Lessons in Lament
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18
Expecting
Pulling into the parking lot of a fertility clinic on a cold, January day nearly two years ago, I look at my wife, Brooke, and we both take a deep breath. “Here we go.” she says as we get out of the car and walk toward the clinic’s doors, holding sweaty hands and carrying anxious emotions. We were trying to get pregnant and not having success. We both had tests done on us and the visit to the fertility clinic was to discuss the results of those tests.
We’re called back to the doctor’s office. The blinds are open on the large windows of our fertility doctor’s office, sunlight pouring in. I notice how this is the first time that I’ve gone to see a doctor and not had to sit in an examination room, noticing the stark contrasts between the sunny office and the artificial fluorescent exam rooms.
We sit in the padded chairs and my knee begins to bounce. My wife looks at me with the look that we’re about to find out if our lives are going to be changed dramatically. I rake my hands across my pants, wicking the tiny beads of sweat off. I reach for my wife’s hand and we lock fingers for a moment.
The doctor comes in with jovial greetings. “Hi! How are you all today?” I’m not sure what my response was because I’m thinking, “She seems upbeat. This must be a good sign, right?” My wife and the doctor begin going over her test results and talk briefly about some of the known issues that my wife already knew about.
The doctor then shifts her attention toward me and asks if anyone from the clinic I visited had followed up with me. I tell her no and the sunny disposition she brought in with her when she first entered her office seemed to dissipate in that moment.
I’m not sure of the scientific terminology, but it wouldn’t have mattered because the words that came next were ones that have stayed with me. “It’d be near impossible for you to get pregnant.”
We both reacted like:
“But the good news is you can have sex for fun!” she said, trying to spin the bad news. (I’m not sure what I would’ve said in the moment if I were on the other side of the desk, but I don’t think it would have been that.)
I looked over at my wife. I thought about all the tears no one else had seen and the conversations no one else had heard on what it meant for her to be a mom. She held strong composure, even as pools of tears began forming.
The doctor then began going over alternative ways for us to conceive. She summarized what IVF would look like if we were to go that route and asked if we had any questions about that. We both shook our heads no and she again tried to spin the bad news, “Next time I see you, you’re going to be pregnant.” (Again, I don’t know what I would have said in that moment, but I don’t know if I could have said that, either.)
Leaving that office and heading to our car began a season for us that has formed and shaped us in deeper ways than I think we both could have imagined. We would shed many tears (beginning as soon as we got in the car), have long conversations, and lingering thoughts on what this would mean for our lives, both as hopeful parents and as people who claim to serve an all-powerful God. We would wonder what we could have done differently or if we were being punished for something.
For us, we would enter into a season of lament.
The Wilderness of Lament
One year later, God worked a miracle in our lives and we, against odds, conceived and had our precious boy, Micah. We thank God for him and know he truly is a gift. However, we still had to walk on the road through our proverbial wilderness for a year to get to that point. It was a lonely, dusty road.
Along that road, we rejoiced when Facebook friends would post a gender reveal video or some kind of pregnancy announcement but we also stewarded emotions of sadness, grief, and even a little bitterness. When people at church would hold their babies in their arms and the babies would look at us, we would smile outwardly and give tiny waves, but our hearts would crumple like paper on the inside. This was harder than we thought we could handle.
Looking for answers and ways to cope, we examined our faith tradition and found it left us wanting more. I don’t know if I’d heard a pastor or listened to a talk on grieving and lament before, but I was suddenly aware of my own felt need and wondered if there were others who were carrying something of equal, if not greater, weight inside them and asking similar questions.
There is a popular story in the Bible that expresses the gut-wrenching grief of losing a loved one. This story comes from the Gospel according to St. John in chapter 11.
Mary and Martha were weeping over the loss of their brother, Lazarus. They call Jesus and Jesus delays his coming to heal Lazarus. When Jesus does come, he sees the grief surrounding the home. He sees the tears streaming down faces. There is no laughter. There are no nearby parties. There is only grief.
When Jesus sees this setting before him, he enters into it. He weeps.
Even though Jesus had power over death and knew what the outcome was going to be, he still chose to enter into that moment and sit with Mary, Martha and the neighbors and wept with them. He doesn’t let the moment wash over him, but allows the reality of what just happened to be felt in his bones. The neighbors even make an observation about Jesus’ grief: “See how much he loved him!” (verse 36) If Jesus didn’t let the weight of loss and grief bounce off of him so quickly, should we? Yes, Jesus called Lazarus out of the grave (vv.43-44). But in that moment, there was a period where the gravity of loss and sadness had sunk into the hearts of those closest to Lazarus, and Jesus affirmed that.
One of the worst things we can do as Christians is try to explain away the loss of a loved one. Death is an unnatural thing to behold. Often, there are no words to adequately express what someone may be feeling in such a moment as we all process differently. For Brooke and I, we didn’t necessarily have someone die per se, but the results of our lab tests had a similar feeling. In fact, a couple of days later while we were lying in bed and still processing everything, Brooke said, “Why do I feel like someone just died?”
It was that kind of statement that seemed to set us on a journey how to process such a powerful emotion as grief and lament. We came through to the other side of that wilderness journey but there were lessons that we learned along the way. It’s over the course of these next four blog posts that I’d like to share some of those lessons.
I realize that some who may be reading this that you may feel awkward or alone or feel that you should avoid lament, even treat it like an enemy. I believe, however, that lament is not an enemy and can help you explore the caverns of your soul that have yet to see the light of Jesus illuminate. So, for now, instead of running away from it, sit with lament for a period of time and talk to God about these fears you have of grief and why it feels so uncomfortable for you. Ask the Holy Spirit for guidance and direction on what to do next.
For those of who may be walking through infertility or the loss of a child, I found Tish Harrison Warren’s Service of Memorial and Lament to help give words to my prayers and grief. Check it out.
The peace of our Lord,
Seth
