This Barren Land: Grace, all the more

Part Five

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The walls of my crumbling fortress are becoming a little shorter everyday. The bricks are becoming weaker and my Ugly Grudge Monster is now only a small, sad thing in the corner. Almost forgotten and starved. And I'm loosening my death grip on my sad Sack of Sin. Oh, how I am learning so much about myself. About who I am, who I really am, as Christ sees me. Who I was created to be. Stepping out from behind these walls, after so long, I find I am a different person than I thought I was. I see myself differently. The sun heating my skin, my hair free to be blown in the breeze…I am no longer the cowering scared person hiding behind walls and grudges. I am shocked by this new person I have become. How did I ever get here? And I'm not just talking about the person I was when I entered the barren land of Infertility, but the person I was in college, in high school, in middle school…How on earth did I get here?

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I don’t know when it started, or even how. I don't remember what "Aha!" moment I had to change me, to make me rethink my haughty proud attitude, that I was right and everyone was wrong. But I know something happened, changed, caused me to shift. Slighty, almost unnoticeably. I started to see things around me, spot little pieces of the picture that were off, not quite right. I think it was when I started working with a small family a few years ago. 

I was working with a little boy with developmental disabilities. His mom was quiet at first, guarded and regarding me with suspicion. One day, the little boy and his brothers were busy playing, constantly playing. We hardly saw them all day -- it never happened before and would never happen again. I probably should have stayed with the boy, as it was my job, but his mom and I just started talking. She wouldn't stop talking. Everything, her whole life story. Painful, unbelievable, unimaginable story. A new Christian who had experienced so much pain. And a lifetime Christian who could relate but could not find the words. It was as if a small, insignificant gear, one never before known or missed, slipped into place in the recesses of my brain *click* and I was awake. Eyes ripped open, seeing for the first time. A fog that had gone unnoticed for years, decades really, was cleared. Everything from a distance suddenly right before my eyes. There are others.

It sounds stupid. It sounds selfish and pathetic, probably because it is. And I am ashamed. I never really saw it before. Why had I never seen it? It was all around me. Everywhere. And I never saw it. I missed it. Ignored it. Refused to see. Why had it taken me so long?

Others around me, everywhere around me, all over. Hurting. Grieving. Sorrow and pain. People walking, people working, people rich and poor and surrounded and alone. And I was ashamed -- that I had never seen it before. Not like now, not clearly. Not indisputably. I had walked through this life for the years that I can remember not even really, truly considering the hurt of others, the experience of others.

Here was this petite, quiet woman, who looked like anyone else, with mounds and mounds of hurt and suffering hiding beneath polite smiles. I am not the only one. Could there be more? And I know you are thinking, Of course there are more Jenna. Are you blind? And I know that there are more. I just never, before that moment, realized that they were living in my backyard. This is the saddest confession, my biggest regret. I must have missed so many. I mean, I have cared for others before. I had sat with friends just broken up, just crushed by a friend, just miscarried, just defeated. I knew of others with cancer and loss and abused and hurting. But…Maybe it is like that sermon on forgiveness. Maybe it just took this one last push for me to see, for me to finally get it right. For me to see, really see.

Maybe it was my time in the hostile, empty barren land of Infertility. Maybe my time here, with all the comments and statements and hurtful moments and lonely nights and just dripping in sorrow and grief that allowed me to get to this moment. This small, miniscule moment, a grain of fine sand, that tipped the scale and opened my eyes. And a whisper, an almost-thought Are You using this? Are You using me?

I began to wonder, If it took me, who has been taking up residence in such a sad, lonely place, this long to open my eyes to the hurt and sorrow around me, how much longer would it take others who had not experienced this depth of sadness, this length of longing, this tidal wave of sorrow? Would they ever have their eyes opened? Could they? And I started to see each interaction differently.

Slowly, I started to see the brokenness of those around me. I started to see the humanness of each person I met. Little by little I started making allowances for others' faults. I have had my share of awkward encounters recently while visiting potential new church homes and I have handled them more gracefully than I had expected. Even Jason took notice. Instead of dissolving into a puddle of snot and tears after being asked if we have children, we started to laugh. We began to see the humor in such situations, or just started refused to let it get us down. The awkward, sideways stares of church welcome committee members are now all too hilarious to us, rather than defeating. We know they are wondering Are they dating? Just friends? Siblings? Married! But with no children? Is that even possible? Do they not like children? How could you not like children?!  We know this because we have been asked all of these questions. So we laugh. And giggle and marvel that in seven years little has changed.

I began to extend more grace, thick thick sheets of grace, to those who asked much-too-personal questions or offered advice. Grace to those who flung comments and verses my way, which they didn't understand, who probably had good intentions. Grace to those who unwittingly spread the lies that I once believed. Grace because now, after too many years, I understand, finally understand, that they might not understand. They might not get it. And...(and this is so hard for me to write, even now)…and…(big breath)…it is not their fault.

How could it be their fault if they simply do not know about this land I'm in? How could it be their fault if they are not aware of this empty place? Not aware that their attempts at being caring and comforting are really hurtful and painful? Maybe no one has told them. The once-whisper, almost-thought is now a faint call deep within my chest. Are You using me? Are You using this?

This realization took my breath away. Years of being angry. And here I am, wishing I could take it back. Slowly, this settled in. How can I explain this? So much to tell you but I want to make sure you understand. This new revelation began to form about two years ago, and took nearly the full two years to settle permanently with me. All the while, I still held tightly to my grudges and watched my reels. I didn't really grab onto new grudges or watch new reels of terrible moments. I worked to make sense of this understanding that others simply might not know that their words were hurtful. At the same time, this revelation didn't yet change my beliefs about what had happened in the past. Those boulders and bricks were so thick in concrete, it took all this time to begin to think about moving them, to even realize that it was wrong that they were there in the first place. 

I freely offer grace, grace upon grace. I remember myself in that moment long ago. That moment at the table with that shy woman. Me, not able to find the right words. Searching, desperately, in my mind and soul. No words. And I wonder…

Could it be that others who have been hurting, who have talked to me, hurt me, said the wrong thing to me…could others have been searching to no avail for the right words, coming up empty? Could others have tried and failed, still knowing the pain and hurt and sorrow I felt? Could it be, simply, that they knew but were without words? And if so, how much have they been hurt themselves?

And slowly, I store up grace and shovel it out to those who simply just don't know yet. Dump it over and around those who cannot find the words. And there is growth! There is something growing in this barren land! I cannot tell you how strange and weird and uncomfortable and amazing it is to tell you this. To tell you that there is something growing in the barren land of Infertility. The once-faint call is now a scream, loud and shrieking, surrounding me, thick. YOU ARE USING THIS!!

I began to see the rich opportunities to be cultivated in these encounters. I took deep breaths and prayed for grace. These formerly tense and stressful moments can easily be moments of education, guidance and help. A simple conversation. A word of encouragement, for them, those trying to hard to offer comfort. A teachable moment. How rare must these be?? How often I am told that no one, no resident of this land, has come before, to explain, advise, teach!!  And I can change this hostile place. Maybe not for me, but maybe for others. Maybe for the women who, in attempt to help, are unaware that they are causing hurt. Maybe for those who just simply do not know. Because…it is not their fault. Maybe for the benefit of young women (and men) who will walk this barren land in the years to come. Hopefully for them. That they might not walk alone. That they might find rest and a friend, that they might find what I had been looking for, searching for, waiting and longing for. Maybe for others, in far of lands of their own, that we all might change our perspectives and shovel out grace.

Slowly, and a little reluctantly, I've taken up the role to which I have been called. I'm building with the right bricks in the right place with the right purpose. Okay, maybe a little more reluctantly than I care to admit. Possibly some kicking, definitely some screaming. Yes, flailing of the arms. And, okay, a lot of running. But slowly I am here. This is not a role I wanted. Oh, this is definitely NOT the place I pictured myself to be in years ago. This was not even on my radar.

My walls continue to fall and more of me is available to serve, to find my role, to own my role in the kingdom, in this broke and fallen place. I am beginning to be (gulp) grateful for my place in this land. Back to Joshua. In the first chapter, God is speaking to Joshua, telling him to take the land that is given to the Lord's people. God is telling him He will be with him, just as He was with Moses. And to be strong, courageous, not terrified. He needs to tell Joshua this because it is a strange land, full of strange and sometimes scary things, and many many scary looking people. And God offers a promise: "do not be discouraged for the Lord, your God, will go with you wherever you go." This barren land of Infertility may seem empty and I might feel alone, if you are there, you might be feeling alone too. And maybe you are in a land of your own, that is empty and scary and hostile and frightening. But oh! We are not alone. Our God will go with us wherever we go. He is here in this place with us. And we don't need to be afraid.

My role? My calling? I am beginning to see myself more and more as a voice for those in this land. A voice for those of us who take up residence here, reluctantly, dropped unawares in a hostile place, empty and dry. A voice telling others of this land, this land of which they have never heard. They just simply do not know. And my hope is that in my sharing, in my calling, more and more will know. And later, and like Moses, I might never see the working out of the plans the Lord has -- this land might not be so hostile. This land might not be so lonely. And I am grateful. It’s strange and backward and uncomfortable and awkward. But I am grateful to be a voice. I am grateful that all this wandering and walking and these battles have not been in vain. I am grateful to make a change for others who come, and they will come. I am grateful to

Not that I love to be here. Not that others will like to be here either. Not that we are loving this place. But that we might find others. That we might find peace and rest, even when we mourn our loses and continue to long for children. But that we might find others or visitors, others who do not live here, but know of this place.

This journey of mine is far from over. And I fear, even if my most desired prayers are answered -- a baby of my own -- I will still live here, in this barren land of Infertility. I am changed. But it's not over. I'm still forgiving. Each day, every day. Slowly, surely, sometimes stubbornly, the bricks are moved. And sometimes, I know, in my weakest and sadness, I will build a brick, watch a reel. And I do know that I am forgiven (praise God -- that I know. That he forgives), which makes it easy to forgive others. I do know that there is hurt all around, which makes it essential to offer truck loads of grace. 

I talk and talk and talk about infertility. Sometimes so much it annoys even me. But I hope you find peace in the land that you have been dropped into. I pray you find the places in which God may use you. I hope that you start to take down your walls, offer forgiveness, not forgetting what we have been saved from, and are made free. I hope that you find growth and extend grace. We all have our barren land of something. We all suffer and endure sorrow and pain and hurt. I pray you find your voice, your calling to overcome evil with good.