In that cave,
That dark and cavernous empty space,
A small light flickers
A warm glow piercing the cold shadows.
A little girl is crying,
Sitting on a rock and crying
That little girl is me.
The sorrow wraps around her
Swallows the air around her
I'm afraid it will never leave.
In that dark cave,
That lonely, damp cave
My Jesus sits beside me.
He's sitting in the darkness with me
And the darkness is not scary for him
He's not afraid of the dark like I am.
Where does the story go from here? I would like to put a pretty bow on the package and call it a present, and I am sure that someday I will see this time as God intends it to be seen. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that He is not afraid of the unknown the way I am. He is also not afraid of my feelings. The bad ones and the ones I can't explain.
I was talking to a friend who has recently lost a loved one and I got this picture of a little girl sitting in a lonely, dark cave. I could almost feel the dampness seeping through the stone that she was sitting on. The darkness was almost a weight that I could feel. But as I looked through that telescopic lens to the girl sitting on the stone and weeping, I could see Jesus sitting next to her. He was holding her as she cried and there was a warmth emanating from him. A soft yellow glow that encompassed her in it's halo and was a sure indication of the fact that she is covered by that warmth. The safety of that light that is Jesus.
As I saw that picture a thought came to me,
He's not afraid to sit in the muck with me. He's not asking me to make this perfect for him. He is simply sitting with me and keeping me safe, even when I feel unsafe. Even when I can't see Him or feel Him.
Those who have lost loved ones or experienced the pain of infertility know how hard it is to ask for others to sit in the darkness with us. In fact, most of us don't even know that we need the empathy of others until we've already isolated ourselves. It's hard to ask. It's hard to know how to ask. It's hard to see that we are needy and that it's ok to be needy.
I have spent so much time feeling so alone and so isolated by the grief of losing a child and dealing with infertility, that my loneliness has become an impermeable shell. Separating me from feeling like I can ever be a part of the life going on around me. Though I want to acknowledge the pain that is very real, I also want to recognize the lie that says I am unacceptable. That because I don't have children that are living, that I can't hang out with women who have children and engage and relate. That, though I am struggling with infertility, my life doesn't have to be infertile as well.
It's going to take time for me to believe the truth of who God says I am versus how I feel about myself, but I want to walk that process out. No more Massive-fix-myself-marathons. Lord knows I'm tired... through and through.
It's time to just let Him be the light covering me in the darkness.
The true love holding me in the muck of the In Between.