love you."
Long story short (Too late!), the second ultrasound quelled our concerns. But even if it hadn't, God would be no less present in our story. As believers, we aren't promised a perfect life or happy endings on this earth. However we ARE promised the strength of a faithful Savior by our side. I am trying (Key word: Trying!) to rest and rejoice in that. To give thanks for the blessings of today: Breath in my lungs, a husband to hold, a miracle girl kicking my kidneys. I can't control tomorrow, I can't foresee the next chapter. This isn't an excuse to linger on a fainting couch (Except, okay, maybe if you're pregnant?) or eke out a passive slug existence. We can choose to fully, abundantly participate in our days, packing the script of life's pages. Ultimately though, we have to trust the wisdom of the Guy holding the pen.
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| A chapter we didn't expect! |
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