Tag: Sunflower

The Lost Sheep

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sunflower-02The following reflection was written by Sunflower. 

The following thoughts have been stirring over and over lately in my head, my heart, and in my talks with my husband. Many of my conversations with him are about the community of believers, how they have or have not handled our particular journey well, and what we will or will not do if we are faced with a couple going through something that reflects our path.

Honestly, as I stare at the computer screen, I am still not sure how to say what is deep in my heart, causing me so much pain and frustration. I do know that I have been extremely hurt by the “audience” of believers that God has placed in my life. I use the term audience because that is what they are: they look, watch, judge, and predict. They cheer and clap when they think I have done something good, and boo and yell when they think I have made a wrong move. They are an audience because their involvement in my healing has been minimal.

They feel safer from a distance. They wait for me to enter their territory so that they can really “meet me where I am” and offer “healing words, and spiritual food.” They stand at the door, yelling for their lost sheep (me), and if yelling doesn’t work they try a whistle, or maybe a bell, or maybe silence, or maybe a treat…when nothing proves to work, they drop their head in disappointment that their lost sheep has wondered off the wrong path, close the door, and continue on. They may stop and think about me for a moment, but the thought is brief because they have too many sheep they are trying to keep track of and they are responsive while I am the sheep that is not, so it is best just to “move on” to those who will respond.

I do hear their calls, the whistle, the bell, and actually think the treat sounds quite good, but I am caught in a bush, its thistles and vines wrapped so tightly around my legs and I cannot move. I try yelling, but they are too distracted or impatient to hear my weak and quiet voice; I try responding, but it is not the response they expected so they miss it. I am tired. I am tired of trying, of fighting, and so I lie down and wait.

Christ comes. He slowly and precisely cuts each branch, vine, and thistle that has wrapped around my aching body and broken heart. He knows I am disappointed, that I have been left alone, and he keeps telling me how sorry he is. He gently lifts my broken body from the bush and starts to tend to my wounds, only the way a healer and a maker can. He sings gentle songs in my ears and whispers his love and promises to my heart. As I continue to heal, as he continues the healing, our hearts start beating as one. He stands me up and places his hands on my shoulder and looks into my eyes.

“Daughter, you have been disappointed; I know, I am disappointed too. I will never leave you and I will always come and find you, but now you have to make a choice. Are you going to be one of the many people in the audience of others’ lives, or are you going to be a participant? I don’t need another person to fill a seat and watch; I need someone who will be in the play. I know you are hurt, and it is your choice…but I will always come and find you.”

 

You Are Seen

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Photograph credit to www.curiositysip.com

The following reflection was written by Sunflower.

 

After the first loss, I avoided Mother’s Day like the plague. I wasn’t interested in watching others celebrate–so easily, so carefree–something I felt like I was begging for without result. It felt like being asked to go out into a hail storm without any protection. My heart just couldn’t take the beating. So I stayed home wrapped up in my blanket of grief. The second loss was even harder. I had put so much hope into that pregnancy that the grief of it ran over me like a semi, then backed up and ran over me again.

I remember like it was yesterday: The first Mother’s Day after my second loss. The loss that had left me emotionally crippled. When Mother’s Day approached, I was bitter but determined. I was a mother. A mother to babes who graced heaven with their presence. And I was so exhausted with grief that somehow, some way, I was going to make others see me the way I saw myself. So, like a soldier preparing for war, I put on my armor of determination and went to church.

I did well through the Hallmark-y 3 minute video they showed in the service that commended the hard work of motherhood. I didn’t shed a tear, standing there like a rock. I even held it together when the pastor spoke kind words about his mom and wife. Yes. I had this. I was going to make it.

…and then they asked for all the moms to stand in the congregation. They were going to hand out flowers. I breathed in deeply, my tears falling freely as I stood. Here it was: my moment of validation. My heart was screaming to be seen as the thing I so desperately wanted to be, the thing I knew I already was, though I had no baby to hold in my arms: a mother. When the man who was handing out red carnations came to my section, he handed them to everyone except me. I lost all composure and left as fast as my feet would carry such a broken and heavy-hearted woman. I was devastated. All the old voices of shame returned. Why should he acknowledge me as a mom? I had no children that he could see. But my heart cried out that I was a mom. The identity resided in the core of my being. It was the person I was created to be, and the short 13 weeks and 10 weeks of my babies’ lives had made me mom. Yet, the one thing I wanted on that Mother’s Day was the last thing I would receive.

Devastated and broken, I fell before the Father’s feet. On one hand, He was the one I blamed for my pain, my losses. And on the other hand, He was the one I clung to for comfort and hope.

“I just want to be seen.”
“You are seen.”

It was simple. It was truth. He was the One that saw my pain, carried my grief, collected my tears, and made me a mom. He knew.

Even now, 7 years later, that memory is painful. Yet, on days when I don’t feel as though I am seen, I have come to realize that I’m seen by the One who is with me through every pain and every joy. Who is witness to every part of me, the visible and invisible. Who weeps in my mourning and rejoices in my joy.

When the next Mother’s Day approached and I had two losses and infertility under my belt, the need to be recognized by others was no longer there. I didn’t put armor on. I didn’t put my blanket of grief on. I didn’t fake it or pretend it was anything but what it was. Because who I am and what I am feeling is always before the One who created me and sustains me. He sees me.

Mother’s Day is painful. When you are in the middle of this pain and asked to wait while everyone around you celebrates, it is incredibly hard. For me, it became O.K. that it was a hard day when I acknowledged that it filled me with grief and believed that this was valid–not a reason to be ashamed or hide myself. And I didn’t try to change it. I knew He saw me, and for that moment, it was enough.