Cinematic Revelations

7364769258_0dac362d0e_bThe following reflection was written by Tiger Lily.

There’s a film currently in theaters called The Light Between Oceans, based on a novel of the same name. I highly recommend any couple who has struggled with infertility to see this film. Even though your situation may not be exactly the same as the characters in the film, there is still much to be gleaned from this breathtaking piece of cinema. Be wary, I have a point to make here that will involve spoilers if you haven’t seen the film.

The Light Between Oceans reveals the desperation behind infertility. It centers around one couple, Tom (Michael Fassbender) and Isabel (Alicia Vikander). They have a love story that is simple and ideal–at least at first. They are quickly swept away by love and marry. They live on a remote island where Tom mans a lighthouse for passing ships off the coast of Australia. The isolation does not seem to bother them much; they have eyes only for each other.

After two horrific miscarriages, any hope they had for having their own family is darkened by loss. It is then that a baby literally drifts onto their shores and into their lives carried by a small boat. The child’s father is with her, though he is dead when they find them. Tom is responsible for reporting everything that happens on the island in regard to incoming ships and the business of the lighthouse. At Isabel’s urging, they keep the child that is not rightfully theirs, bury her father, and do not report the incident.

Perhaps it’s the isolation in conjunction with the pain of loss, but Isabel’s grief and desperation takes root deeply and grows into selfishness. She doesn’t fully consider the possibility that this baby could have a family elsewhere waiting for her, and that by keeping her she could be destroying someone else’s life. (Essentially, she is.) Being truthful and following the law does not seem to cross her mind either. I don’t blame her for her feelings, they are completely understandable in regard to her situation, but I don’t agree with them either.

Tom is more grounded, and what they have done kills him every day. Though he is in love with the child, and she becomes his daughter in all ways except biologically, he is still tremendously haunted by the truth.

At first, I was concerned for where this story was going. At times, it seemed as though the promise of having children was the only thing that was going to keep this couple together. In many ways, that is something that happens in a lot of marriages. It’s easy for marriages to be overridden by the roles of motherhood and fatherhood. Our society definitely elevates parental roles as being more important or significant than the role of husband and wife. This is sad to me, as they are both equally important for different reasons.

Their daughter, named Lucy, does indeed become their whole world. So much so that when Tom finally cannot stand the deception anymore and reveals the truth to Lucy’s true mother, Isabel develops nothing but hate for him. She cannot forgive him for breaking apart their family.

I was taken aback. I sat wriggling in my seat thinking, This better not end like this!

Thankfully, it doesn’t.

I firmly believe, based on what I’ve seen and experienced, that the best thing you can do through your fertility journey is put your marriage first. After all, how can you raise a family when your foundation is weak? Only when your foundation is solid can more be built upon it, and marriage should not be built on the promise or expectation of having more. Those expectations will cause cracks and brokenness faster than you can blink. Marriage is an entity unto itself and must be mutually poured into and nurtured deeply. Even if children never come, you must stay true and hold fast to each other.

This is something that Isabel learns almost too late. She is presented with a choice. In her anger, she has withheld the truth about her involvement in the situation from the authorities. She is hurt, and in that pain she is willing to make a scapegoat out of her husband and send him to prison to punish him for his “crimes.” Her mother reminds her that he is still her husband, and Isabel’s facial expression in that moment reveals she has completely forgotten what that even means.

When Isabel reads Tom’s last letter to her, she remembers what it was that brought them together in the first place. They began their relationship writing letters, and their relationship is saved by one too. It comes full circle. She realizes they cannot lose each other after having lost so much already. She goes after him and, in the nick of time, she confesses to the authorities her involvement in hiding the truth and keeping the child.

Whew! I let out a deep exhale then. It was such a beautiful moment. Isabel returns to her husband, and he is returned to her. The end of the film implies they never have any other children, but you get a sense that they had a good life together regardless.

My friends: whoever and wherever you may be, you can have a good life too. In a previous post, I told my infertility story. My husband and I may never have children of our own, but we can still have a good life together, and we do. We’re not perfect, and our marriage will always need effort and support, but we have love and good foundation, and in that, there is always hope.

Gratitude and thanksgiving are breakers of the chains of bitterness. Loss and sorrow are painful emotions we must allow ourselves to feel in order to heal and move on. Yet, when we shift our eyes from what was taken and we don’t have, and instead focus on what we do have, we can find freedom. If you are in pain right now, and your losses and broken dreams are leaving you empty, seek abundance as a couple. Pour into your marriage together. May that cup overflow!

Into a Great Fire and Out Again

7364769258_0dac362d0e_b

Photo credit: Matt Green, Flickr

The following reflection was written by Tiger Lily. 

I always know what I want. It takes me 20 minutes tops to find an outfit I like and get out of a store. I usually know where I’m going. I have a good sense of direction, and can visually remember the way to almost anywhere after having been there once. I know what I want to do. I’ve wanted to make films and write since I was 8 years old.

I don’t wrestle with decisions much, because I usually know exactly what I want and what I hope for. So as you can imagine, when my husband and I got married and eagerly anticipated having children, I already had names picked out, bedrooms designed, and dreams imagined for those children.

My husband is quite a bit older than me, but it’s never been a stumbling block. If anything, it has been a source of strength. He has been through a lot of hardships in his life and though he always dreamed of having a family, he never thought it would actually happen for him. He met me, we married, and suddenly that dream once again sparked in the darkness and grew into a little flame. I desperately wanted to fan that flame, ready to become a mother at any moment. I wanted so much to give him everything he never had.
Our first year of marriage was wonderful. We couldn’t get enough of spending time together and looked forward to the future with a fluttering anticipation. I was taking pregnancy tests every month, waiting to see those plus signs. They never came.

After that first year life got hard… really hard. Our jobs were draining us dry in every way imaginable, our finances tumbled into a pit with seemingly no way out, my anxiety went through the roof, and his depression weighed him down like an anchor. The second and third years of marriage passed in this tumultuous storm. Still no children. Still no relief from our circumstances. I have always believed that my husband’s calling in life is fatherhood. He is a quiet and gentle soul towards whom both children and animals gravitate. He is a natural in nurturing, teaching, and caring for people and things. He never made me feel guilty, but I certainly made myself feel guilty about our failure to conceive. I felt that I was failing at providing him with children, and the faces of the children we dreamed of started to fade. We had called them each by name, but those names faded too.

At the crux of this pain and devastation, I started watching Game of Thrones. (You don’t need to have seen it to understand the point I’m making). Something happens in the story that really left an impression on me and changed my perspective on our situation. I really connected with Daenerys Targaryen (the character with the fabulous white hair). She was forced to marry a barbarian warrior, but over time they grew to truly love each other. By the middle of the first season/book, she was pregnant and there was much anticipation for the birth of their child.

In a tragic turn of events, her husband is killed and her baby stillborn. She loses everything. She was given three dragon eggs as a wedding gift, and while everyone else believes they are dormant, she dreams that if she carries them into a great fire, they will hatch. As an act of faith, she does this very thing, and when the smoke clears and the fires burn out, she rises completely unharmed with three dragons in her arms. This is how she becomes “The Mother of Dragons.”

This particular moment has stayed with me. In the wake of devastation, she takes a leap of faith and is rewarded for her belief. It didn’t bring back her husband, their son, or the life she had before. Nothing could undo the pain of her loss, but it was redeemed with a new future, a new hope.

God spoke to me through this story, as a metaphor for my own life. When I look back now, I can see that it was for our own good we did not have children. Our burdens were already so hard to bear–to add a child to that hardship might have been too much. I am grateful we weren’t parents during that time of struggle because we probably couldn’t have been available to them as much as they would have needed or deserved. It’s always hard to see clearly in the anguish of the moment, but the Lord held us firmly in His Hand through those years, and our pain was ultimately for our good.

The symbol of fire has been important in my life. It also reminds me of a story from one of my favorite books in the Bible (Daniel), in which Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego encounter the fiery furnace. They are being executed, thrown in the furnace for not bowing down to the false gods of their king, Nebuchadnezzar:

“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego answered and said to the king, ‘O Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to answer you in this matter. If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.'”

Even if God did not bring them to safety in the end, even if he did not fulfill their desire to live and escape such a death, they would not waver in their faithfulness to Him. “But if not” is the most powerful part of that passage to me. Even if God does not help us, we will not serve your gods. He doesn’t always give us what we want, but He always provides what we need to fulfill our calling as His children.

Like Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, and Daenerys, I went into a great fire, a trial, and came back out again. Though covered in the ashes of loss, a new dream was born. I am not saying I’m giving up, or that we will never have children. I still hope we can some day, with all my heart! But even if we do not, I know our lives and our marriage are not devoid of purpose and passion. We have now been married over 4 years and I feel a new contentment in our relationship. Having one another truly is enough. Children could add to our lives, but having them is not the end-game of our union.

There is always hope. I still hope that I can see a child of our own in my husband’s arms, laughing in our home, playing in our yard, and resting their head upon my chest. Whether they are biological or adopted, I hope for them. Right now, I cannot see any open doors for this to happen, but it is always possible with God (lest we forget Abraham and Sarah). In the present, I have my own dragons to nurture–they are the stories I intend to tell the world through film, television, and other writing.

It wasn’t until years later that I could look back and see purpose in the pain we’ve endured so far. One day, I may be looking back upon this day in the very same light. Perhaps even with that dream child in my arms.