Catastrophic loss of whatever kind is always bad, only bad in different ways. It is impossible to quantify and to compare (p. 17, Sittser, A Grace Disguised).
The Week of June 27 - July 1st, 2022
One of my earliest thoughts about this whole situation was that my life can only get better from here on out. Immediately followed by how dumb that idea is.
I came across that testimony often in the first couple weeks of research - that being told the baby you are carrying has a terminal diagnosis and going through the rest of the pregnancy only to deliver and lose your child is the worst thing you will ever go through. I've read that testimony over and over and I've even been told this by many people in person.
I thought for weeks about that. On the one hand, I want to believe it. It's a strangely comforting idea. I could die any day, but if I get anything like the average lifespan this news would mean that I will never go through something this horrific ever again.
On the other hand...it just doesn't seem true to me. I'm no stranger to adversity. For weeks I kept coming back to this idea, wanting it to somehow be true but not being able to convince myself. I weighed in my mind this experience so far with other horrible experiences I've had. And to be honest, I can't say this is the worst. I can't say which is the worst.
At the time that I was going through those situations, they felt like the worst. Some had longer recovery times. Some seem to have more effect on who I am today than others. But they are all still a part of me and they all carry incomparable weight. They're not all weighed in a system of measurement that can be easily converted into another system and then compared to what I am experiencing now.
I also spent some very dark time imagining what could be worse than this. My imagination is powerful and can go to some very horrific places and did not disappoint. Not that I've dreamt up anything worse - just that the cumulative nature of going through those nightmares is a staggering and unwelcome idea. And I can't really compare one single situation to another.
And so I want to apologize to anyone who has ever miscarried a baby. In the first couple of weeks I truly prayed for a miscarriage. I told God that the cup He has given me to drink seems so much worse. And now that I'm 12 weeks past D-Day I realize that I'm a child and have a lot to learn. How could our two situations ever be compared?
Many people who have lost babies through miscarriage or stillbirth have approached us to express sympathy. Most of them at least say "I know it's different" before they tell their story. Michael does not welcome these sentiments. He simultaneously wants the company and love and support of these people while also wishing they wouldn't compare their stories to ours at all.
While those sentiments don't bother me much, I do appreciate the caveat "I know it's different" because it is different. It's the difference between suddenly and unexpectedly losing a loved one and caring for them as they gradually succumb to sickness or disease. They're very different experiences.
But...in the end loss is loss. Who am I to say which is worse? You lost your baby too. You may never have even gotten to learn if you were pregnant with a boy or a girl. Never got to name your child. Never seen more than a grain of sand on an ultrasound picture.
You weren't able to prepare as we are - planning a service, choosing a burial plot, deciding which memories were absolute musts before saying a final goodbye. You had less time to bond with your baby than we are getting. Was your loss worse than mine? No. Just different. Still heartbreaking.
Whose loss is worse? The question begs the point. Each experience of loss is unique, each painful in its own way, each as bad as everyone else's, but also different. No one will ever know the pain I have experienced because it is my own, just as I will never know the pain you may have experienced. What good is quantifying loss? What good is comparing? The right question to ask is not, "Whose is worse?" It is rather, "What meaning can be gained from suffering, and how can we grow through suffering?" (p17-18, Sittser, A Grace Disguised).
I came across these quotes toward the beginning of reading A Grace Disguised: How the Soul Grows through Loss by Jerry Sittser. I am almost finished with this book now and I highly recommend it. It's poetic, philosophical, personal, and dense but easy to understand. I think it may just be dense to me since I'm in this particular season. I imagine it would be less so to someone who isn't in the thick of suffering.
I loved these quotes and quickly loved more and more of them because everything he wrote in this book is an "amen" for me - thoughts I was already having but could never express in words so beautifully.
One of my other earliest thoughts about this whole situation was that I don't care why any of this is happening. I care how. That's the same question I've seen Sittser wrestling with in his book, so I've found a friend it seems.
How are we going to survive this?
How is God going to glorify Himself through this?
How is He going to use this for our good?
How am I going to respond to this?
How can I be like Him and wring every last possible droplet of good out of this situation too?
I don't think it's wrong to ask "why?" I just have been through enough hard stuff to realize that there aren't easy answers to that question and in at least my case, I don't get divine answers to the "why" question in certifiable, guaranteed sound bites dropped from the sky. I can come up with a dozen possible answers to "why?" for most of the stupid crap I've been through but at the end of the day I don't know if they're the ultimate truth. And I learned years ago that I'm quite content with one answer: because I'm living in a broken world. That's enough for me.
As for the "why did God allow this?" question, I also learned years ago to be content with the same answer God gave Job. He didn't. Instead of answering why He allowed horrible evil in Job's life, He gave Job a clearer vision of Himself. He helped Job to renew his trust in Him in a way that Job's heart needed. And He brought Job through his loss and into a new normal, a new life, and a different future than Job had previously imagined.
I really don't think the "why?" questions are wrong or faithless - they're just not my questions. They're currently Michael's questions. And that's okay. As for me, I was and continually am preoccupied with "how?" I don't believe God is the cause of this pain. And I don't believe He is going to waste it either. He doesn't waste a single tear you or I cry. So let's not waste them either.
He has His own mysterious ways and plans and He will turn every weapon formed against us into a tool for our good and His glory. There's nothing wrong with both not knowing what His ultimate plan is and choosing to make our own good out of the situation. There's nothing wrong with choosing to use what we've been given to bring more light into this dark world even while we wait for God to reveal how He is already doing just that. I believe that's one of the primary ways we bring Him glory anyway.
The decision to face the darkness, even if it led to overwhelming pain, showed me that the experience of loss itself does not have to be the defining moment of our lives. Instead, the defining moment can be our response to the loss. It is not what happens to us that matters as much as what happens in us. Darkness, it is true, had invaded my soul. But then again, so did light (p. 25, Sittser).
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