Have you ever read the book of Job in the Bible? It's always been a book I struggled through and didn't really like. It's all about loss and unwanted advice from family and hurtful comments from friends and the reality of God being God. But it's the story every woman who miscarries can relate to. You know what I'm talking about. We've all heard--"That's just nature's way of getting rid of something that didn't grow right." and "It's not like you lost an actual child." And, from the 'churchfolk'--"You shouldn't feel empty. God is all you need." and "God needed your babies more than you did." What I like about the book of Job is that God didn't get mad at Job for asking questions and for wailing out his pain. But God did get mad at Job's friends who acted like they were speaking for God, like they knew why God did things and how God thought. When people make those comments and when they tell me how I 'should' feel, I just remember Job and those comments lose their sting completely (well, almost completely).
After every loss, I run from the world and fling myself into God's arms, and, like Jacob at Peniel, I 'contend' with God. It's not about anger, or at least, not only about anger. It's the whole process, the hope, the loss, the pain, the despair, the anger, all of it, start to finish. I contend with Him to settle things between us, to bring peace and healing to our relationship. I contend with Him because I can't move on with my life until I do. And so I leave the world behind and isolate myself with my God -- alternately clinging to Him and wrestling with Him, resting in Him and struggling against Him, crying out to Him and lashing out at Him. And, through the darkness, I refuse to let go. I won't let go because, although losing my babies wounds me, losing my God would destroy me. I can't let go because He is life and breath, and letting go would be the end of me. So I hold on until the light dawns, and then, at last, I surrender. I surrender to His will and to His incomprehensible love--a love that would sacrifice His own Son for me, but would still allow such awful pain and loss into my life. God's love makes no sense to me, that He would love me so deeply when I am so unworthy, and that He would hurt me so deeply when He loves me so much. But, in the light of a new dawn, my faith is renewed. My questions remain unanswered, but since "faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see (Heb. 11:1)" that's what I hold on to--I have to believe there is a purpose, a good and loving and perfect purpose, that I can't see. I have to believe that or I couldn't live through so much loss. And, by believing that, I can put my questions aside until I get to heaven, and I can heal, and I can finally move on.
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