Don’t Suffer
in Silence
This has
been my mantra to my life group and my discipleship group for several years
now. It comes from a desire to be
authentic. To be genuine. To allow ourselves to be open and vulnerable
with the very people who make up the body of Christ. 1 Cor. 12:25-26, “that there may be no
division in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one
another. If one member suffers, all
suffer together…”
But how can we suffer together if we aren't aware of each other's suffering? So often in the Christian realm we put on our Sunday
best, accessorize with our Bibles and a smile, and greet one another under the
church steeple with a “Hi! How are you?”
and a disingenuous “I’m fine” through a plastered smile. Where in truth, on any given day, we may be
cloaking a deep pain or grief that threatens to overtake us at any moment and
dissolve us into a pile of tears.
That was me
this weekend. Cloaking grief. Forcing smiles. Hiding the pain. Carrying on because I must carry on. But
here’s the thing: I don’t like feeling
fake. I don’t particularly like baring
my pain for all to see either, but quiet suffering doesn’t help healing. Not to mention I am one who has frequently found
writing and baring my soul a cathartic and healing exercise.
So here
goes: I am currently, as I type, in the
midst of a miscarriage. Actually, my 2nd
miscarriage. My emotions are raw. My tears depleted. My hormones in overdrive. My hopes for what could have been are dashed.
While on vacation in August, Shannon and I
were surprised to discover that we were pregnant. Yes, SURPRISED, but trusting God’s plan and
looking forward to a bonus addition to our current family of 5.
The
subsequent 4 weeks after our discovery went along as expected- nausea and queasiness and a growing
excitement for the time when we could share the news with our family- but only AFTER the
long anticipated first doctor’s appointment and confirmation. On the day before that scheduled appointment,
something just didn’t quite feel right.
My queasiness had very suddenly subsided, and rather than feel grateful,
I felt uneasy about it. I had been
through a miscarriage between the births of my 2nd and 3rd
child, so I knew feeling sick was a “good sign”. Suddenly not feeling sick worried me a
bit. Later that night I had a sharp
abdominal pain, and then the telltale signs of the beginnings of a miscarriage.
I didn’t
sleep well that night leading up to my doctor’s appointment. We got our appointment time bumped up a
little and went in to see the OB. A well-meaning nurse came in clapping and cheerful for my filled out paperwork report of a
positive pregnancy test as my "reason for visit", but quickly changed her demeanor as I told her through
tears that something was not right.
The doctor
came in and compassionately talked with me before the ultrasound. He is a believer, and encouraged me that
either way, God is in control. I know
this. My faith is unwavering. My heart and emotions though don’t always
want to keep in line with my faith.
The scan was
ultimately not comforting. Though I
should have been 8 weeks pregnant, the baby measured somewhere between 5-6
weeks, and no heartbeat was conclusively found.
My doctor still offered some hope that all was not yet lost- my dates
could be off, the heartbeat not yet detectable- I would return next week for follow up blood tests and another
scan. But in my heart I just knew. And my heart was breaking.
I was sent
home to “wait and see”, but scheduled commitments prevented me from just
sitting around in my tears to wait. I
have a family to care for- and thankfully a wonderful husband to pick up the
slack. But I also have a business to run. And for that I have no back up. I teach painting classes to groups of people who
have been on my schedule for well over 2 months.
Knowing there was nothing I could do to either prevent or further cause
a miscarriage, I went ahead on Friday night to my already scheduled painting
party.
Just 3 hours
after leaving the doctor with potentially devastating news, I put on my apron,
grasped my paint brushes, and stood before a group of strangers. And I carried on “as usual” for what turned
out to be one of my LONGEST classes ever.
I was friendly. I was
upbeat. I was patient and kind as I
instructed. But I was silently dying on
the inside with each cramp and pain that I knew were signs of a life leaving me.
As it turned
out, I had to repeat this ritual for yet another class on Saturday, well after
the bleeding had increased and the inevitable was obvious. Smile.
Talk. Be kind. Be helpful.
Keep on smiling. Force that smile
for the pregnant girl in the room and the gushing of the other women as they
congratulate her on her due date which is just one week from what mine would have
been. Turn it on auto-pilot and keep on
keeping on.
Sunday I
dragged myself out of bed and went to church.
The despair of being home alone with my grief seemed harder than faking a
smile and actually being around people. I mostly
avoided any contact with anyone other than family. Eye contact that was too long or a hug that was
too personal may have broken my wall of protection and burst forth the
floodgates. So I avoided.
Where am I
going with this? Why do I share
something so personal already? Partly because I know I'm not alone in this particular loss, yet it seems miscarriage is often relegated to the "secret" and "the not talked about". Partly because writing is my release. Partly because if you see me and I look sad, at least you'll know why.
But I could have kept silent. Or I could have at least waited until I was on the other side of the suffering and written a message that could be wrapped up with a pretty bow at the end. There is no pretty bow, but there are a few things I do know as I wade in the midst of this pain. So as my pastor often concludes his messages
with “walking points”, let me leave you with this:
1. Without a doubt, I know God is sovereign. He is in control. I know He has a purpose for everything that
He allows into our lives. I don't know why He allowed this surprise pregnancy to begin with, and then took it away. I can't understand His ways. But I do know He will
sustain and heal my family as we work through and move past this difficult life
event. Ps. 119:50, “My comfort in my
suffering is this: Your promise
preserves my life.” God is good. All the time.
He promises to work things together for His goodness. His goodness is most evident through times of suffering. It seems it would be the opposite, but in
times of pain we are drawn closer to His goodness and can receive His comfort. We are not guaranteed a life without pain,
but we are given the HOPE that comes only from Him when that pain comes.
2. You never know what someone else is
going through. This weekend was
rough. It was among the toughest I’ve
endured. It caused me to reflect on how
often there are others walking around, carrying on with life while masking a
deep hurt within their hearts. Oh that
we could see others as Jesus sees. Maybe
we’d be more compassionate with the short-tempered check-out lady, or more
patient with the car that drives too slowly in front of us, or more loving to
the rude customer service employee who answered the phone. Sure, some of them may just be being ugly for
no reason, but it may also be that they are going through their day suffering
in silence.
3. Speaking of which, I will repeat this
once more: Don’t suffer in silence. Does this mean you have to bear your soul to
everyone you come into contact with?
Write a blog detailing your pain and post it on FB? No.
(But don’t judge me for doing so- we all get through things differently.) You should, however, have a core group of people
with whom you can “share in suffering”.
Before leaving for my doctor’s appointment, I messaged my family and a
core group of ladies that I knew would uphold me in prayer, cry tears with me,
and support me with words of understanding and encouragement. God
did not create us to be islands, rather “one body”. The joy of unity is found when we not only suffer in grief and trials
with one another, but also when we get to rejoice- when we come through the other side
of that grief and see God’s faithfulness in action.
So, have you
been guilty of suffering in silence before? Of putting on the mask and pretending all is
OK. I urge you to take off the mask. There is a strength that is found in
vulnerability. There is a comfort that
is found in sharing your pain with others. There is soul-soothing
that is offered by Christ when we open our hearts to others in His body of
believers. There is sweet fellowship
that is found beyond the surface of being OK and allowing ourselves to share
one another’s burdens.
There is hope. There is grace. There is healing. There is love. We have Christ and we have each other. And ultimately, I know that is enough.
