The Post I Didn't Want to Write {On Trust, Loss, and Walking Deep Waters}

I was hoping this was going to be the post where I got to tell you my exciting news.

Instead I am writing because this is the best way for me to process hard, because we are on this journey in which we need the encouragement of each other, and because even though my words have pain woven through them, God is writing a message on my heart that maybe you need to hear too.

I am writing because I was pregnant. The pregnancy was found to be not viable (which means somewhere along the way, life stopped forming.)

I had no idea that you could get through five and a half weeks of nausea and smell aversions and all the other body changes in that first trimester… that you could be utterly surprised and have no clue how you got pregnant, that you could cry both tears of joy and fear of change, that you could get excited and dream up names and tell family and friends… and all the while life not be there.

I am raw, angry, hurt and sad.

This baby, it may have surprised us, but it was so very wanted.

After I had gone in for my first prenatal appointment and they couldn’t find the heartbeat, they had told me it could just be too early. But I was worried. I told God, “I just can’t lose. Oh, God, please. I just can’t lose again.” After three losses, two this year, another just felt like too much.

After a formal sonogram and a devastating conversation with my doctor, here I am, loss number four, third within a year. I feel broken, like somewhere along the way the words failure got written across my uterus. Who gets pregnant three times in the same year all while preventing pregnancy and loses all three? It doesn’t seem fair. I’ve always wanted to leave room for God to have His way in my life. I might have in my rational mind thought it wasn’t time for a baby, but I still welcomed the idea of a surprise. But loss?

I have to admit that in my heart of hearts, that deep and fragile part that doesn’t understand and thinks I deserve an explanation, I don’t ever want to be pregnant again. Never. Because I don’t ever want to lose again.

But here’s the thing. Sometimes we tell God anything. “You can do anything with me, God.” That “anything” might not just be hard, it might cost. And the cost might feel like more than you can bear. It might mean you are the vessel in which He places life, or at least the potential of life for a painfully short time. It might mean God leads you on a journey that is completely different from what you imagined. It might mean that what your heart desires must be hard fought. It might mean you suffer, and it might mean you don’t get an explanation. It might even feel meaningless.

Hebrews 10:39 has been a favorite verse of mine for a long time. It is the final statement that the writer makes before launching into a discussion of faith full of examples of men and women whom God used in mighty ways. Men and women who lost. Men and women who still chose to trust God. Men and women who saw the divine and the miraculous just beyond the tip of their own fingers.

“We are not of those who shrink back.”

We are not of those who live in fear. We are not of those who choose to close their hands to God’s blessings because the blessings might come through pain. We are not of those who stop trusting because we don’t understand. We are not of those who refuse to allow God access to anything and everything because it might hurt.

So here’s me saying: I am angry and hurt and so very afraid to lose again. But I will not shrink back. I will grieve. And then I will rise.

I will choose to trust.

I am reminded that I made this phrase my prayer for the year: “Trust without border.”

And here I am, in a place without border, without understanding. I am walking deep waters. Oh, they seem so deep. But God promises: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. And through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned. For I am the Lord Your God” (Isaiah 43:2-3). In deep waters, we learn trust.

I look at Addy and Jed with fresh eyes. Because life is so very precious and fragile. When it comes hard fought and through much pain, you savor it, you suck the marrow out of it. You count the moments for joy. And you know deep down, it’s all worth it. I think of that scripture “Who for the joy set before Him, endured…” (Hebrews 12:2). Yes. And we were worth it even in all the free will variables in which we might turn our backs on Him who loves us and paid dearly for the chance. And that thing you hope for might just come through suffering—through enduring—but that doesn’t mean it’s not worthwhile.

I didn’t realize hope could require such bravery. I didn’t realize you could hold onto to hope while losing. But I am clinging to hope. Because, friends, yes, this girl does so much desire another baby and a big, loud family. And while I am afraid to lose, I shall be brave enough to hope.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers