What my Miscarriage Taught me About Being Christian

Rachel Hollis said, “Everything does NOT happen for a reason, but you can FIND a meaning in anything.” My first miscarriage is the first thing that came to mind. Every time I read “everything happens for a reason,” my heart hardens and grows colder, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I become a little bit nauseous.

Why? You ask.

If you are asking, it is because you haven’t experienced something that painful yet.

I am not saying that you have not been through something painful, or that you have never been hurt or understood pain. I am saying that there is a kind of pain, a brand, if you will, that defies reason. It is the kind of pain that your entire body revolts at the fact that it could possibly exist. It is the kind of pain that teaches you what it feels like to question everything.

For me, that was losing my baby girl. For you, it could be failing a test that was really important. For someone else, it could be actually dying. I am not judging levels of pain, but experience of it. It doesn’t matter how big or small the pain is, but what it does.

A couple of months ago, I read a Facebook status of mine from college. It was something about how everything is in God’s plan. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, and about how much I have learned.

Christians. You. Can. Not. Say. That.

Not everything is in Gods plan, and that is very very very important.

Christians believe that death was NOT the original plan. Eve ate the apple and so did Adam and the snake screwed up too, but this was NOT the plan. This was ALLOWED, but it was not the plan.

God did not plan for us to watch babies die at the hands of the Nazi’s, or for us to suffer from any number of hormonal issues. He did not plan for us to shoot each other in malls, and schools, and churches. He did not plan for us to be too prideful to apologize to our friends, or to hold grudges. He did not plan for us to be sick for months on end.

God planned paradise for us. He planned a blissful life of lounging amidst a beautiful garden eating all the best the world has to offer. He planned a life of luxury and goodness to each other and ourselves. He planned a life of peace with Him and contentment with everyone else. He wanted us to swim in waterfalls of joy, not to sink in rivers of tears.

It took me a long time to realize this. I had to learn that these every day platitudes were wrong, or at least, not fully right. There were a million things along the way that helped me to learn it. I had to learn that God loves me, that God wants me to be happy(although that’s a daily struggle,) that God hates sadness as much as I do, and I had to let go of my pain enough to see a way forward through it.

That doesn’t mean I’m healed, I’m not convinced anyone ever is. It doesn’t mean I’m perfect, no one is that either. It does mean that I have learned something from who I was and who I became later, and it means that I can bring some good about because of my miscarriage. I can be kinder, I can defend those who are being hurt, I can hold space for those who need it, I can tend to my own wounds.

Most importantly, I have learned two things.

1. Do not tell someone who is in pain that it is in God’s plan, because it may not be, also included in this is never ever say “everything happens for a reason.”

2. The second is a prayer I say now when I am angry at God for something that has happened. “This is not what He wanted either.” I repeat it like a mantra over and over until I can breathe and I can love Him again.

Sabotage

It’s crazy to me how promptly my psyche starts to sabotage any amount of success I experience. I self-published a book last night, and almost immediately the chorus began. “You just self-published, that doesn’t mean anything, no one will ever read it anyway.” I even started feeling like I was ripping people off who decided to buy it. And that’s ridiculous! I know because the reason I self-published it is because I believe that the traditional style of poetry is no longer widely appreciated which is why I think I have struggled so much in selling the poems. I truly believe these poems are the highest quality, and need to be out there for the world to see. And yet, my subconscious has decided they are worthless. Probably because it decided long ago that I am worthless.

But what is making it do this? Is it some inferiority complex I have developed as a result of my upbringing? Is it laziness? Or is this just something every artist faces? I tend to think it is the latter, because so many other artists have told me they experience the same thing. So apparently it isn’t just me. It may be something in our make up as humans that creates this self-sabotage.

The thing that gets me though, is what purpose does that serve? In what way does it help an artist to immediately feel that they are and always will be a failure as soon as they accomplish something? Are the gods working against us? Trying to shut us down? Or is the devil realer than we ever thought, and he is frantically angry that we have defied his challenges to create something? I hope it’s that, though I often fear it is the first.

I guess it is up to us as artists then to keep going and pray that it isn’t the gods who are stopping us, but something else. Not necessarily out of confidence or certainty of which side we are on, but because we have to. Creators must create, it is in our blood, art begs to leave us like the river from our sliced open skin. I stopped breathing for a while and released I needed to open my mouth. So write, play, dream, so that you can breathe, I suppose, and live.

Maxima Culpa

I have been so frustrated about the existence of bad things lately. 
I saw a bird eating a roadkill squirrel the other day.
I was so angry I didn’t know whether to curse, or cry,
So I just yelled, the entire way to Church about how unfair it was.

I hate when people want to hurt other people.
I am starting to realize that some of the people I know 
Are not afraid to hurt others, I can’t understand that.
I spent my entire life trying to make everyone else happy. 

I hate that people are so selfish.
Why would someone insist on watching whatever they want
Every single night, football consumes how many hours a week?
I just want to spend time doing something everyone likes.

I’m not even asking you to watch something you don’t like,
Just something that not only you like, Four days a week,
All about you, no one else matters,
Even when your daughter just wants to be together.

I hate that I am vain and pretentious and maybe a little proud
And then suddenly I am a seductress
Sensual to a point that no one decent could ever understand,
Could i ever be worthy of love?

I hate the fact that I can’t think straight,
And all these things are really just part of the circle of life,
They are the things we learn to get along with or without
But tonight, they are not ok.

Writing to Write

The pen hits paper.

Metaphorically. No one uses paper and pen anymore.

I start speaking innermost thoughts, no feelings…no,
I start painting my inner landscape outside of my body.
The sadness of one day becomes a vicarious violent jaunt across a blood red sky.
The joy of another becomes a happiness medley, a fogue of smiling bays.

Mockery comes from some edges.
Only Romantics write their feelings.
But the Confessional Poets didn’t do too bad.
And I’m not writing feelings anyway. Weren’t you listening?

Anyway who cares what the captain of the Old Guard says.
He never liked you anyway.
Well, or he never was willing to act like he did.

He isn’t here though, and there’s more to do.
Don’t think you didn’t notice the jab of missing him,

but keep on.

I have something to say.

Writing is life in a way.
Speaking, promising, like in The King’s Speech, “I HAVE A VOICE.”
Proclaiming to the world that Yes, I, me, matter.
In the great grand scheme of things.
I, me.

So you continue writing
And don’t stop.
When the phantom chants to you of the Old Enmity,
Look at the blood red rose,
And breathe out.

The Long Lost Love

Penelope glides across a railing
As she watches the tumultuous sea.
Cloud masses rise above, pierced as lightning
Cuts across the night’s looming ebony.

As her blackened hair turns, sad eyes appear,
And gaze into the distance wistfully,
For the long lost love who had once been here,
But had sailed these long years restlessly.

She knew not what dragons came upon him,
Or what treacherous siren threatened,
But as she stood at end-of-the world’s brim
The monster’s taunt said she was sure-condemned.

New knights beckoned to the fair maiden within,
Begging her join frolick and debauchery,
But her gaze was fixed upon what had been
and what dragon must have made this quandary.

Sing sweetly, my beloved Penelope,
And wait while dragons fall, and I find thee.

The Nights Onset

The sea raged, and folded in at my door,
Pounding until I couldn’t hear a thing,
I asked for you to give just one breath more,
And you surged inside with my own blessing.

I dodged as you engulfed the sight you found-
The withered one bracing self like a tree
And wavering in the wild haunts rebound.
And afterstorm I churned at what I see.

The lining inside the tree threatens to
Burn itself out, To emerge sap acid
From the clenching bark that welcomed you.
And punish it for leaving gates widened.

But none shall say that pride denies not guilt
Even as the self rebels against self,
The heart cries not guilty in destroyed silt,
Laying crushed before the trees where sea delved.

It’s not a war this tree can fight alone,
For seas move in wonder full of my peace,
Just on this shore the storm burns whats its own,
And leaves each one that’s left crushed peace by piece.

Come

Come into me, lover of just my lips,
Embrace this withered soul and bringit life
Again. That cup of joy in which I sipped,
Before the world grew grey with unsought strife.

Perhaps if once upon the shores of skin,
Your waves began to chase and trail, torment,
A breath would surge forth from the dead within,
And make the white sands breathe forth their lament.

Therefore, meet me in the rages of the sea,
And push upon me with your broken lie,
You may push what’s in from underneath,
At once, perhaps, into you I will sigh.

But the curse of the unbounded undersands,
Was not made to be cured by unmeant-for hands.

If

“He’s not coming”
Said the devil on my shoulder.
“Just you wait”
Said the angel at my side.
“He loves me”
Said the face in the mirror
Just before she started to cry.

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