A Name with Dignity

March 12, 2018March 24, 2018 estherguy1 Comment

What do you call a woman who is married, but has no children?

No, this isn’t a joke. This is a question that darkened my thoughts after the disappointment of my last pregnancy test. Where do I fit in society? Where do I fit in the Church? Is there a place for someone whose category doesn’t have a name? For a long, painful season of my life, I was in identity limbo. I was a no one with no place.

I wrestled with this question more intensely when I talked to the head of the women’s ministry at my church. “We have so many groups for moms, but I don’t fit anywhere.” She was all for me starting something, but neither one of us knew what we could call it.

There were plenty of names that I played around with, but I kept coming across a problem: every name I could think of had a negative component. “Women With No Children.” “Married Without Children.” Even “Infertility Support Group” felt negative, like there’s something wrong with us. I scoured the internet and couldn’t find a term that was any better.

So what do you call a woman who is married but has no children…a name that is positive and can give her dignity?

I mulled over it for many months. I even prayed for God to give me a name. After some time, I gave up.

Names matter. They matter so much that throughout the Bible, we find God renaming people.

When God established his covenant with Abram, he said, “No longer shall your name be called Abram, but your name shall be Abraham, for I have made you the father of a multitude of nations.” (Genesis 17:5)

When Jesus called Simon to be His disciple, “Jesus looked at him and said, ‘You are Simon the son of John. You shall be called Cephas’ (which means Peter).” (John 1:42)

God doesn’t just give new names to individuals, but also to entire peoples:

“And they shall be called The Holy People,

The Redeemed of the Lord;

and you shall be called Sought Out,

A City Not Forsaken.” (Isaiah 62:12)

Names affect how we look at people—how we look at ourselves. And how we look at ourselves permeates the way we live our lives.

So if the name you’ve given yourself is “Barren” or “Infertile,” it’s time to give yourself a new name.

In a moment when my mind was busy with other things and far from the subject matter I’m typing about at this moment, God answered my prayer and gave me a name.

Her name is Priscilla.

Priscilla (or Prisca) is mentioned five times in scripture. Before I describe her, I’ll let you read about her for yourself:

“After this Paul left Athens and went to Corinth. And he found a Jew named Aquila, a native of Pontus, recently come from Italy with his wife Priscilla, because Claudius had commanded all the Jews to leave Rome. And he went to see them, and because he was of the same trade he stayed with them and worked, for they were tentmakers by trade.” (Acts 18:1-3, written by Luke)

“[Apollos] began to speak boldly in the synagogue, but when Priscilla and Aquila heard him, they took him aside and explained to him the way of God more accurately.” (Acts 18:26, written by Luke)

“The churches of Asia send you greetings. Aquila and Prisca, together with the church in their house, send you hearty greetings in the Lord.” (1 Cor 16:19, written by Paul)

“Greet Prisca and Aquila, and the household of Onesiphorus.” (2 Timothy 4:19, written by Paul)

“Greet Prisca and Aquila, my fellow workers in Christ Jesus, who risked their necks for my life, to whom not only I give thanks but all the churches of the Gentiles give thanks as well.” (Romans 16:3-4, written by Paul)

At first, when referring to this couple, Paul listed the husband’s name first. But after he got to know them, he went against convention and listed her name first. This is a big deal! Priscilla didn’t hide in Aquila’s shadow; her worth was not based on who her husband was and what her husband did. She held her own! When people got to know this dynamic couple, they learned that she was the powerhouse! And for the record, Aquila held his own, too. It takes a strong man to empower his wife to be strong as well.

(By the way, for anyone who believes that the Bible puts down women and is against women in ministry, just point them to Priscilla.)

So what does all of this have to do with my identity as a non-mom?

There is no mention of Priscilla and Aquila being parents. It’s possible they had children, but if they did, it wasn’t in their biography. I know it can be dangerous to jump to conclusions based on silence, but here’s my point:

Priscilla’s identity and usefulness for the Kingdom of God wasn’t dependent on whether or not she was able to bear children.

In a society that was male dominated, she worked alongside—not under—her husband. She was intelligent, capable of teaching leaders. She had an influential role in shaping the early Church. And she was courageous, risking her life for the people she loved.

This is the kind of woman I want to be.

So the next time someone asks me, “Do you have any children?” I’m going to respond with a smile on my face and my head held high, “No, and it’s okay. I’m a Priscilla.”

Questions for Discussion and Contemplation

Is there a name or label that I call myself that is negative or discouraging? Is there a positive name or label I can use instead? (If you can’t think of any, ask God to give you one.)

How can I preach truth to myself in a way that speaks life and gives dignity?

Do I put negative names or labels on other people? How can I speak truth to others in a way that speaks life over them and gives them dignity?

What Does Faith Look Like?

March 3, 2018March 4, 2018 estherguy3 Comments

“You need to have faith.” Most of the time, I hate these words. It’s not that I don’t have faith or that I have anything against encouraging others to have it, but it’s the context in which these words tend to be spoken to me. When I’m going through a hard season or feel like I’m walking through the great unknown, the words, “You need to have faith,” don’t fill me with faith at all. They make me think, “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing this whole time?” and then I start to feel like I’ve done something wrong. I don’t walk away from these conversations feeling encouraged and empowered. Instead, I walk away feeling deflated and slightly condemned.

Chronic Illness

A few years before I was diagnosed with lupus, I was given a smaller diagnosis. Like most diagnoses, it came at an inconvenient time. I was living in the Philippines and had just been accepted into a graduate program to study piano performance in the States when I found out I had carpal tunnel syndrome and tendinitis in both of my wrists. Over and over again, people told me, “You need to have faith.” What they meant was, “If you want to keep playing the piano and get a Master’s in piano performance, God has to heal you.” I prayed for God to heal me. He didn’t. And I did get a Master’s in piano performance.

It took faith…

to pursue a graduate degree in piano performance with carpal tunnel and tendinitis.
to choose my repertoire and practice every day.
to keep going and not quit when it got hard.

I know that God could have completely healed me and it would have been great, but my 70 minute recital with carpal tunnel syndrome and tendinitis was no less miraculous, no less glorifying to God. But didn’t that make it harder? Yes. I’ll get more into that later, but I’m getting ahead of myself…

When I was diagnosed with lupus, I heard it again: “You need to have faith.” What people meant was, “You need to be completely healed of lupus to be able to fully live your life. And if you aren’t healed, then you must not have enough faith.”

It takes faith…

to get out of bed each morning when my body is stiff and in pain.
to work. (According to the Lupus Foundation of America, only 31% of adults with lupus are employed full-time.)
to continue to practice and prepare for performances.
to plan for the future.

Speaking of the future…

A Dream Delayed

Ever since we were in college and still dating, my husband and I have dreamt of moving to Japan to start a church. It’s something we feel God has placed on our hearts. But even though we’ve been on a missions trip to Japan, we have yet to move there. There are things that we feel God has asked us to accomplish first—that’s why we moved back to the States—but lupus has caused those things to take much longer than we anticipated.

It takes faith…

to keep moving towards this goal, even when things feel slow.
to keep studying Japanese.
to remember that God was not surprised when I received my lupus diagnosis and knew about it years ago when He placed the dream for Japan on my heart.
to trust in God’s perfect timing and to rest in the fact that He is in control.

Unanswered Prayer

I’ve spoken about my infertility in other posts, so I won’t retell those stories here. What I will say is that unanswered prayer—no matter the subject matter—is painful. It fills us with the darkest of doubts and questions. Why didn’t God answer my prayer? Did I do something wrong? Does God really love me? Is God really who I thought He was? It’s in the midst of unanswered prayer when people’s statements of “You need to have faith,” are most painful to hear. Haven’t I been having faith all along?

It takes faith…

to hope and pray when the doctor says words like, “zero percent chance.”
to pray to God after being wounded by unanswered prayer.
to continue to believe that God is good and that He is not withholding good from me.
to choose to live with hope and purpose when you feel like your hope and purpose have been crushed.

The Truth About Faith

“And what more shall I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets— who through faith conquered kingdoms, enforced justice, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, were made strong out of weakness, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight. Women received back their dead by resurrection. Some were tortured, refusing to accept release, so that they might rise again to a better life. Others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were killed with the sword. They went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, afflicted, mistreated—of whom the world was not worthy—wandering about in deserts and mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. And all these, though commended through their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better for us, that apart from us they should not be made perfect.” (Hebrews 11:32-40)

Did you catch that? Hebrews 11 has been nicknamed the “faith chapter” of the Bible. If you want to know what faith looks like, this is where you look. So. Many. Miracles. And also weakness. And torture. And imprisonment. Oh, and also people who were destitute, afflicted, and mistreated. The life of faith isn’t as neat and tidy as many would have us think. In fact, if faith were easy, it wouldn’t be faith at all.

We do need faith, but not because God has called us to a life of comfort and ease. We need faith because life is hard.

So let’s get real for a moment. When the object of our faith is faith itself, it falls apart when things don’t go our way. But when the object of our faith is the God who is sovereign, loving, and good, then it can be subjected to hardships and still continue to stand.

Before you keep reading, I want you to pause and ask yourself this question: Is your idea of what faith looks like so narrow that it leaves little room to be surprised by God and to notice when He works in mysterious ways?

Too often we try to make the works of God fit into a box too small to contain Him. We think that when faith looks like x, God will do y. God’s ways are too creative and too wonderful for our preconceived ideas!

The God Who Can Do Anything. Literally.

Could you imagine what would happen if we believed God could do anything?

Let me give you an example of what I mean by anything. Let’s say someone you know is sick. Do you believe God can do anything so He can heal them? That’s great! But believing God can do anything doesn’t stop there. He can heal how He wants and when He wants, and no matter how God decides to work, it’s going to be good and amazing, and even if He chooses to wait and doesn’t heal someone on this side of eternity, He can make them strong out of their weakness and use them to be the catalyst for a myriad of more amazing miracles that can change the course of history. God can do anything!

I hope that you’re getting really excited right now because I’m getting excited just typing this! If we can live with this kind of faith, can you imagine the kind of faith we can inspire in others? When people spend time with us, instead of walking away feeling discouraged about their lack of faith, they could walk into the great unknown full of faith, believing and expecting God to do anything!

So enough with telling people, “You need to have faith.” Let’s fill people with excited expectancy and say, “What if the God who is sovereign, loving, and good—the God who can do anything—is preparing to do something infinitely more amazing than we can imagine?”

This is the kind of faith that can change the world!

Singing My Theology, No. 1

February 24, 2018February 25, 2018 estherguy1 Comment

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

February 19, 2018April 23, 2021 estherguy6 Comments

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

February 11, 2018January 23, 2023 estherguy4 Comments

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

February 7, 2018February 7, 2018 estherguy2 Comments

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

February 4, 2018February 5, 2018 estherguy18 Comments

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)

February 3, 2018February 5, 2018 estherguy2 Comments

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.