Emptiness is a Heavy Thing
Today is exactly one week from Christmas, and my beloved cold and angry city has been transformed into a life-sized snow globe of happiness and cheer. I am honestly not a huge "Christmas person" in the commercialized sense, but the holiday spirit crept up on me this year and made itself evident in the multiple trees and lights that have sprung up in my living room despite my best efforts to keep my cool. As I reflected on my newfound yuletide cheer, I think I felt this way because I needed to celebrate something. I needed to feel a gentle wave of peace wash over me every time I walk into my home, surrounded by the warm glow of stringed lights. I needed to remind myself that there was so much beauty in this year, in spite of the darkness and in spite of the cold.
I've learned a lot of things this year. I've learned that hope can be one of the most painful feelings because it lies so close to despair. Each time I grasped for hope, I could feel myself brushing past that dark and brittle feeling and needed to force myself not to linger near it. I've learned that there is a type of fear that does not cause sweaty palms or quickened heartbeats. Instead, it coils down into the bottom of your chest and waits for you to start to dream so that it can whisper reasons why the dream will never come true. I've learned that the same deep longing can be shared between two people, and that emptiness is a heavy thing. The longing makes its way into our tightly held hands, quiet words, and long glances and gives us the strength to carry this heavy emptiness between us. I've learned that you can cry yourself to sleep missing someone who does not yet exist.
The statistics were a mantra that I repeated to myself month by month: only 20% chance of success with every cycle in two healthy people; only 30% get pregnant within the first month, 70% in six months. There is no need for further medical evaluation until after one full year of trying.
Here I am, one week from Christmas, after 12 months of trying, and the whispers from that coiled fear inside has been getting louder every month. Every month a cycle of reserved anticipation, hesitant expectation, and angry disappointment repeats itself.
I was afraid for this holiday season to come, because in my naive excitement last year, I had imagined myself with a newborn by this time. I wanted to do cheesy "Baby's First Thanksgiving" and "Baby's First Christmas" outfits and watch my mother show off her first grandchild during church events and family gatherings. I wanted to see my dad holding my baby in his big computer chair at the head of the dining table, perfectly content and full of pride. All the love and gifts and excitement that kid would receive ... I wanted it so badly. So as October arrived and the first round of festivities began, I gave in and lingered longer in despair than I had in the previous months. And for the first time in my life, I prayed "God, do you truly love me? Have you forgotten about me?"
I have my good days and my bad days. The scariest thing about writing this post is that I don't know when this journey will be ending for us. It could be over in a few weeks, or a few years. There's no nicely summed up lesson in this story, because I'm still living it. But what I do know is that a few hours after I desperately asked God if He had forgotten about me, He showed me that He hadn't and that He does truly love me. He reminded me through a friend's dream that He loved me enough to give me His own child. His love gives me the hope of heaven, drives out all fear, and carries the weight of longing with me. His love teaches me everyday that true love will often cause us to feel pain, but just like Him, my pain will not be wasted. Now when the ache of emptiness doubles me over and steals my breath away, I no longer grasp at my statistics mantra to comfort me. Instead, like echoes in the night, I hear a song of delight ringing in my soul. He sings to me, "I have loved you with an everlasting love. If only you knew the plans I have for you." And so I take a deep breath, and I sing back to Him a song of praise.
I've learned a lot of things this year. I've learned that hope can be one of the most painful feelings because it lies so close to despair. Each time I grasped for hope, I could feel myself brushing past that dark and brittle feeling and needed to force myself not to linger near it. I've learned that there is a type of fear that does not cause sweaty palms or quickened heartbeats. Instead, it coils down into the bottom of your chest and waits for you to start to dream so that it can whisper reasons why the dream will never come true. I've learned that the same deep longing can be shared between two people, and that emptiness is a heavy thing. The longing makes its way into our tightly held hands, quiet words, and long glances and gives us the strength to carry this heavy emptiness between us. I've learned that you can cry yourself to sleep missing someone who does not yet exist.
The statistics were a mantra that I repeated to myself month by month: only 20% chance of success with every cycle in two healthy people; only 30% get pregnant within the first month, 70% in six months. There is no need for further medical evaluation until after one full year of trying.
Here I am, one week from Christmas, after 12 months of trying, and the whispers from that coiled fear inside has been getting louder every month. Every month a cycle of reserved anticipation, hesitant expectation, and angry disappointment repeats itself.
I was afraid for this holiday season to come, because in my naive excitement last year, I had imagined myself with a newborn by this time. I wanted to do cheesy "Baby's First Thanksgiving" and "Baby's First Christmas" outfits and watch my mother show off her first grandchild during church events and family gatherings. I wanted to see my dad holding my baby in his big computer chair at the head of the dining table, perfectly content and full of pride. All the love and gifts and excitement that kid would receive ... I wanted it so badly. So as October arrived and the first round of festivities began, I gave in and lingered longer in despair than I had in the previous months. And for the first time in my life, I prayed "God, do you truly love me? Have you forgotten about me?"
I have my good days and my bad days. The scariest thing about writing this post is that I don't know when this journey will be ending for us. It could be over in a few weeks, or a few years. There's no nicely summed up lesson in this story, because I'm still living it. But what I do know is that a few hours after I desperately asked God if He had forgotten about me, He showed me that He hadn't and that He does truly love me. He reminded me through a friend's dream that He loved me enough to give me His own child. His love gives me the hope of heaven, drives out all fear, and carries the weight of longing with me. His love teaches me everyday that true love will often cause us to feel pain, but just like Him, my pain will not be wasted. Now when the ache of emptiness doubles me over and steals my breath away, I no longer grasp at my statistics mantra to comfort me. Instead, like echoes in the night, I hear a song of delight ringing in my soul. He sings to me, "I have loved you with an everlasting love. If only you knew the plans I have for you." And so I take a deep breath, and I sing back to Him a song of praise.
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