Saying good-bye to a Christian culture

Gay marriage and charity.

Divorce and the church.

Tragedy and easy answers.

These things specifically have been on my brain the last few days quite a bit.

What is it that ties these seemingly unrelated things together? Is it God? The Bible?

Or is it something much less definitive, much more septic?

Could it be Christian culture?

I suppose it's unavoidable, really. You put a whole bunch of people together, and you'll get culture.

At times, we Christians really get it right. (At least, right according to the Bible.) We become the hands and feet of Jesus, ministering, caring, loving, blessing and, at times, challenging. We spur one another on toward love and good deeds.

But then there are times when the culture we attribute ourselves to gets it horribly, horribly wrong.

Women who should be embraced and protected by the church are instead forced to wear a Scarlett D, have members of the clergy completely in their business, and are scorned for leaving an abusive and soul-sucking marriage.

Kids who need sponsors to feed them get completely gyped because this culture decided that homosexuality is THE sin of the day (more so than any other), and they are more concerned about being politically correct in the Christian sense -- then in continuing to feed needy children.

Families who are desperate for love, a meal brought over, a friend to cry with are hung out to dry when tragedy strikes. Instead of a casserole, they receive plattitudes and easy answers. Not always, but enough. Too much.

Which spurs the question in me . . . is anything really supposed to be Christian?

Sure, people are. If Christian means "little Christ" . . . if Christian means having a personal, soul-saving relationship with Jesus . . . then by all means, let's all be Christians.

But things -- objects -- devoid of souls? Should those be called Christian?

Can a charity comprised of thousands of people really claim to be Christian? Can they ensure (or should they ensure) that each and every member of their organization not only has a relationship with Christ, but follows every single law in the Bible?

I used to work for a "Christian" company. I use that term loosely.

While I met some amazing Christian friends there, I also met some not-so-Christian ones. And then I met Christians who acted like they weren't Christians. There were divorces, affairs, greed, anger, cussing. There was also corporate prayer, causes that were meant to spread the word of Christ, and some pretty amazing fellowship. (Not too mention a lot of unhealthy food -- and that, my friends, is fuel for another post.)

On days like this, I just want to love Jesus, love people (all people by the way -- even the gay ones), and trash the culture.

Don't get me wrong. I know we are called a Body of Christ. I know we are to stick together. I know the church is God's bride.

Since I'm so open about loss, depression, grief and just generally some hard things -- I've had many people open up to me about going through difficulty in the church. And over, and over, and over again, I hear it. (I've even lived it.)

The church is one of the hardest places to be when life gets hard.

So maybe could we all just hang our judgmental hats up for a while? Could we look around with eyes open, and meet the needs of those around us? Can we stop pretending that just because we have the Bible we know all the answers? Can we stop putting specific sins as pedestals in God's eyes? Can we worry less about politics, organizations, and church budgets and just worry more about making sure the world knows the Christ came to love them and offer them a life-long, eternity-long relationship with Him?

I expect to get some flak for this. And maybe rightly so.

But for today, I'm calling the Christians out. I'm calling me out.

I'm saying no the Christian culture.

And an absolute, resounding YES to my God and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Confessions of a depressed Christian

Have you ever wondered what depression looks like?

It looks like this:

 

 

All of these. I look happy, like I do most of the time in public.

I still smile. I go out. I shop. I attend family events. I attend trainings and help my team. I go to parties. I have family days. I go on dates with my husband. I go to church.

I get out of bed. I clean. I take care of my kids. I make food. I run errands. I grow friendships. I go to sleep. And do it all again the next day.

I also suffer from depression.

Depression doesn't make it so that I can't do anything fun. Depression doesn't mean I don't have an amazing life full of things and people to be grateful for. Depression doesn't mean I don't have a strong relationship with God.

Here's what my depression means:

I've gone through a lot. And sometimes, just dealing with it all takes a lot out of me.

In the last 2-ish years, here are some things I've gone through:

-Ruptured ectopic pregnancy, and the loss of Oliva.
-Becoming a bereaved mom.
-Dad's cancer returning.
-My grandma unexpectedly dying.
-Husband getting laid off of work. (Thankfully, that didn't last long.)
-Loss of a promotion in my business. (I WILL get it back and will grow even more.)
-Loss of Caleb to miscarriage.
-Diagnosis of secondary infertility and recurrent pregnancy loss.
-Unexpected, devastating divorce in the family.
-Ryan's grandpa's health issues, impending death.
-Dad's cancer growing. Unsure of treatment, or if it has spread. Still waiting to find out more.
-Dad's bike accident and pulmonary embolism.
-Loss of Elliott to miscarriage.
-Failed foster placement.
-Loss of Sophie to miscarriage.
-Testing, testing, and more testing to no avail. Lots of health questions for me -- and no answers yet.

This is just off the top of my head. I'm sure if I thought more about it, I could come up with more.

And here's what all that means.

I'm depressed.

I have compounded, complicated grief (which means there are a lot of things to grieve all at once), and that has triggered a clinical depression. Sometimes the line between grief and depression is a fuzzy one.

I'm not just sad.

Sometimes I'm sad. But sometimes I'm mad. Sometimes I just don't care -- about anything. Sometimes I'm exhausted. Sometimes I'm impulsive. Sometimes I'm irritable. Sometimes I feel "depressed." Sometimes I feel numb.

And sometimes, I really feel OK.

I can live my life. It just takes so much more out of me. 

I can still function. Sort of.

This last week, my depression has been horrid. And yet, this last week I've gotten the most cleaning done ever in my life. I deep cleaned Ryan's bathroom, dusted and organized our room, rearranged our room and little miss's room, washed all the windows, dusted the house, deep cleaned the main bathroom, organized a shelf, cleaned my desk, tidied the office, cleaned my kitchen tons of times, did lots of dishes, swept, mopped, and vacuumed. I've hosted out-of-town company, and hosted a baby shower.

And yet, I've not worked my Arbonne business. That feels too overwhelming.

See, my functionality is selective. Some things feel doable. Others feel completely overwhelming. Some things I can't believe I have the energy for (like cleaning.) Others times, I can barely muster the energy to smile at a well-meaning person. That just takes too much out of me.

Nights and mornings are the worst.

Most people see me during the day, when I'm most functional. I'm distracted by the duties of the day and my two kids, and it's harder to be mopey. But in the morning when I wake up, it takes A LOT of energy to get out of bed, facing a life I didn't choose. I want to stay in bed forever, with the covers pulled up over my head.

But I can't. I must take care of the two precious kiddoes God has entrusted to me.

They get me out of bed, and keep me out of bed during the day (most days anyway.) They keep me distracted, for better or for worse, and I find myself going through the motions (and sometimes emotions) of life.

At night, once the demands have ended, I'm faced with the feelings I've been stuffing all day. The bubble up to the surface, and bleed out through my fingers onto my blog. They drip from my eyes when I try to squeeze them shut at night. The loss, the heartache, the lies, the feelings of despair or desperation, the emptiness, the numbness -- it's all right there, waiting fore me.

The distraction of the day is just that -- a distraction. Depression does not leave. It patiently waits for me to visit as soon as I can. And the moment that there is quiet, the moment my heart is still, the claws come out and deeply drag into my heart. I'm in their grips again. And I can't get out.

Then, a new days starts. And the cycle starts all over again.

Faith isn't the answer.

Well, at least it's not the only answer.

I find much comfort in Job's story. When I read my Bible, I find the most camaraderie with those who have suffered. Those whose lives did not go according to THEIR plan. The ones who had tremendous bouts of faith -- then ran away in fear and failure. Those people, those stories, are the ones that resonate with me.

If depression tells me anything, it's that I'm empty.

I have fought that for a very, very long time. I don't want to be empty. I want to be full of dreams, of goodness, of grace, of wisdom, of love. I want my heart, my soul and my life to overflow.

But as I pour into my life, my heart overflows. Not out of fullness, but out of emptiness. It is unable to contain anything I put into it. At the end of the day, I still feel empty.

I'm coming more to terms with this. Because often I try to fill my life with things that aren't meant to be filling. And maybe depression is doing me a favor in not allowing the "lesser" things to fill me up.

My prayer is, "God, if I'm going to be empty, let me be empty for you. In your time, in your way, you fill me with nothing less than you."

So yes, God is definitely the only one who can fill the hole. But I cannot rush it. I must go through this emptying, maybe even cleansing process, before I can be full of the right things.

I feel like that character in the Chronicles of Narnia. The kid who becomes a dragon, and Aslan takes him out in the middle of the night and claws all the scales, the flesh, everything off of him. In essence, tearing him to pieces until he is just a boy yet again.

At night I feel his claws on me, tearing away every wall I have built up. Every lie I have believed. Every false sense of security.

He tears away at the flesh of my heart, till I'm bleeding and empty. And only then can I become who I'm really meant to be.

If I just tried to have more "faith," ignored this cleansing process, and hid behind church-pews, worship songs, and pity Christian sayings -- I would be doing myself a huge disservice. These are Christian band-aids.

I don't need a Band-Aid. I need the Creator of the Universe to heal me.

Depression is not my identity.

I was listening to a TED talk on depression yesterday. He said, "Depression is an issue -- not an identity." What a fabulous reminder. At times, it feels so all-encompassing that depression feels like ME. The whole of me, and not just a small part. Infertility and pregnancy loss can feel this way too.

I must keep in my mind that depression is just a small part of my life (ok, a big part) -- but there is so much more to my identity than this.

I am NOT depression. Depression is NOT me.

It's not just in my mind. And yet, it is.

Depression is not just me feeling sorry for myself all day long.

It is not the result of me having a negative outlook on life. Or on focusing on all the wrong things. It's not a symptom of a lack of faith or the correct faith. Depression is not something I've just made up in my mind.

And yet, it is in my mind. It's a chemical imbalance. It's a breakdown in the functionality in one of the most important parts of my body -- my brain. It's a disease that requires treatment -- not ignorance. It's a symptom that something is wrong in both my mind and in my life experiences.

Depression is realizing that things that are supposed to feel happy, don't. Depression is feeling a heavy burden on your shoulders, ALL DAY LONG. In good times and in bad. Depression is there, even when I'm not thinking about it. Depression requires so much more energy to function than I have. Depression makes it hard for me to feel naturally light, happy or whole.

Depression does not grow when I choose to focus on it. It doesn't have more power over me when I label it. It's claws do not sink deeper when I choose to confess, "Hi, my name is Rachel. And I'm a depressed Christian."

Instead, by naming it, labeling it, calling it for what it is -- I give myself some power back. The power to ask for help. The power to be myself. The power to be brutally honest, and allow others to be honest with me. The power to break down the walls of protection around my heart and let others in. The power to admit, "I can't do it all. I can't be it all. And that's ok."

It gives me the power to understand where others have been, and respond with more empathy. It gives me the power to add . . .

"Hi, my name is Rachel. I'm a depressed Christian . . .  But that's not ALL I am."

IComLeavWe -- Welcome to my blog

Hi new IComLeavWe'ers!

I've been so enjoying reading new blogs this week, and trying to give thoughtful comments ("the new hug").

If you found me through IComLeavWe, welcome!

You'll have to forgive me for not having the appropriate banner on my page. I have tried three times, and in spite of the step-by-step directions . . . and the face that I've already done this in the past . . .  I can't seem to make this work. 

So, in case you are wondering where I am and what I write about, here's the Cliff Notes version (are those things even around anymore?!) . . .

Two weeks ago we had our fourth loss in 2.5 years. It was early (oh how I hate that word) but our baby mattered to me and to my family. 

So if I seem a little preoccupied with grief and baby loss at the moment, it's because I am.

We've had one loss approximately every 9 months since I started this blog. We've been diagnosed with secondary infertility, as we seem to be are unable to carry a baby to term. We have no reason for any of our miscarriages. It is clear why we lost Olivia (she was ectopic), but we have no reason for the ectopic itself. Besides a prior C-section, we had no risk factors.

You'll probably notice I name all my babies, no matter how are when they come to us or are lost. Because they are little people, never to be replaced.

Maddy is our living biological daughter. She's 5 and fabulous.

Olivia was our ectopic baby. We lost her at 7 weeks when my tube ruptured in Dec. 2011.

Caleb was our first miscarriage. We lost him at 8 weeks. I had slow rising hcg and never saw him on ultrasound. He died Oct. 2012.

Little Miss is our foster-to-adopt daughter. She has a real name, but I can't share it until the adoption will be final . . . which I hope will be in a few short weeks!

Elliott is our second miscarriage. My hcg was normal, however he didn't last long. We only made it to 5 weeks with him, and we miscarried May 2013.

Sophie Grace is our latest miscarriage. She, too, made it to 5 weeks, but with low hcg. We miscarried her March 2014.

In hapier news, our adoption is finally picking up the pace. I'm looking forward the adoption, the party we are going to throw her, and a trip to Great Wolf Lodge as a family to celebrate.

I like to share other's stories of loss and love, because just having something written down can bring some healing and validation. I try to organize them so you can read the kinds of loss that you might be most able to relate to.

I also write about grief in general, depression, adoption, infertility, and other life stuff like faith and food. Besides the adoption, I know that doesn't sound like a happy list. And I guess it's not. But it's all a part of my reality, and other people's reality too. And I want to create a space where these issues are a safe place to discuss.

If you are from IComLeavWe . . . be sure to leave your blog in your comments below. I want to be able to read your words too.

Thanks for visiting. And happy (or, as happy as it can be) reading. ;)

Rachel

 

Heather's Story: A complicated grief



I feel guilty writing this, as my circumstances are so very different than most here, and I can only imagine the losses any of you are feeling.

My first child, a son, was a surprise at my young age. I've since had two fairly healthy daughters as well. With my son, when I was right at three months, I started bleeding. The military doctors rotated. The one on duty the day I went in wasn't concerned, so I headed several states away to visit family. My spouse was deployed.

I had my first of several ultrasounds while visiting family. Since my spouse was deployed, my mom went with me to this unfamiliar doctor's office in the medical building she was employed in. I can't remember everything that was said, as I was 18 and this was in 1997.

I remember the term "dissolving twin" being tossed around. When I asked my mom, she dismissed that thought. I assumed she knew more than I did and stopped talking about it. She would correct me when I did share in front of others. I didn't bother telling my spouse at that time. He had enough stress being in the Middle East.

Fast forward several years, and I found the ultrasound pictures and medical records sealed up from that day. My mom had them still.

I don't know if my son was a twin. He overheard me talking about it and said he is sure it was his twin and feels a piece of him is missing. I don't know how to process this honestly, so I haven't allowed myself to. I allow him to share anything, though I wonder if it's wishful thinking for a brother on his part. Beyond that, I'm clueless what is "ok" for me to feel.

Eventually, we did have a young man live with us his senior year. Neither of his parents would allow him to reside there due to his past issues. We loved him, and he went off to college eventually. He was stabbed two years ago and died from this. He wasn't my child in reality, yet I silently mourn his loss daily.

What I do know is that each day, I hug my kids tighter. Earthly existence is temporary. All in my family, including this young man, are children of God's, so we will be together in eternity someday. My heart will then be able to find peace.

Heather

Thank you, Heather, for sharing. Please, don't feel any guilt at all. A loss is a loss is a loss. I'm sorry that your losses have been complicated, which makes it that much harder to know how to grieve. You are so right -- in heaven, our hearts will finally be at peace. Rachel

Jennifer's Story: Recognizing the eternal in her miscarried babies

 

Rachel,

Below is a copy of the note I shared with friends and family on Facebook when we lost our second child to miscarriage in 2011. Like you have experienced – the response I received from sharing was powerful and overwhelming. Miscarriage is a silent epidemic – until you have experienced it yourself, you don't realize it is all around you. So many people need an outlet to grieve, that our culture does not provide us.

Thank you for sharing your loss, to touch and heal others.

Jennifer

Baby Morgan: Our Poppyseed

 

November 10, 2011 at 8:04am

August – Oct 2011

Noah and I had carefully planned this baby – wanting to have another child close in age to our daughter Aurora, and timed to have the same age gap (18 months) as her older brothers have between them. It was so fun to plan the timing carefully, keeping detailed charts and data to maximize the chances of conception. We conceived in just our second month of trying. Because we were charting and keeping track of temperatures, etc., we were able to determine we were pregnant early  – (on the first day of college football season, to be exact).

When the test came back positive, it was very exciting. We started debating names (or rather, I would propose names, and Noah would shoot most of them down, mocking me for my poor taste.) We discussed gender – I felt rather certain this was a boy.  Noah immediately started looking up all the facts he could learn about Baby’s size and growth. He learned our child was the size of a poppyseed at that moment. We started referring to the baby only as “Poppyseed.” We were due in early May 2012, when Aurora would be exactly 18 months old.  Everything was perfect.

I have had complications in previous pregnancies, and we decided to wait awhile before telling our family and friends. At about 8 weeks, I experienced some cramping and quite a bit of spotting, and we feared we had lost the baby.

However, an ultrasound indicated everything appeared to be fine, and we got to see Poppyseed for the first time; the little intricate body and tiny heart beating independently and strong. It never ceases to be miraculous to me to see that tiny, tiny heart beating on its own.

We told our family the same day, sharing the ultrasound photos and telling them all about Poppyseed. Our sons Trevin (6) and Kaden (4) were very excited and loved to propose “helpful” name suggestions (“Thunder Strike” and “Burpy Slurpy”). They talked about Poppyseed all the time.

However, for reasons we do not know, our baby’s little heart stopped beating somewhere along the way.  I began to have alarming symptoms, and a second ultrasound at 11 ½ weeks – by unhappy coincidence on Noah’s birthday – confirmed there was no heart beat and baby had stopped growing some time before.  We lost the baby at home the next day. It was devastating.

It is so hard to know how to properly grieve a child lost in this manner. Most of the people around us did not even know of the child’s existence, and we live in a nation that chooses not even to acknowledge a baby this small as a real life. But the loss is very real to me, to us.

For my part, I want to properly acknowledge my child’s existence, to give the child the honor of a real name, of some recognition. I want to tell people, but I know that puts them in that awkward place of not-knowing-what-to-say. I don’t need them to say anything at all. I just want to share, to acknowledge the child.

We planted a tree (an exotic, gorgeous Chocolate Mimosa silk tree) in a beautiful spot on Noah’s parents’ property. Our sons helped; digging the hole, throwing in the dirt, tamping it down, and lighting a candle to flicker in the wind and misting rain. I look forward to watching the tree grow tall and strong as a lasting memory and special place for us.

We chose a name: Morgan, (although Noah says he will always think of this child only as Poppyseed).  For Noah, the name Morgan is reminiscent of a close friend. For me it is a strong name for boy or girl, and it means “Great Circle.” I like to think of Morgan’s life as a great circle not yet complete. We thought we were waiting to greet this child to life on this earth. Instead, as it turns out, Morgan will wait to greet us to life after this earth.

Most importantly, I want to remember, and not move on as though nothing happened.

I have always believed that life begins at conception and we are eternal beings, whose souls live on after death. I know Morgan’s soul lives on, and that someday we will be reunited. I don’t know what that will look like – I don’t pretend to have that figured out – but I look forward to it. Morgan joins the first baby I lost to miscarriage in 2004, baby Gabriel.  I don’t know how it all works, but I hope they can be together to keep each other company.

My mother shared a book with me about a 4-year-old. boy who had a near-death experience and came back telling his parents about the glimpses he saw of Heaven. He said he was greeted by a sister he never knew he had – with brown hair like his mother’s. His parents had never told him they had lost a child to miscarriage before he was born, and they had never known if the child lost was a boy or girl. The child and his other siblings were blonde like their father, and the mother had always lamented none of the children had her coloring or hair.

That story takes my breath away. It’s so hard to conceive of your child in Heaven when you never got to see or hold them, or even know their gender or hair color. Yet, I know they are there.

The Yoga culture has an amazing word, ‘Namaste,' for which there is no equivalent in English. Namaste (na-ma’-stay) means, roughly: “that which is eternal in me, acknowledges that which is eternal in you.” It’s such a beautiful concept – that you greet someone and take a moment to acknowledge that they are more than a physical being with material accoutrements, and recognize their eternal spirit within.

The word has special meaning to me now, as it hits at the very heart of what I feel for baby Morgan. I never want to forget Morgan’s life, and I want to continue to acknowledge my child’s existence.

Namaste, baby Morgan, our precious little Poppyseed. I see, I acknowledge what is eternal in you.


Thank you, Jennifer, for sharing Poppyseed's story with us. I, too, loved the book "Heaven is for Real." It was a major deciding factor for me in wanting to name all my babies. I hope that your story encourages someone and helps them feel less alone. Rachel

Kim's Story: meeting her baby who was miscarried 20 years ago

I miscarried a baby in 1984. I was in my first trimester. I too heard all of the "at least" comforts.

I did have two more children, but never got rid of the little white dress with
purple flowers I had hanging in the closet. I didn't know the gender of my
baby.

I was in prayer one night, twenty-two years later, grieving the loss.
In that moment, I was able to take the little dress out of my closet. As I was
praying, The Lord (in the Spirit) laid my baby in my arms. I wept. I rocked
my baby.

The Lord spoke to my heart and said, "Her name is Anna Elizabeth, and
she has raven hair."

He allowed me to love on her for a while and then I lifted her to Him and
had a peace I hadn't known. It wasn't until many years later that I learned
my great-grandmothers names on one side was “Elizabeth” and on the
other side was “Cinncianna” (Anna).

Wow! I know I will see her one day.

I hope this comforts someone.

Love, Kim

Thanks, Kim, for sharing this beautiful story. And for reminding us that God has not forgotten us or our babies. Much love. Rachel

Remembering you always, Sophie Grace



Dear Sophie,

It is hard for me to write this.

Maybe because I'm not ready to admit that you are gone, so quickly after you let us know you were a part of our family. Your life with me was too short, baby. Just way too short.

Not long ago, when I was pregnant with you, I was driving down the road and all of the sudden, this image of you came to my mind.

You weren't a baby. You were in your twenties. I imagined telling you your story. How you were a miracle. How you were loved.

You stood arms' length from me, beautiful, with short brown hair. Not a baby. But mature and wise beyond your years.

Your name came so quickly to me. Sophie Grace. You just looked like a Sophie to me.

When I got home, I looked it up.

Wisdom and Grace.

And then, you were gone. Just like that. The bleeding started, the cramping, and you were gone. Before I ever got a chance to see you on ultrasound, feel you move, or talk to you when you were in your twenties. Before I even had a chance to celebrate you -- you were gone.

In this time of grieving you, I just pray that God would give me wisdom.

Wisdom to let him strip me of everything I put in front of him . . . everything I want more than him. That I wouldn't fight him as he empties me of everything lesser I fill my life with. The stripping hurts me, sweet girl. It hurts, and I want to fight it.

But in the end, I know. Nothing, not you or any of my dreams, is God's best. Only him.

It is worth it to be emptied -- as long as God himself fills me.

May I have the grace to accept God's best. To let go of the need of answers. To let go of the need of a "rainbow baby." Or a "happily ever after." To let go of you.

My grace and wisdom mark my days and shape every part of my character.

May your brief, but so important presence, mark my heart forever.

I will miss doing this life with you. I wish we could have had that conversation I saw in my mind. I would have told you how amazing you were, how proud of you daddy and I are. How you were one of God's greatest gifts to us.

And how much I loved you . . . and always will.

Mommy