Tag: Jesus

Broken Pieces

One of my favorite songs is “All the broken pieces” by Christian artist Matthew West. Nearly every time I listen to it, I think about my life and all the times when it was nearly shred into pieces by the ways of the world and the hardship that life on Earth can bring. My surgery, the aftermath of it, the poor choices I made because of it, the anger I spewed out at times due to it….all of these things are just shards of what makes up my being.

My children also come from broken places. Their biological families have been torn apart by worldly challenges and poor choices. Broken homes, unhealthy relationships, and crushed hearts made up my children’s existence before they were even born. They got off to a pretty rough start in life. They were robbed of a normal, healthy pregnancy. They were immediately separated within a few days of birth from their birth mothers by being brought into protective services. They were placed with foster families and then a legal battle ensued for them to have what every child should and deserves to have – an unbroken, un-abusive, love-giving kind of home. Although they eventually (legally) got this, it was still a start to life that no child really deserves. Let’s face it, my family was put together by the falling apart of other ones.

I’ve always heard and agreed to some extent that it doesn’t matter how hard we fall, it’s how fast we get up that makes the difference. I believe this in most situations, but there are times in life when the breaking of our hearts, our minds, and our bodies requires more than just a quick jump up. There are moments when sorrow nearly brings us to our knees, stomps on us, tramples us, and leaves us in the pit of despair. It is during these times that we may question where God is, and why in the world will He not “fix” things for us, or cure the diseases, or take away the addictions of those we love.

Isn’t the world really full of broken pieces? We all at various times find ourselves searching for just one sliver of goodness to call our own. There is so much hurt out there. I cannot even imagine what the Lord must feel day in and day out watching His children break each other’s hearts.

My favorite part of the song by Matthew West goes like this:

I can take even your greatest mistake
every scar; every tear, every break
And I can turn it in to something more beautiful
than you have ever seen
so lift them up to Me

My children, and many children before them, may have started out in the world with fractured families. If left alone, I get the sense they may not have ever truly experienced stability, hope, and the substance of God. But, He took what could have been used as an early path to destruction and built up a road that led to the wholeness they so deserve. I know He has mighty things in store for them.

The scars, the tears, and the breaks are all put back together to make us whole in Him. He has taken the shrapnel of my wounds and the ugliness of my sin to build me back together again. He poured out His love on the cross. He was broken so that I would not have to be.

Some fortunate people go through life with barely a scratch; while others seem to be continually reminded that flesh is truly only flesh. I guess I fall somewhere in between the two. Flesh may fallible and vulnerable, but the spirit which dwells within us, is mighty. Our spirit is a survivor. God wants us to survive. He wants us to be resilient; He wants us to need Him, and to choose lightness over darkness.

I used to believe that I was just a broken girl….missing a uterus, having to be on hormones, not having babies…etc. Well, truthfully, I was broken. In the fragmented relationships, shattered dreams, crushed hearts, and broken bodies, God is able to sculpt healed relationships, better dreams, loving hearts, and whole bodies. I am a broken piece of this world.  In my weakness, I found strength in the One who put me back together.  Only God can create beauty out of ashes.

 

my scar, His Scars

Hey, scar on my belly, you do not represent me.  A doctor called you a “horror show” one time, but his words do not describe me.  You are long and just plain ugly, but you do not characterize me.

You are a visual reminder of the war waged on me in my youth, but you do not represent me.  You are simply flesh ripped apart and sewn back together by human hands.  You depict a battle for my life, but I won. You are just one part of my infertility, but not the most important.

You have been with me nearly as long as I can remember, but you do not define me.  I have been embarrassed of you.  I have wished you away.  You have reminded me of all of the pain I have been through, but you do not speak for me.

Your outward appearance does not hint to the inward conflict that has taken place physically, spiritually, and emotionally through the years.  You do not speak, you do not breathe, and you do not love.  You are just a symbol of a fateful moment in time long ago; a physical remnant of my life-changing event.

Hey, scars on His wrist, you represent me.  Hey, wounds on His feet, you are because of me.  The pain inflicted on Him should have been mine.  He was scoffed at, called names, and torn apart by a battle not of His own. I have wished Him away, not trusted Him, and raged at Him; but still, His heart welcomes me.

Hey, scars on His wrist, you embody the physical, emotional, and spiritual freeing of me.  His scars delineate a world not deserving of His grace.  The ugliness of His death portrays the beauty of His forgiveness.  His wounds speak of great passion, and His pain screams mercy.

He is the past, present, and future.  He is the most important moment in time.  His words were of compassion, and His breath of love.

His Love,

His Life,

His Scars,

His Sacrifice,

His Forgiveness,

His Resurrection,

my gain.

Unashamed

It was a challenge growing up after having a hysterectomy so young. I never really knew how to handle it.  I felt ashamed of it, and I really don’t know why I felt this way.  It was not my fault.  I was gravely ill and the surgery had to happen in order to save my life, but for some reason, I really didn’t want many people to find out about it.  I internalized a sense of guilt or embarassment because I was different than my peers.  Due to my young age, I did not fully grasp how my surgery would play out in my life over and over again.

As an adult, it has taken me many, many years to say out loud “I HAD A HYSTERECTOMY”.  Even now, when asked about my medical history at doctor’s visits, I always get a little tense and just a bit nervous.  Perhaps it is because the response is usually “You had a hysterectomy at age eleven?!?”…followed by an awkward moment of silence…then followed by “May I ask why?”  One of these days I may just say “No, no you may not ask why…” just to see how they respond!

Sometimes, I let medical professionals off the hook early and just go right into all the details of it.  I sense at times they are a little overwhelmed. Or at least, the women are.  They usually give me a slightly pitiful look, but most of the time they express sadness about it.  Men on the other hand just sort of skip right over, as if there’s “nothing to talk about here”…move along.

Often, they will stare at me briefly as if they expect me to say more, or break down sobbing, or something. The truth is even if I felt like crying, I would hold it in until I left the appointment anyway. This is not as much of an issue for me now that my emptiness has been filled with children, and I have come to a place of fully embracing who I am, but throughout my life, there was a tremendous amount of despair mixed in with a sliver of shame over it.

One thing that I habitually do time after time is quickly follow up my revelation of being infertile with an “It’s okay though. I’ve adopted children, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world”.  Before I adopted, I found myself saying things like “Oh, it’s okay.  I might be able to adopt” even if I did not believe my own words.  It is as if I have always felt the need to apologize for my lot in life.

Perhaps in my earlier years,  I was still trying to figure it all out.  I didn’t want or need anyone to explain things to me.  I also never wanted to be pitied for it.  This was my experience to navigate on my own – no one else’s.  Some things in life are just too big to wrap our heads around until we are fully ready to do so.  Giving simplistic and quick explanations to medical staff or anyone else who wanted to know what happened to me did nothing to help me understand my own circumstance.  I often felt I was fulfilling their curiosity at my own expense.

I’ve always wondered, yet never quite figured out what it is about infertility and hysterectomies that cause the feelings of shame, embarrassment, or whatever else it can be called. I just sometimes think that the rest of the world (all the fertile myrtles) don’t fully grasp the complexity of infertility.  Perhaps this is why those of us (non-fertile myrtles) feel isolated out in the “real” world.  There is nothing to be shameful of!  We didn’t cause this.  We didn’t set out in the world thinking “I’m going to do whatever I can to make having a family extremely difficult.”  Barrenness has been around forever; yet, there is so much restraint when talking about it out loud.

While pondering this issue, I thought “God has used barren women to do mighty things.”  Several women in the Bible, who were considered barren, ended up giving birth to children who went on to do noteworthy things.  I know the incredible ending of their barrenness was the birth of children, but I find it equally incredible that their struggle with it was written down.  Their stories were compelling.  They were often mocked for it.  Yet, their faith ran deep.

I choose to believe that barrenness is close to God’s heart.  I know that He does not want us to be ashamed.  I believe that there is no reason anyone should ever feel the need to apologize for not being able to have children.  My life is not desolate. I feel totally fruitful; quite the opposite of barren really.

The world may think, or even expect me to be angry, bitter, and even resentful about infertility, but I choose not to follow the world.  I am not listening to it; my ears, my eyes, and my heart are captured by the whispers of God.  Through Him, and only through Him, I am beautiful, purposeful, and redeemed.

I am unashamed.

Letter to my Lord

If I wrote a letter to my Lord, how would I start it? What would I say? Thank you for being there…or thank you for all of the good things that have happened through the years.  I could never fully convey the magnitude of what I am truly grateful for.  He deserves more than simplistic validations of what I appreciate.

It is not just the good things that I should be thankful for, anyway. The hard stuff – those moments that have torn me into pieces – also deserve their place in gratefulness to God. It would be a false statement for me to say I’m totally 100% grateful all of the time for being barren. Certainly, this has brought me a tremendous amount of strife. However, I sincerely appreciate the journey of it.

One might expect me to say that the best part of the journey is the adoption of my children. Well…they certainly are incredible, that’s for sure. However, for me, the best part of it has been the revelation of all the small moments, twists, turns, ups, downs, and in-betweens that helped to write the story.

Often, it is far easier to look backwards and say “I get it” than to look forward in faith. I don’t really think I could appreciate the road it took to become a mother if I had known in advance that there would be a little boy with blonde hair and a fantastic amount of charm, and a girl with bright blue eyes and blend of sugar and spice (mostly spice) who would enter my life. The road was full of painful ruts, sudden curves, and sadness as thick as tar, but still, it was the road that led to my children.

My sojourn into the world of infertility seemed so long; yet, not really. When looking back all those years ago after my surgery, I truly thought I would forever be stuck in the darkness of being barren. I know now that all those thoughts and years are just “blips” on the radar screen compared to the brilliance of the ride I’m experiencing as a parent.

I have found and continue to find great peace when realizing what all occurred to get me to this part of my life.  From the moment I woke up in the hospital bed following surgery, to the recognition as an eleven year old that I was different than my peers, to the angst as a teen wondering if true love would ever find me, to the despair of nearly convincing myself that I would never be a parent, to the longing of wanting a “normal” mommy-hood, to being captured and redeemed by God’s grace, to signing our application to become foster parents, to the nervous drive to pick up the baby boy who needed us as his foster family, to the humbling conversations with his birth mother, to leaning my head on the steering wheel following court hearings exhausted from the unknowns, to the dripping of my tears onto the court room table at our son’s adoption hearing, to jumping in heart first again by saying yes to accepting our foster daughter, to staying up night after night with a newborn, to the day she was deemed eligible for adoption, to picking out her adoption dress, to explaining the best we can to our children that they are adopted, to each moment with them….the list goes on and on.  I suspect it will until my eyes gaze on Him.

Perhaps the letter to my Lord is not really one I would write at all.  Perhaps it is my life, or better yet, how I choose to live and recognize the spaces where all I was clinging on to was His mercy, His love, and His promise.  God filled in the story line.  He flushed out the details and colored the canvas.  Living a grace-giving, mercy-showing, Christ-seeking, and love-leading kind of life would speak more than a thousand words anyway.

Yes…

my life, the letter,

my heart, the message,

and His hands, the ink.

Hello, World!

Hello, World! My name is Caroline. I’m 40, married with children, and barren.  There, I said it. I’m barren. I’ve known nearly my entire life that I would never have children. A devastating illness almost succeeded in taking me out of this world at the age of eleven. The only way to save me was to remove my uterus, right Fallopian tube, and right ovary. These organs had been ravaged by a bacterial infection – or more like invasion. I am the youngest female known to have had a hysterectomy. Then, at age 20 my left ovary was removed due to a cyst.

One may wonder why in the world I would consider myself to be blessed. Well, I did not always feel this way. Heartache, isolation, gut-wrenching grief, and confusion lurked within, behind, and around me nearly every stage of my life. I dealt with infertility as a child, teen, and adult, but then, this funny thing started to happen. As I drew closer to my Lord, the shadow of my surgery seemed to be just that; a shadow. Grace was changing me.

In 2006, my husband and I became foster parents. We fostered for about four years and were able to adopt our two foster children. They are now 3 ½ years old and 5 ½ years old. Many things have been revealed to me during these past few years…well, maybe the past 29 years since the surgery. One thing I do know is that love is a miracle – pure and simple. 

Love knows no boundaries, no genetic markers, no birthing, and no bloodlines.

Love takes hold of opportunities and transforms them into beauty.

I still get the sense that there is great shame and silence with infertility. There should not be. Too many suffer in silence while people offer their two-cents worth on what to do about not being able to have a child.

I have gone from barren to blessed, silent to singing, and loathing to laughing.  Happiness is possible in the world of infertility. I’m not ashamed. I’m not desolate.

Hello, World!  I’m barren and blessed!  

I found my purpose in it and hope to share it with you through this blog.