Rest Ashore

Well, we got our lab results back this week. Normal. Everything turned up normal. I am both relieved and frustrated by this. I am pleased that there appears to be nothing medically wrong with me. However, I feel that we are where we were before the testing...with no answers. Nothing to "fix". Absolutely no further insight as to why this has happened. Nothing.

As you can probably tell, I am feeling a bit more defeated than relieved at this time. Although I never wanted anything really terrible to be causing these losses, I guess I was hoping for some answer, something I could blame this on and then fix...easily. Instead I am left still wondering what went wrong. I'm left wondering why this happened. And probably the most frightening thought is wondering if this is going to happen again. Will I experience the loss of another child? That thought makes me sick.

After each doctor's visit, lab test, or any event that forces me to directly face our situation, I am thrown back into an unforgiving sea of sorrow, helplessness, and fear. With each wave I am slammed into a rock that tells me that I will never get out of the dark, murky water. It happens every single time. Sometimes it's short lived, other times it seems to drag on for days.

I learned the results of my tests on Tuesday and feel like I am still trying to find my way back to the shore. A place that is filled with uncertainty and sadness. But in this place I can find truth and hope when I scour the sands long enough. I believe that the shore of my life is also filled with all the wonderful feelings of joy, peace, stability, and strength. I just haven't traveled inland far enough to find them.

My sea is a dark, cold place made up of chaos and restlessness. It's seems to have no end in sight. It's a place I don't want to be. I don't navigate it well and fear I will drown with each powerful wave. My toes barely feel the sandy floor only when the water recedes in preparation for the next watery blow. But that's the only chance I have to make it back to shore. It is in those times when I have to dig my feet in as deep as I can and begin pushing forward against the undertow of failure and the rip tide of hopelessness. I have to will myself to use the demanding waves as the propeller that inches me closer and closer to my sandy destination.

On the best days the water has calmed to large swells allowing me to gently paddle my way back to the shore. The beach greets me with the warm, cushiony sands of truth and rest. As I lay on this shoreline today, exhausted and overwhelmed, I cannot help but peer out into the debilitating sea and rest in the satisfaction of defeating it yet again.

Psalm 139 7-12 says, "Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend to heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, You are there. If I take the wings of the dawn, If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea, Even there Your hand will lead me, And Your right hand will lay hold of me. If I say, "Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, And the light around me will be night," Even the darkness is not dark to You, And the night is as bright as the day. Darkness and light are alike to You."

I'll be honest, I was only going to share the last part of this, as it had been on my heart since earlier this week. However, when I went to copy this from my Bible today I was struck by the David's words about dwelling in the remotest part of the sea. Actually, I wasn't just struck, I was giddy with excitement of how God's word addresses every last situation that I find myself in...He leaves nothing out. There is no place that I have ever been or could ever go that God will be absent from.

I know that I will again find myself back in the harsh waters of the sea...a place filled with the presence of God and His desire to calm the waters and gently carry me back to the shore of His truth.