What Do We Do With Pain?
Hearing the words, “I’m sorry. There’s no heartbeat.” gets worse every time. Today I walked into another doctors appointment to confirm what I already knew was true: another loss. My third miscarriage in a year. It doesn’t get easier. (It can hardly get worse.)
There’s no way to explain that sinking feeling when you see the positive test and everything in you wants to celebrate, but the little voice in the back of your head keeps telling you it’s too good to be true. There’s nothing like the ache of anxiously waiting and desperately hoping you can make it just a few more weeks and into the clear. Nothing like seeing blood when you know there shouldn’t be any, wanting it to be normal, wishing it would stop, but it doesn’t. Hoping this was finally the redemption story, but it’s not yet.
There’s no good time for it to happen, no good way to go through it. You can only go through it. And the worst part is how common it is and how many women do know what I mean.
After my first miscarriage, I decided to open up about the loss and I was shocked by how many women sent me messages saying, “I’ve been there too.” or “I’m currently going through it as well.” It’s heartbreaking. It’s infuriating. It makes no sense.
After my second loss, I shared again. I have always been open with my community about my story, my pain, and being in the process. However, I’m also aware that there’s a fine line between “being real” and oversharing on the internet. So this time, the third loss, I really don’t know what else to say. The pain and grief leak a little into everything you do, a little into everyday. It shows up at different times and in different ways, so for the sake of how I will show up my business in coming days/weeks/months (which is currently unclear), I figured I might as well be honest about where I’m at this time too.
If I’ve learned anything on this journey, it’s that we have a choice in pain: We can either let it redefine what we believed about ourselves, our life, and God (and send us spiraling — which happened to me the first time); or we can, in faith, let it anchor us to our belief about ourselves, our life, and God.
I read a book earlier this year in which the author shares about her own pregnancy loss. She said something that regularly comes up in my mind. She prayed, “God, let me be a good steward of my pain.”
That’s become my prayer. Because I think as believers, we have a unique opportunity in our suffering to show the world who Jesus truly is to us. If my pain separates or turns me from Him, what good is my faith? How different is my hope than anyone else’s if it can’t sustain me through the dark moments? But if I can stand through the storm and stay tethered to hope beyond all odds, well. Then we’ve got something worth holding onto. We’ve got something that sets us apart and illuminates our humanity, while simultaneously showcasing the beauty of and our desperate need for our Savior.
If the way I process my pain points people to Jesus, is it worth it? Some days I still wish there was an easier way to have a testimony. But even on the days I wish this wasn’t my story, I have come to a place in my life and my faith where I can wholeheartedly say, “God, use it all.” If my story can be a beacon of hope to someone on the other side of (or even in the midst of) my healing, let it be done.
May the way we handle our pain and the way we heal be proof to a hurting world that we have a Healer.
May the way we steward our brokenness be a testament to the faithfulness and trustworthiness of our Jesus.
May our pain be the fertile ground for growing stronger faith, deeper hope, and greater certainty that even when my circumstances are not, my God remains good.