Things are hard here, very hard.
I haven’t been well since I got pregnant. I am currently waiting for my endocrinologist to clear me for gallbladder surgery. The idea that I require clearance for surgery is still hard for me to believe. It feels like pregnancy ripped my body to pieces. For months now my first thought upon waking is, “how much of today will I have to spend in bed.”
I’m so tired of being sick.
I am perpetually afraid of becoming a burden to the people I love, so this season of needing constant rest and assistance is both an emotional and physical strain. My husband is falling down under the weight of my needs, and for all I know so are all the other people I reach to for help. I keep pulling back and telling myself “No, don’t call them, you can do it.” I try. I fail. I end up back in bed, alone with my self loathing, until my depression gets heavy and dark.
During one of my depressive episodes, I sat down with my sister-in-law and told her a dream I’d had earlier that day. I dreamed I overheard everyone discussing how draining I was and how they wished I wasn’t part of the family. I slipped away, devastated that Tim’s family had rejected me, just like my own. I sought out my husband, but he was too involved in his seminary work to comfort me.
I don’t know if she could tell how broken I was, that I was low enough to wonder how much truth there was in my dream. She looked me in the eye and said, “That is direct attack from the Devil, Rachel. Don’t believe it.” She reminded me of how he wants to discourage us, to steal our reasons to hope, and keep us from turning to the God who loves us.
I don’t know where this path of suffering is going to lead me or my family. I don’t know when it is going to end. Finding meaning in all this pain has been a daily battle. But maybe I’m not meant to know the whys right now.
Hope is bigger than whys.
Hope is beyond the mess of my every day. Hope stands beyond my health, my family, my husband’s job, where I am living or if I ever have another baby.
Hope is that I will see my Savior’s face. Hope is that He loves me here in my bed, even when I’m so depressed I turn from the life He gave me. Hope is that He prays for me, even when I’m too angry to pray myself. Hope is that He embraces me, even when I’m too weak to crawl into His arms.
Hope is Him, everything else is a lie.