“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (Matthew 11:28-30 MSG)
The day of the ultrasound was the day it all started to unravel. Gradually I was able to grasp at the bare threads of what I had called my faith and cover the nakedness of my reality for a few more months.
And then the preacher said there was a plan. That God had a plan for every one of our days before we ever drew a breath. Even for this? For me? For her?!
That was the end of religion as a philosophy, as a way of life for me.
I had experienced God's presence in my life at critical moments. Junctures of crisis. At my dad's deathbed. Through smokey, sweaty, drunken attempts to fill the aching void. At my first pregnancy's porcelain funeral. In front of a lonely post-partum sink full of dishes.
But, then, here was this precious, fragile, fiery bundle of life with endless unknowns who had shattered the boundaries of what I thought I had mastered as a mother.
A placation, a momentary salve from a Higher Power wasn't going to cut it this time. If He was out there and could be found, I had to have real answers, even if they were not what I wanted to hear.
At my invitation, He made Himself known. Not how I expected. Not in my time. Beyond my dreams.
Some questions have been answered
but not others.
I am still unravelled
but I am at peace.
I know I am not alone. And more importantly, she isn't. I don't know yet whether He planned this for her. I am less certain whether it would be good or bad if He did.
I've learned how to hand the pain to Him, the struggle. How not to have to be in control. How to rest in the uncertainty of life - both mine and hers. How to sign the spiritual surgical consent form and that it's my choice. That there is no wrong question to ask and that there may never be answers.
I've completely unravelled.
And that's ok.