Sitting behind the clothes in the back of a pitch black closet, I could still hear him banging on the door. He screamed my name out in a warning. I wondered if maybe I could climb out the window onto the roof before he broke through, but I was paralyzed by fear. I prayed to a God I didn’t know yet, begging him to protect me, pleading with him for a way out of this.
Moments before, a fight in the living room had escalated quickly as they often did. I laid on the cold hardwood as his fist hit the floor next to me. A fist that was meant for me. In a moment of adrenaline, I kicked him, freeing myself. Running, I turned the corner toward the stairs and saw my boyfriend’s 2-year-old son screaming out in terror. It broke me. Just as quickly as my heart broke, I felt hands grasping at my ankles trying to pull me down the wooden steps until I made it to our bedroom and slammed the door, locking it as quickly as I could.…
This article was originally published on Gospel-Centered Discipleship.
It was a warm October that year. As the leaves began to boast one last time bearing auburns and oranges before falling to their death, I suspected new life. The first signs of pregnancy found their place in the smell of a far-off unlit candle and the heaviness of my eyes. One pregnancy test later and my suspicions were confirmed. But just as we lost our first baby, this one was gone too soon, as well as our third child.
After nearly two years of walking through devastating grief on grief on grief, I was diagnosed with Recurrent Pregnancy Loss.
It was like walking through a season of storms and steady rain. The storms are like tsunamis, threatening to overtake and drown your life in sorrow. Once the storm is hushed, you’re left with unrelenting rain—the steady undertone of sadness as you learn to live without the babies you’d hoped would be part of your life. …
In a couple of months, I’ll lay my son down in his crib as an infant and he’ll awake as a toddler. I wasn’t prepared for my heart to physically ache at the thought of my baby no longer being a baby. People coached me to be thankful for this season because it’s gone too fast. But rather than wishing for it to end, I dread the thought of losing it. In my seeking to savor, I fear I’ve begun to cling too tightly to the here and now.
Maybe it’s because I missed this with my other babies. I know it’s partially that I fear I’ll never experience it again. I want to freeze time, take it all in, but life is moving too fast. While many around me have arms stretched toward what’s next, I’ve got a death grip on this season, grieved at the thought of closing its chapter.…
It’s my first Mother’s Day with a baby on my hip and we’re in self-isolation. I hadn’t even thought about it until others brought it to my attention. And truly, it makes no difference to me. But many women are saddened by the reality that they can’t attend church on this special day. I’ve been thinking about this holiday in years past and how hard it was at times. I was pondering what I might feel if I was still struggling with childlessness.
While some women might be sad about missing church on Mother’s Day this year, I know some of you are relieved.
This is the first year you don’t have to make the hard decision to either stay home for fear of salt being poured in your wound, or go knowing you’ll have to hide your grief until you’ve found a safe place to cry out, “how long, O Lord?”…
You know what makes a woman dance on stage while exposing her body for all to see?
Rather than merely providing entertainment, she thinks she’s actually controlling men with her body. She thinks that sexy=strong and she uses that “strength” to entice and control the opposite gender. If she gets the attention she craves, she only wants more. If she doesn’t, she feels worthless. She’s made “being desired” her god.
Many of us think the end all get all is to be supremely desirable. But in striving to achieve this, we’re really only left with a heart full of idolatry and shame. The men we hoped would bow before us actually take their seat on the throne of our heart. We lay our bodies on the altar of a false god and worship.
Our hips don’t lie. They tell the story of brokenness which entered the world at the first bite of the forbidden fruit.…