At a Loss for Words

This season has been so difficult to write about, which is ironic because something in me really wants to write. Maybe it’s a spiritual attack; maybe it’s just a battle between my mind and my fingers, constantly stopping myself from plunking out a sentence on the keyboard. Writing has always helped me feel better. It’s helped me process and tie a proverbial bow on my feelings, but I can’t figure out a good way to wrap up any of my thoughts up lately. They wake me up in the middle of the night, crash into me when I’m just trying to make breakfast or take a shower. Every time someone mentions a new pregnancy, baby, or complains about their kids, I’m back there again. A prisoner in my mind, but a participant in the outside world: one in the same. “Will I ever be out of this?” is the daily plea from me to God. I’m still waiting on His response, unsure of whether the desire of my heart is the desire of His this time around.

It’s been a season of feeling scattered. My attention span feels like a yoyo. Slack messages that go unchecked and texts that I can’t seem to get to. Sullivan pulling me all in with his infectious laugh and my grief pulling me somewhere else that dulls the joy around me. Feeling incredibly grateful for all I’ve been given and feeling incredibly guilty and selfish for wanting more. God doesn’t like you, come the whispers. You already have more than you deserve, says the guilt. I brush the thoughts away and invest in my Bible study; maybe God will help me today. I beg for the Holy Spirit to move, but turn on another podcast because I’m afraid to listen. I hum to Graves into Gardens another time and repeat the lyrics, “You’re the only One who can,” until I can convince myself that I mean what I’m saying. “Do I mean it? “ I wonder with more guilt.

And then I reflect on the endless, incomprehensible miracles that God has done in my life. The ones that left me speechless and still feeling unworthy to have received them, but I doubt that there are any left. God has already written my story so beautifully, maybe this is the permanent heartache. The one I’ve always dreaded and wondered about; no growing your family. No hoping and receiving. No asking, seeking, or knocking for any more kids, Griff. This is it. These are the rumblings that haunt me when I crawl into bed at night. I always check Sullivan’s monitor before I lay down. Blue light - charging. Volume up, so I can hear any cries. “Is he my only baby?” I wonder. Is it bad to wonder? Does it make me void of hope, or am I just a realist? Am I depressed? I’m not sure these days.

But every Sunday during worship, I still make myself raise my hands. I wait for the chorus and the part where my eyes are usually filling with tears, and I lift my fingers up to the church ceiling and hope that my surrender means something. I hope that it can quiet the doubts and give me the peace I’m searching for, even if my prayers don’t get answered. Even if it’s not a yes in my future. Every day feels like an effort to strap on enough positivity to get to the next one.