A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

One of Sloan and my favorite songs is Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" and it has been a hard rain kind of falling week for me. Sadness mixed with poetry mixed with hope. Just full of those things that haunt you. Mainly it has been a week to reflect on the mercy of God, His goodness to our family, and the seeming randomness of it all. In a nutshell, the complexity of God's grace.

It was about a year ago this week (February 16th, to be exact) that we went to the doctor's expecting a routine ultrasound only to find out that I was in labor, 4 cm dialated, and would be admitted to the hospital. I was 23 weeks pregnant and so full of fear. I remember asking my friend Joe to pray for God's will to be done, because that just wasn't something I could do. If it was God's will to take Henry home, that I wanted no part of it. I wanted my way, my son, my life back. That was my heart that first day.

The next day, no less fearful, but I suppose more composed our pastor came to see us. Teary eyed, I remember telling him that the night before, for some unknown reason, all I could do was say over and over in my head the first question and answer to the Heidelburg cathechism (thank God for Seminary classes forcing me to memorize it). Question: What is your only comfort, in life and in death? Answer: That I belong--body and soul, in life and in death--not to myself but to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ, who at the cost of his own blood has fully paid for all my sins and has completely freed me from the dominion of the devil; that he protects me so well that without the will of of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; indeed, that everything must fit his purpose for my salvation. Therefore, by his Holy Spirit, he also assures me of eternal life, and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready from now on to live for him. (The simple fact that I remembered this at all is truly a work of the Holy Spirit as I've always been a day before the exam crammer!)

But over and over I couldn't shake the truth of this--that no matter what may happen--I belong to Christ and nothing, not even the loss of a child, can shake that. And that led to me realizing that because of God's promises to me, Henry, although too small even to be born yet, was God's too. That Henry's only comfort in life and death was, would be, and is that he belongs body and soul to Jesus Christ. And then I knew that to hold onto something that tightly, even the very life of your child, is harmful. Not because life isn't precious or a miracle, but because it is a gift. No--not even a gift--a loan. Henry doesn't and has never belonged to me. I've never belonged to my family, my husband. We're on loan and at some point in time, we will return home.

So I asked our pastor, Steve, to pray that I would remember the truth. Of course to pray for the safety and health of Henry, but that no matter what, I would not forget that God is for me and loves me. Truefully, I think getting over the loss of a child would be easier than getting over believing that you've been forsaken by God. I don't want to trivialize that loss--but to believe that God doesn't love you? Where does that leave you? Without hope in the hard rain.

More introspection came also this week as I left Henry in the nursery at my Bible Study for the first time. About 20 minutes later, as I'm trying to lead my group, I'm crying because I miss him so much. Not because I'm worried about him or concerned he's unhappy (he was having a blast and didn't miss me at all!), just because I missed his smile, smell, touch, laugh. And then I started crying more because if I, a flawed, self-absorbed human, missed my son this much in just 20 minutes, How much more must God love me and miss me when I ignore him? Or how much more must God love me if He gave his only son to die in my place? No way in heck would I even let Henry go for an hour just to help people who are mean to me, much less let him suffer on their behalf.

It has also been a difficult week as an aquaintance of mine was recently hospitalized during her pregnancy. Henry and I went to visit her and take a basket full of goodies--mints, post-its, gossip magazines, soft toilet paper, lotion--basically all of the stuff I learned I needed in the hospital. I tried to encourage her and to let her know that despite all of my good humor and laughter at peeing in a bed pan, it is a difficult and scary time. Two days later, at 23 weeks, she delivered her baby girl. Her daughter did not make it through the day.

I am haunted by this. I hold Henry tight, smother him with kisses, and cry at the pain her family must be feeling and wonder why God chose to loan us Henry longer. I dance with him until he starts trying to wriggle away, constantly singing John Lennon's "Beautiful Boy." I want to scream at the top of my lungs, "Lord, I'm grateful, but I don't understand!"

And I don't have to understand. The truth is--God loves this grieving family. Desperately. His heart aches for them and is near to them in their sorrow. It is also true that this sadness was part of His perfect plan for them, and also, knowing them, feeling this ache--for me as well. How do I manage to put these two things together? I don't know. Life isn't a puzzle; the pieces don't always match.

All I know is that a hard rain is falling and I'm ever so grateful I belong, in body and soul, to Him.