When We Hover Around Our Pain
April is a big month at our house. Chris and I both have birthdays during the month, and we work really hard to make each other feel really loved and cherished on their special day (although Chris is a hundred times better at it than me). We take time out of our routine to do special things, eat delicious food, and say or write things that sometimes we forget to say in the craziness of life. I always look forward to April.
April is also a month that brings awareness to things that are near and dear to my heart. It's National Child Abuse Prevention Month, Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, and this last week of April is dedicated to bringing awareness to infertility. I wrote a blog post last year sharing that I had experienced sexual abuse as a child, and sharing that was a significant part of my healing. I got such precious messages, phone calls, and texts that were encouraging, supportive, and kind. It felt good to step out in the open and to break the cycle of silence and secrecy in my life, and hearing others' stories of abuse affirmed my decision to speak up.
It's not a secret but it wasn't broadcasted that Chris and I struggled to get pregnant with Nora. It took right at a year, which may not seem like an ordeal, but when literally all of your friends are getting pregnant, every single line on a pregnancy test feels devastating. We met with an OB, and she recommended a simple procedure to clear my fallopian tubes before we pursued other options. Luckily, that did the trick and within a few days we were pregnant. I don't pretend to know the pain of permanent infertility because I was graciously blessed with a child, but I can say that over the course of that year I had a taste of infertility and it was crushingly painful. During that time, I made connections with other women who still to this day don't have babies in their arms, and I haven't forgetten their stories or their journeys of infertility.
As I've thought about these two issues, heavy issues, throughout the month I've thought about the pain that infertility and child abuse cause- the pain they've caused me and others. I've considered how the repercussions of abuse damage so deeply and how infertility can leave a hole so open and raw that you're not quite sure if or how it will mend. It's brought my attention back to the problem of pain, and how God fits into all of that. It's made me think of friends who have lost unborn babies, and friends who have worked so hard to overcome the negative affects of abuse in their own lives. I've seen articles and stories on Facebook about infertility, and I love that our society is becoming less afraid to shed light on difficult issues that might cause us to have an uncomfortable emotional reaction. Feelings can be hard to feel, and empathy towards others who have dealt with either of these issues requires something of us. But all this thinking made me realize that we can't sit and circle around these issues eternally.
I notice that sometimes we center our lives around our pain. Not intentionally, but when pain from things like infertility or abuse touches our lives, it can be hard to pull our attention to something else because the pain is so real and so raw and so tender. We unconsciously allow ourselves to orbit around a significantly painful thing in our lives, which unintentionally prevents healing. This pain captivates us, and we can't seem to move forward. Infertility and abuse are huge sources of pain for men and women, and the effects of these issues are often devastating. I, by no means, am trying to downplay how these issues effect the lives of too many people around the globe. What I am saying is that sometimes in order to move forward, we must stop nursing the wounds of our pain.
There is indeed a time to nurse wounds; to sit in our agony and grieve the hand that was dealt to us. It would do none of us any good to push away our real feelings and pretend we are okay when indeed we are not. But we cannot set up camp there forever. We can't make our pain the center of our stories, especially if we know Jesus. Yes, let's use our pain as a launching pad to spring into the world and cause a positive change, but let's not hover around our pain preventing us from seeing anything else.
Maybe that's easy for me to say. My story of infertility was temporary; I don't know the permanent pain of infertility. My abuser wasn't a family member, it was relatively short lived, and the severity minor in comparison to many stories I know of. But pain is pain- is it really comparable? Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but somehow I think what I am saying is true even if it's rough around the edges. I've hovered around my pain plenty of times. It's blinded me from seeing the bigger picture, it's made me selfish in certain instances, and it's crippled me when I set up camp there. It was not in my benefit to center my life around my pain and to nurse my wounds beyond an appropriate time.
Everyone grieves and processes differently. Everyone walks through things like abuse and infertility at various paces and in various ways. No two journeys look the same, and for that I am grateful. I love that we are all connected in some way but have unique threads in our journeys that are only ours. My hope is that as we encounter each other in places of pain, that we might be able to aid one another in moving forward and propelling ourselves towards something, Someone, greater than our pain, greater than our daily struggles, and towards Someone who is able to mend the places in our hearts that we are afraid might never heal.
April is also a month that brings awareness to things that are near and dear to my heart. It's National Child Abuse Prevention Month, Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, and this last week of April is dedicated to bringing awareness to infertility. I wrote a blog post last year sharing that I had experienced sexual abuse as a child, and sharing that was a significant part of my healing. I got such precious messages, phone calls, and texts that were encouraging, supportive, and kind. It felt good to step out in the open and to break the cycle of silence and secrecy in my life, and hearing others' stories of abuse affirmed my decision to speak up.
It's not a secret but it wasn't broadcasted that Chris and I struggled to get pregnant with Nora. It took right at a year, which may not seem like an ordeal, but when literally all of your friends are getting pregnant, every single line on a pregnancy test feels devastating. We met with an OB, and she recommended a simple procedure to clear my fallopian tubes before we pursued other options. Luckily, that did the trick and within a few days we were pregnant. I don't pretend to know the pain of permanent infertility because I was graciously blessed with a child, but I can say that over the course of that year I had a taste of infertility and it was crushingly painful. During that time, I made connections with other women who still to this day don't have babies in their arms, and I haven't forgetten their stories or their journeys of infertility.
As I've thought about these two issues, heavy issues, throughout the month I've thought about the pain that infertility and child abuse cause- the pain they've caused me and others. I've considered how the repercussions of abuse damage so deeply and how infertility can leave a hole so open and raw that you're not quite sure if or how it will mend. It's brought my attention back to the problem of pain, and how God fits into all of that. It's made me think of friends who have lost unborn babies, and friends who have worked so hard to overcome the negative affects of abuse in their own lives. I've seen articles and stories on Facebook about infertility, and I love that our society is becoming less afraid to shed light on difficult issues that might cause us to have an uncomfortable emotional reaction. Feelings can be hard to feel, and empathy towards others who have dealt with either of these issues requires something of us. But all this thinking made me realize that we can't sit and circle around these issues eternally.
I notice that sometimes we center our lives around our pain. Not intentionally, but when pain from things like infertility or abuse touches our lives, it can be hard to pull our attention to something else because the pain is so real and so raw and so tender. We unconsciously allow ourselves to orbit around a significantly painful thing in our lives, which unintentionally prevents healing. This pain captivates us, and we can't seem to move forward. Infertility and abuse are huge sources of pain for men and women, and the effects of these issues are often devastating. I, by no means, am trying to downplay how these issues effect the lives of too many people around the globe. What I am saying is that sometimes in order to move forward, we must stop nursing the wounds of our pain.
There is indeed a time to nurse wounds; to sit in our agony and grieve the hand that was dealt to us. It would do none of us any good to push away our real feelings and pretend we are okay when indeed we are not. But we cannot set up camp there forever. We can't make our pain the center of our stories, especially if we know Jesus. Yes, let's use our pain as a launching pad to spring into the world and cause a positive change, but let's not hover around our pain preventing us from seeing anything else.
Maybe that's easy for me to say. My story of infertility was temporary; I don't know the permanent pain of infertility. My abuser wasn't a family member, it was relatively short lived, and the severity minor in comparison to many stories I know of. But pain is pain- is it really comparable? Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but somehow I think what I am saying is true even if it's rough around the edges. I've hovered around my pain plenty of times. It's blinded me from seeing the bigger picture, it's made me selfish in certain instances, and it's crippled me when I set up camp there. It was not in my benefit to center my life around my pain and to nurse my wounds beyond an appropriate time.
Everyone grieves and processes differently. Everyone walks through things like abuse and infertility at various paces and in various ways. No two journeys look the same, and for that I am grateful. I love that we are all connected in some way but have unique threads in our journeys that are only ours. My hope is that as we encounter each other in places of pain, that we might be able to aid one another in moving forward and propelling ourselves towards something, Someone, greater than our pain, greater than our daily struggles, and towards Someone who is able to mend the places in our hearts that we are afraid might never heal.
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