My legs, arms and face are heavy sprinkled with markings;
Markings of adventures, falls, and hurts. A scar between my toes where I
stepped on glass while treading through the Willamette River, a large bump on
my inner thigh where I got a splinter, and later stiches, because of wooden
tree swing, and teeth marks on my tongue where as a child I bit down forcefully
while riding over railroad tracks, all ticking a spot on the timeline of my
existence.
Although
they leave a permanent trace on my body, I don’t remember where the majority of
my scars came from, events so insignificant they didn’t leave a whisper in my
memory. I do, however, have three small recently formed scars on my abdomen. While
these wounds have marked my skin, they have also penetrated deeper. They have
scarred my soul.
There was a
heartbeat growing stronger everyday inside of me. A deeply desired and precious
life forming in my womb, only to be discovered as ectopic and removed, along
with a physical piece of me, because both threaten my life. How do I form words to explain the scars in my
inner most being from such an event? How
do I not drown in the pain and sorrow? The depth of my sadness, oh what
darkened pit.
I recall
the gloom surrounding me the morning of my surgery. I sat in the shower crying
out to God. These laments weren’t of questioning why. They weren’t angry shouts
to an unfair God. My cries weren’t even petitions to save my baby. I was
prostrated in the corner of the shower, water streaming on my naked body,
asking God to hold me. To hold me as I was falling into the pit.
It really
bothers me that when talking about trails and tribulation, people claim that
God never gives us more than we can handle. I’ve heard this often and have even
quoted it myself. However, this is a misinterpretation of 1 Corinthians 10:13
which the NIV reads as so, “No temptation has overtaken you except what is
common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond
what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so
that you can endure it.” Paul is talking about temptations. This verse doesn’t
speak to my anguish. It doesn’t sooth the sting of loss. It can’t help me when I
am in the depths of the depth.
Plus, I’ve
always been a “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” type of person. When life
would throw me a curveball or during difficult seasons in life, I would cry in
hiding, take a large breath (most likely
compartmentalize) and move forward. I’m pretty proud of the fact that I’ve come
so far in life, despite the trails and baggage that tried to hold me back. I
believe I’m not the only one who behaves this way. In fact, I think that the
church encourages this behavior (and by “church”, I mean us… because WE ARE the
church). We are uncomfortable with deep sorrows and pain that causes public
weeping and gnashing of teeth. We want people leaving their baggage at the
church door and appearing happy while sitting in the pews. Or at least that is
the general feeling we get since it is so few and far between when we are
completely honest about our currently sufferings.
So when I
couldn’t quickly get over all the loss I’ve felt this past year, I was a bit
ashamed. I was ashamed that I still cry because I miss my Papa. Frustrated
because the suicide of an uncle and death of a cat follow me like a dark cloud.
Depressed because I am wallowing in my deep lonely pit after loosing my baby.
How am I supposed to move forward? If the verse in Corinthians wasn’t talking
about trial and tribulations, does that mean that God will give us more than we
can handle? Probably. What good is God’s love, mercy and grace to us if we can
handle everything on our own? What purpose would it serve for Jesus to become
human if it weren’t to give us an example?
As I’ve
been in my pit, I’ve decided to do some devotional readings on grief. I can’t
wallow forever; I’m not a pig (although they can be cute!). In my readings I’ve
come across many quotes. I love this excerpt from Nicholas Wolterstoff’s book Lament for a Son because it helped me
realize that God understands my suffering. Not only does He understand it, but
has felt it. He can empathize.
“God is not
only the God of the sufferers but the God who suffers. The pain and fallenness of humanity have entered into
his heart. Through the prism of my
tears I have seen a suffering God… And great mystery: to redeem our brokenness and lovelessness the God who
suffers with us did not strike some mighty
blow of power but sent his beloved son to suffer like us, through his suffering to redeem us from suffering and evil.
Instead of explaining our suffering
God shares it.” (Pg. 81)
How cool (I know, lame word choice) is it to think, know,
and feel that God isn’t shaming you for sitting in your pit of darkness. He
isn’t lecturing you on how you need to be stronger. He doesn’t yell, “shake it
off” and expect you to make your way out of the depths. He isn’t even offering
his hand to pull you out. God gets into your pit with you. He shares it with
you.
Last Friday
I led the Tabacundo women’s ministry class. Since my Spanish is still limited,
I led a short devotional class and did a fun craft out of toilet paper rolls
(yay women’s ministry!). As I was preparing my thoughts about the Easter story
and the significance the symbol of the cross is to me, I realized something. I
wasn’t just talking about the Easter story: Jesus’ suffering, death, and
resurrection. I was sharing my story. The Easter story IS my story. It is all
of ours.
I think
about Jesus’ sufferings: physical and emotional wounds, the betrayal of close
friends, the public humiliation of being put on a cross with criminals, and
ultimately death. And gosh, when I write
them out, my issues pale in comparison. However, my scars still hurt and have
no less significance in my life. I believe the point isn’t to make my suffering
seem less. The point is to have a friend along side me, a friend to endure the
Friday and Saturday in my pit.
Jesus’
story doesn’t end at the cross; therefore my story doesn’t end with me lost in
my pit. The story, my story, our story, ends on Sunday. It ends in
resurrection. So from within the dark, God raised me. He whispered to me “Христос
воскрес” and I replied, “Воистину воскрес.” (This is something I heard
throughout my whole childhood. It is a traditional Russian Christian/Orthodox
greeting on Easter. Someone will say, “Jesus has risen” and you reply, “Truly
He has risen”.)
So if God
can raise the dead, why couldn’t He raise a marriage from the brink of divorce,
a strained relationship, or a spiritually dead person? Why can’t he raise me
from the edge of my despair? He can and He does. Despite our hardships, pain,
and “deaths” we endure, we can rejoice because Jesus rose from the dead. Amen!
He gets the last word, and that word is LIFE. God brings life from the grave.
Truly He has risen! My pain my resurface from time to time, but
it no longer bears the sting it once had. Truly He has risen and with Him, He
has raised me from my brokenness. I still bear the scars of my wounds. However,
so did Jesus after His resurrection. His scars bore witness to the fact that He
was indeed who He said he was, Christ Son of God and Savior. My scars bear
witness to the fact that I have walked with Him and we share the story.
