9 minute read
Advent Blues
by Michelle Heumann with Scott Gamble
I had conceived a dream –A lit Advent wreath
Pink and blue candles
A baptismal font
And a baby
Thanking God for the blessing of family
With godparents and grandparents
Baptism photos with matching shoes
Looking forward to Sunday school, VBS, confirmation And baby’s first youth gathering
Instead –Surgery
Painful, expensive procedures
Invasive tests
Medications and needles
Every month for years a heartbreaking cycle of hope and grief
Facing thoughtless questions, comments, and assumptions
While each Advent wreath is a reminder of the death of a dream unborn
Advent anticipates the fulfillment of long-awaited promises, which, surely as the sun will rise, surely as Christmas follows Advent, will come to pass. The promised child has been born, the long-awaited Saviour has come, but we enter into a four-week suspension of reality to remember that we still wait for the final fulfillment of all promises, and to rediscover the wonder of the miracle child, born for our salvation.
But what about those waiting for their own child? What about those whose dreams of being a parent never come to pass? The waiting never ends. The fulfillment never comes. Always Advent, never Christmas. Those trying with great difficulty to have children and those who have exhausted every possible avenue without success grieve an unseen loss throughout Advent, as well as every other day of the Church Year.
As the Church once again rests her hope on the many miraculous births in our Saviour’s storied line, let us take time to hear and see the cries and tears of those whose longed-for children never arrived.
Church has not been a sanctuary on this journey. Prayers and sermons all seem to be written with happy nuclear families in mind, and on Mother’s Day I don’t want to go to church, but I’m on the music team and singing is the only thing that brings any kind of joy these days—and where else can I go?
Thankfully the pastors don’t say much about it, and it doesn’t even get a mention in the sermon.
Usually, I linger in the sanctuary until the ladies are done handing flowers to the moms on their way out. Often I get offered a pity flower, so I’d rather avoid the whole exercise entirely.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I say to my husband later, feeling pleased I got through a Mother’s Day without crying.
So I’m totally unprepared for Father’s Day. The sermon focuses on fatherhood, and the grief hits me like a brick wall.
My husband will never get to be a dad, and he would have been a good one. He’ll never get to teach his kids how to play guitar or baseball, or how to say the Lord’s Prayer. And I miss my dad, who died so suddenly that I never got the chance to tell him we were trying to have a family.
But where’s the outlet for my grief? The only form of mourning the church has is for death—funerals, All Saints’ Sunday—and those are for people who once lived, not for the people who you hoped would live.
I suddenly realize that I’ve passed most of the service in a haze of grief, and I throw myself into the communion liturgy. I’m too choked up to sing, but I cling to the familiar words with desperation.
Kneeling at the rail, I wordlessly beg God with all my heart to be there, to comfort me.
I know He can, but why can’t I feel anything other than pain? Why can I not “depart in peace and with great joy”? I’d settle even for some peace and a little bit of joy.
Afterwards, I shake my pastor’s hand and smile and say good morning, but what I really want to do is throw myself on his shoulder and cry and mourn and beg for answers and comfort.
Instead, I tuck away all the hurt and slink home to bed, too exhausted to do anything else.
How can it be, Lord, that some of Your children celebrate Jesus’ joyous resurrection each Sunday while others feel stuck in the shadow of Your Friday crucifix? They come to receive the fruits of Your pain and suffering, but instead they find flowers in bloom and candles bright, windows shining and songs of glory —things that offer no comfort in the face of hardship and sorrow.
As Jesus healed a withered hand in Your house on the Sabbath, continue to set right the twisted forms of all who feel withered in ways deeper and unseen, beyond mere bone and flesh. For those experiencing agony, waiting for the final restoration of Your coming kingdom, make their Sunday worship a place of comfort instead of sorrow, a place of release instead of withdrawal, a home for honesty instead of masks. Grant other faithful saints eyes to see and ears to hear the tears and cries of Your hurting children, and hands to reach out with Your love and comfort.
Provide all believers, but especially pastors, with the tender compassion that Jesus showed to the most broken and hopeless. May the hurting among us be our greatest blessing —the site where inordinate amounts of God’s love and comfort flow, passing through the Church and her pastors, filling His Body with life and vitality, like a vine to its branch.
It’s hard to tell people when I’m struggling because not everyone responds thoughtfully. Not everyone recognizes how vulnerable I feel. The best response was from a friend who didn’t say anything and just hugged me. Some responses feel like a slap in the face.
Telling me that it worked out for Abraham and Sarah at an old age isn’t comforting because I don’t have a promise from God to bless the nations of the earth through my descendants.
Telling me that if I can’t have kids of my own at least I have lots of time for youth ministry is especially hard—being a youth leader is its own important vocation with its own joys and sorrows, but it’s no substitute for being a mom. Some days the knowledge that I will only ever teach other people’s children about God, never my own, weighs me down.
A particularly upsetting assumption is that adoption is a cure for infertility. It’s not. Adoption is its own very special vocation, requiring a lot of money, time, patience, and emotional stamina. Even if someone is successful in adopting a healthy baby, I’ve read accounts from people who say they still grieve the lack of a biological child, no matter how much they love their adopted child, and that they continue to feel trauma from the failed medical procedures.
And adopting older children who’ve been through trauma of their own is an even more specific vocation that few people are equipped for. It would be better for children if there were more supports to help birth parents provide for and raise them themselves, rather than to have abortion or adoption be the only options.
Remind us, Lord, that all who have faith have been adopted into Your family, beloved children to be welcomed into our eternal home. Provide an extra measure of strength and wisdom to those who choose to adopt. May it be a vocation that brings more joy than sorrow, more fulfillment than grief.
Be present with those who have chosen not to adopt, discerning that the vocation of adoptive parent may not be theirs, even if it means they may remain childless. Give them grace to meet mistaken comments with peace.
Give grace also to those for whom an unexpected pregnancy brings fear and uncertainty. Send everyday saints to love and serve women in difficult situations, without judgment or condemnation, but with the grace and unconditional love that You would offer.
I love my friends’ kids and want them to be part of my life, but baby announcements are very hard.
I’ve been back home for a few days after visiting a friend and her family when I get a message from her. That’s not unusual, but the content is.
“We’re expecting another baby,” she writes. “I know it’s hard news for you to hear, so I’m telling you when you have the space to process it. You’re in my prayers.”
Her thoughtfulness overwhelms me. There’s no perfect way to share this kind of news with someone in my position, but this is the most caring way I’ve experienced. I feel so loved, so seen.
But I also feel angry and sad because my grief is such a powerful force that it’s disrupted something that should be a happy moment, that it’s robbed us of this chance for me to rejoice with her.
Lord Jesus, You drew unto Yourself the chosen twelve, and from those twelve an inner three, knowing that, in the fullness of Your humanity, You too would need companions. What joy and sorrow were mingled as You ministered, as You journeyed to Jerusalem and the cross? Thank You, Lord, for the saintly presence of friends who know our pains and sorrows intimately, even when that knowledge dampens joyful occasions. Bathe those relationships in an abundance of gratitude, understanding, and peace, knowing that even good things bear some taint of sin in this life. Let the goodness of these relationships stir the embers of hope for a kingdom unsullied by woe.
Jesus Christ, Lord of the Church, we draw near to the annual celebration of Your birth, and we once again marvel at Your willingness to join Yourself to our frail humanity. We give thanks that all members of Your Church are equally members of Your body, and that You raise up the less honoured, the unpresentable, and the suffering to places of honour. Teach us how best to honour those who suffer infertility, childlessness, miscarriages, stillbirths, abortions, and all manner of painful plights. Use us, many members of the body, to provide comfort and companionship, understanding and insight, presence and prayer, and service and hospitality to those in need.
Regardless of the state of our homes and our hearts this season, abide with us, Lord, and remind us that Your strength is made perfect in our weakness, just as Your love was made manifest in Your holy suffering. Be the light of the world in times of darkness for all believers, and shine the light of Your salvation on every circumstance they find themselves in. Amen.
