It’s just one day. For goodness’ sake: there are another 364 potential not mother’s celebrations, right? Okay, that’s not helping. So, how to get through this one? Is it possible to wring a genuine sense of peace from a heart that’s currently sucking on a lemon?..
Seems to me I’ve got a few options:
1. Despair (Very appealing):
I’m not pregnant. That’s terrible. I’m terrible. I can’t cope. I’ve screwed up my life and my biology and everything I touch turns to mulch. If I was a mum I wouldn’t feel useless. I’d be happy and fulfilled and loved and I’d have a purpose. As it is, I’m unhappy and pointless and not even a woman, yadayadadayada…
2. Denial (Yeah, slightly more godly):
I’m not pregnant. That’s fine. Totally. Fine. I’ve dealt with it – whatever. Plenty of other things to be getting on with. I’m fine – now, let’s just drop it.
3. Dealing with it (Impossible):
Tricky, number three. Like, sawing off your arm tricky, not getting the spare change from the back of the sofa tricky. But let’s pray and give it a shot.
I’m not pregnant. It’s painful – sometimes very painful. But it’s not the bottom line on my existence. I’m not a ‘not-mum’. Any more than I am ‘a wife’, a brunette, or an eldest daughter. These things are part of me, but they’re commas, not full-stops. What’s me is how I was created – the bits that were there in the womb, when no-one knew me but the Lord. The bits that remain when I’m on my deathbed, and beyond. Not just soul – but the body and mind that will also be redeemed. The bits that are struggling with the demands of daily life.
God loves me. That’s the bass note of my existence. That’s the light, the hope, the pulse. He loves me. Like a father loves a daughter and gives her his heart and his life and rejoices to hear her laugh and wonders as she grows.
It’s a truth that’s bigger than my status or my accomplishments or my feelings or my pain. A fact, incontrovertible and transforming. But it’s more than this too.
After all, who wants to hug a fact? Facts are true, but they’re dry, impersonal, cold. A fact doesn’t rejoice over me with singing or pick me up when I’m face down. But a Father does. A father understands my longings and my failures and my fear. He lifts from me the burdens I can’t carry. He loves me.
He loves me.
How can I despair when I am bathed in this love?
How can I pretend either?
You see, here’s what my Father is not:
He’s not a threat. Get it together and count your blessings.
He’s not an axiom or a moral. This is gonna make you unhappy, but at least you’ll be godly.
He’s not a consolation prize. You’re not pregnant, but hey, you’ve got God.
He’s not an excuse. No-one else can understand and I’m gonna give myself to it and harden up and rail and rage because I’m in pain dammit and that’s not FAIR.
He’s not a crutch. I’m not pregnant and until that time I’ll swallow Him along with the happy pills and the positive thinking.
He’s not a bargaining chip. I’m not a mum now but if I stay positive and pray really really hard, He’ll eventually give me what I want.
He’s God. He’s totally in control. Can He give me a baby? Sure. Will He? Maybe not.
But along with His omnipotence, I’m comforted by His love. By the Father who gives up His Son so that He can have many siblings – including me. Who draws me into His embrace and His family. Who is more beautiful and satisfying than anything this world offers.