Month: February 2018

Singing My Theology, No. 1

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Me and a friend from college were having coffee together. Our conversation meandered through the topics of life updates, marriage, ministry, and how awkward it is to be in our thirties. Somewhere in our meanderings, we found ourselves discussing painful seasons of our lives and the angry honest conversations we’ve had with God. This is when she recited a line from a song: “The Lord knows the way through the wilderness…”

“Wait! Were we in that class together?!” Yes, we were. The class was called—please don’t make fun of me—”Pastor’s Wife and Ministry.” I know. It sounds absolutely ridiculous. But there were things we learned in that class that carried us through some of the hardest seasons of our lives. The main thing that stayed with us is a song the professor made us sing at the start of every class. (I know this is getting cheesy, but stay with me. I promise it’s gonna get better!) This would be a good time to mention that I’m a pianist, and for some reason, this class met in the choir room. So our sweet professor would say, “Esther, come to the piano,” and together we would sing,

The Lord knows the way through the wilderness,

and all I have to do is follow.

The Lord knows the way through the wilderness,

and all I have to do is follow.

Strength for today is mine all the way

and all that I need for tomorrow.

The Lord knows the way through the wilderness,

and all I have to do is follow.

The professor was (and still is) an amazing woman. Her name is Marcia Lednicky, but everybody calls her Sister Lednicky—not “Sister” like a nun, but like the way that old school people in some churches call each other “Brother So-and-So” or “Sister So-and-So.” She was the wife of our college president, and before being the First Lady of Central Bible College, she and her husband had a dynamic ministry that brought them all over the world. Now that they’re retired, their lives don’t look that much different; they’re still traveling the world and ministering together.

The best things we learned in class came from the wealth of stories Sister Lednicky shared with us. The ones that left the biggest impression on me were about her daughter who died when she was a little girl. (She even told us some of the nasty things people said to her at the height of her grief.) She’s no stranger to pain and heartache. So when she started every class with this song, she was purposefully searing the words into our minds. The Lord knows the way through the wilderness, and all I have to do is follow.

“One day,” she would say, “you’re gonna go through a really hard season in your life, and you’ll be crying over the sink while you wash the dishes, and you’re gonna be singin’ this song! The Lord know the way through the wilderness…” Every single young lady in that class laughed. We thought she was being silly. But I think that over the years, every single one of us did exactly what she said we would do. I’ve had numerous “The Lord knows that way through the wilderness” crying sessions. Some while doing dishes. A few in the car. At least once while kneeling on my bathroom floor.

There’s something about singing our theology that has a way of speaking deep into our souls in ways that words alone cannot.

Sometimes our heavy hearts need words of encouragement, but some emotions are too profound for words. Music goes deeper; it can speak in ways preachers can’t. So sing your theology. Sing it loud for the world to hear. Sing it even louder for your heart to hear.

Grieving My Imaginary Child

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On, May 19, 2017, I wrote these words in my journal:

“For a brief moment of quiet, when the only sound was the cars driving through puddles as they passed our street, I remembered my barrenness and cried. There’s something strange about grieving something like this. There’s no burial. No ceremony. No moment of closure. People keep saying words like, “We’ll keep believing for a miracle.” But I don’t want to keep believing for a miracle. I want to lament then move on. I want to not cry anymore. And for that brief moment, as I felt a tear stream down my face, a thought occurred to me: Am I depressed? Will this profound, dark feeling ever completely go away?”

(Before I proceed, I want to say that the words that follow do not come from a desire to compare the severity of the pain I’ve experienced with anyone else’s or to belittle what others have gone through. Pain is pain. It’s not a competition.)

In the months that followed my final “failed” pregnancy test, I had to navigate a lot of awkwardness. I didn’t have a miscarriage. It’s not that a miscarriage is any less painful—walking with friends who had miscarriages taught me that—but it’s different. In a miscarriage, there is a specific event that people can recognize as the starting point of grief and a tangible someone to grieve. So people know when to start giving comfort and why.

But with infertility, things are more vague. Something didn’t happen; something simply didn’t happen. And what’s more, grief makes little sense when the object is not a tangible someone but an idea. But though this grief may not seem to make sense, it’s still very real. In fact, the lack of concreteness and tangibility makes it much more difficult to recognize and label, thus making it more difficult to face.

Though much time has passed and a lot of healing has happened—including many intense conversations with God, some counseling sessions, coffee with friends who have been down the same road, writing pages and pages in my journal, and a myriad of other things—I still feel this grief from time to time.

There are the times when I’m scrolling through social media and see it: “We’re having a baby!” Don’t get me wrong…I’m sort of like Pinkie Pie from My Little Pony. I love celebrating with people—high pitched squealing and all. So when people in my life have wonderful news, I genuinely get excited. I lose nothing by celebrating with others. But for every, “Yay! You’re having a baby!” I’m also confronted with the reality that I am not. Celebration and grief are not mutually exclusive. This is the tension I live in.

There are the times when I stroll through Target. I’ve gotten pretty good at staying away and averting my eyes from baby and children’s stores. But at Target, the baby stuff is right there in the midst of everything. It’s across from the men’s section (where I find myself when I’m shopping with my husband) and right in front of the books (I LOVE books!). No matter what it is that brings me into Target on a given day, it’s inevitable that there will be a moment when, from a distance, a tiny, little outfit catches my eye. Maybe a little, pink dress with ribbons. Or a tiny ensemble, complete with a bow tie and suspenders. I’m a sucker for cute things, itty bitty outfits included. But after the initial swooning, it hits me. Grief.

And then there are the moments when I remember the baby Winnie the Pooh sitting in my closet. I bought it years ago when my husband and I started our journey of trying to have a baby. I was on a work trip to Disney World. I know that sounds like a dream, but I was chaperoning seven high school girls with seven very different personalities, so yeah, it was not bliss. Anyway, If you’ve never been to a Disney theme park, then you should know that the end of every ride spits you out into a gift shop based on the theme of whatever ride you were just on. It’s genius. Me and the girls had a special bonding moment when we were on the Winnie the Pooh ride and it broke. Workers actually came and got us and let us walk around a bit before leading us out to—you guessed it—the gift shop. That’s when I saw the little Pooh Bear wrapped in a detachable, baby blanket. The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted my baby to have it, so I bought it and held it in my arms as I walked all over the park.

That was the only gift I bought for my baby. I still have it in a box of dead dreams along with my favorite jeans that no longer fit. I think about it from time to time. I think of it every once in a while when I’m reaching up to grab items at the top of my closet. Or whenever one of my friends gets pregnant, I think about passing it along to them. What a special gift it would make, I say to myself. But something inside of me just can’t let it go. Maybe I never will.

I know that the child of my imagination isn’t real, but the love I had for them is. I prayed real prayers for them so many times. I prayed for them to be healthy. I prayed that my husband and I would be a good father and mother to them. I prayed that they would love God and follow Him with their whole heart. I prayed for their future. I prayed for the person they would one day marry. I prayed for God to use them to change the world. And the more I prayed for them, the more my love for them grew. Oh, sweet baby, how I wish you were real!

So the pain of never getting a chance to hear their heart beat, to hold them in my arms and touch all their little fingers and toes, to hear them laugh, to read them a bedtime story and tuck them in at night, to talk with them about their first love and college and big dreams—this pain is very real.

Real love. Real pain. Real grief.

All for an imaginary child.

“You have kept count of my tossing;

put my tears in your bottle.

Are they not in your book?”

Psalm 56:8

Questions for Contemplation & Conversation

With a topic like this, there are no easy answers, no easy fixes. But I write about these things because I want to break down the walls of awkwardness that keep so many people hidden and unseen. It’s my hope that together we can provide places where conversations infused with empathy, compassion, and dignity can thrive.

1. Is there someone or something you are grieving? Why is grief so important? What are tangible ways you can grieve well?

2. Does the Church have a place for women (and men) who are married but don’t have children? What are things the Church can do to help people navigate this kind of grief with dignity?

Let’s Talk about Theology

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I’ve been doing research for a big project and that means that I get to read books galore!!! (If you’re into the Clifton Strengths Finder test, my second top strength is intellection. My personalized strengths insights report said, “It’s very likely that you derive much satisfaction from reading books…” So, yeah. I LOVE books.) My husband, who shares my obsession, helped me pick books for my research. He wrote down titles by authors like C.S. Lewis and N.T. Wright.

And then there was one title he wrote down with a note: “Skim this. It might be helpful.” It was a book that talks about God helping us when we’re going through tough circumstances. I’m not going to name the book or author, but I’ll sum up one of his main ideas for you: Just trust Jesus; theology isn’t that important.

As the author proceeded to disparage theology, I wanted to shout, “You don’t understand what theology is!” As the great Inigo Montoya said, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Theology, simply put, is the study of God.

How can we trust God if we don’t know whether or not He’s trustworthy? And how can we know He’s trustworthy if we don’t even know who He is? The people we trust most aren’t strangers or mere acquaintances; the people we trust most are the ones we know well. In shallow relationships, trust is unsustainable. If you want to be able to trust God, to be able to feel secure in Him when your world is falling apart, you need to know who He is, what His character is like, and what He is capable of doing. This, my friend, is what theology is for!

In The Great Omission, Dallas Willard wrote, “In the case of theological integrity and spiritual vitality, I think the idea is that you really can’t have the one without the other.”

Theology is not about having all the answers and knowing it all. The best theologians are brilliant, but not because they know it all. They’re brilliant because the more they study, the more they realize how much more there is to know about God, so they dig deeper and study more, and the cycle continues. We could never know everything about Him because He’s just too big and wonderful. And He’s SO wonderful that the more you study and the deeper you dig into who He is, the more you want to know more!

Theology is about knowing God—a God who is infinitely more than we can comprehend, yet who still invites us to know Him—to know Him deeply, and to continually seek Him so we can know Him deeper still. The deeper we know Him, the deeper our roots grow deep into who He is.

So how do we get to know God? Do we have to have graduate and post graduate degrees to have strong theology? No. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not against higher education. I have a master’s degree and my husband is in seminary right now. But strong theology is not reserved for only those with multiple degrees. Strong theology is cultivated by dwelling in God’s presence + digging deep into His word + being part of Christ-centered community. All three of these are things that every Christian can do!

“Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.”

Hebrews 10:19-25

One day I’m gonna write a book where I delve deeper into all of this, but for now, please allow me to give you the short version:

It’s so important for us to dwell in God’s presence—to have an intimate relationship with Him—because He’s a relational God who cannot be known from afar. You can know about Him from afar, but to know Him, you have to get up close, spend time with Him, and experience His presence first hand.

It’s also important for us to dig deep into His Word because experience alone with no knowledge or understanding is fragile (and can lead to a lot of weird or dangerous beliefs!). We need truth to be our strong anchor.

Originally when I was writing this, my formula stopped here, but my husband pointed out that we need Christ-centered community. “It’s like a three-legged stool that falls if one of the legs is missing,” he said. It’s when we’re together when we can see outside of ourselves. Together, we see bigger, farther, and deeper. We help each other see and understand God in ways we wouldn’t be able to on our own.

If we neglect any of these components, we’re in danger of having an incomplete, shallow theology. And shallow theology crumbles in the face of suffering and doubt.

You see, having strong theology doesn’t mean that we never have questions or doubts. Instead, strong theology survives in the face of our hardest questions and our most painful doubts because it’s rooted in a God who is strong enough to handle them. Strong theology gives us roots in who God is that are so deep that even when the storm rages against us, we do not fall. 

Theology in Real Life

During a painfully dark season of my life when I felt barren and struggled to pray, I had coffee with a dear friend who tenderly gave me wonderful advice: When it’s hard to pray, start with simple, truth statements like, “God is good,” and pray something like, “God, You’re good. Help me know you’re good.”

Did you catch it? All three components of strong theology were there!

Dwelling in God’s presence (prayer)

+ digging deep into His word (simple truth statements)

+ being part of Christ-centered community (coffee with a friend)

This is what theology looks like in a real life! And I love how my friend’s advice is so simple and accessible, yet full of depth! I mean, yeah, “God is good” is one of those statements that can seem overly simplistic, but for those who are suffering or are feeling the sting of unanswered prayer, the statement, “God is good,” becomes far more profound, a statement to wrestle with God about. If you’re in a season of suffering or doubt and need more theological statements you can pray, here are some to get you started:

“Jesus loves me.”

“God is for me.”

“God is bigger than me and my circumstances.”

“God’s grace is sufficient for me.”

“God is not withholding good from me.”

“What’s true in the light is still true in the dark.” (This one’s a line from “Weep With Me,” by Rend Collective.)

If you’ve been intimidated by theology, let me end with a word of encouragement: You can do this! You can do theology! I know you can because God wants you to and He provided a way for you to be able to! So let your roots grow deep into who He is and get ready for an adventure of living theology in real life!

A Wilderness Prayer

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During a dark, wilderness season of my life, trying to pray was a battle. But even though I struggled to verbalize prayers during this season, there was a brief moment when I was able to write one in my journal. There were numerous days when I desperately wanted to pray “better,” something with actual substance, so I would open my journal and recite my written prayer.

Throughout my life, I’ve prayed so many prayers that God didn’t answer the way I hoped He would. But this prayer is one that He answered infinitely more beautifully than I could have imagined. He always knows what is best. His way is always better than mine.

So if you find yourself in a wilderness and wanting to pray (or wanting to want to pray), but you just can’t, that’s okay. Know that God still sees you and hears the cry of your heart. His grace is sufficient when you have no words to say. And when your soul is desperately grasping for words and falling short, may these words from my journal help you get started:

Giver of Life, Redeemer of dreams, and Comforter of my soul,

Be near me.

Clothe me with dignity and strength, and help me to laugh at the time to come.

Give me eyes to see as you do.

And make me useful for Your Kingdom.

Amen.

Trying to Pray

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As I slowly pulled my tired body out of bed, I felt it again. Overwhelming sadness. It was the same sadness I had been feeling every day for months. I remember the exact moment this sadness became a part of my life: the moment after waiting several minutes to discover that the strip did NOT turn blue. After surgery, many months of infertility treatment, and “pouring out my soul before the Lord” (1 Samuel 1:15), I was not pregnant.

It was a hard enough blow to learn that, yes, I truly am incapable of bearing children. But it was excruciating to find out when I did: the Tuesday before Mother’s Day. It was like some sort of sick, cosmic joke. Any time I turned on the television, bought groceries, or did anything, “Happy Mother’s Day” everything scraped against my fresh wounds.

I think this would be a good time to explain that I’m a Christian and I believe in a God who hears our prayers and is able to work miracles. Many months prior to the strip not turning blue, my doctor told me I had a zero percent chance of getting pregnant. But I was about to have surgery, and that meant there would be hope. We had been down this road years before. Surgery, followed by hope, followed by disappointment. But this time, we had a plan to increase the probability of getting pregnant after surgery from a “zero percent chance” to a “slight chance.” And I laid my “slight chance” before God in a series of intense prayers drowned in a thousand tears. I was full of faith and, at the same time, willing to accept what God’s will may or may not hold. I begged Him to make my longings to bear a child go away and to not let me go down this road if motherhood wasn’t at the end of it. I prayed for wisdom and guidance. I prayed for Him to help me stay obedient to His will. And after weeks of praying like this—and the longing for motherhood ever persisting—I prayed for a miracle.

And I was disappointed.

For months, I lived with a label seared into my heart. “Barren.” My body was unable to carry and nurture life. I was not dead, but I no longer felt alive. My life had become a bare wilderness. Dry and lonely. I felt broken, purposeless, useless, and like a failure as a woman and wife.

I wish I could say that in those months, I fervently sought the face of God and clung to Him. I tried to, but I just couldn’t. On a good day, I would pick up my Bible, set it back down, and pray, “I can’t today, God. I’m sorry.” Some days I could actually open my Bible and read a paragraph before whispering, “God, this is all I can read today. Thank You for your grace. Please help me.” Most days, my Bible remained untouched and no words came, only deep wailing and tears. It’s not that I didn’t want God; the pain was too overwhelming. I could barely pray even when I went to church; I mostly just sat in my pew and cried.

In the midst of all of this, God was silent. It was through this season of silence and wilderness that I learned that when we’re unable to cling to God, He clings to us. And when He clings to us, that is enough. At times, He doesn’t use words because He knows some wounds are too deep for words. He knows exactly what we need: we need Him to be there. And He is.

After a long season of silence, I began to hear God’s still, small voice again. When I prayed, “I can’t today, God. I’m sorry,” He would respond, “That’s ok.” Two words. Months of silence were followed by barely anything. But when you’re desperate, “barely anything” is just the lifeline you need. And slowly, it became easier to pray my tiny prayers.

Then one day, I was done. I was done praying badly. I was done feeling the same overwhelming sadness again and again. I was done being in this wilderness. So in the early hours of morning—so early that even the sun was still in bed—I woke up, dragged my sleepy body to the living room, and opened my Bible. When I started reading, I felt nothing. But I forced myself to engage, circling words, underlining phrases. And when I finished, I prayed. I mean, really prayed with ugly tears. I was determined to pray until…until. And after asking all my “why” and “how long” questions, I said what had been brewing in my heart for so long:

“God, You really disappointed me.”

Those words had been pent up in my heart for so long that when they came out, they kept coming out again and again. Loudly. It was like a wrestling match; and if volume and tears were points, I was winning. “God, You really disappointed me! You disappointed my husband! I told You I didn’t want to go through all of this if it didn’t end in motherhood and YOU DISAPPOINTED ME!” And I kept going until I felt like I got it all out. Then after some moments of silence, God answered. Not with condemnation or guilt, but with these words: “Read the passage you read earlier again.”

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too. If we are afflicted, it is for your comfort and salvation; and if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which you experience when you patiently endure the same sufferings that we suffer. Our hope for you is unshaken, for we know that as you share in our sufferings, you will also share in our comfort.” (2 Corinthians 1:3-7)

And after I read those words, God drowned my wilderness and flooded me with His comfort.

The Father of mercies and God of all comfort turned my barren wilderness into a river.

Writing (Again)

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I blogged. Past tense. It was an adventure I started shortly after a phone call from the doctor that changed my life. The words, “You have lupus,” had the potential to devastate me. At least, that’s what I gathered when I googled this strange disease I knew barely anything about. Over and over again, my heart broke as I read stories of lupus sufferers who used words like, “alone,” “despair,” and, “my life is over.” I didn’t feel any of this.

I felt God holding together my broken body and my anxious mind. With all the heavy emotions that flooded my heart, I felt a strong undercurrent of joy and peace. My life had become incredibly hard, but it continued to be good because God remained good. And I knew that what I was experiencing was different from the words that appeared on the screen when I googled lupus. I wanted people to know they could experience what I was experiencing, too. So I blogged.

But after a few years, I came to a place where I was done writing. I had said what I wanted to say, and now it was time for other things. So I walked away from my blog with no intention to blog again.

I had no idea that as I walked away from my blog, I was walking into something big. Not a great, exciting adventure, but the darkest, most painful season of my life. A season where I longed for the voice of God to speak joy and peace into my heart and soul, but instead all I heard from Him was silence. For so long, I was a broken and empty shell, overwhelmed by the silence of God. Then one day, the silence ended. And this is where my new writing adventure begins.