With each positive pregnancy test, it was a restrained joy, for I knew we shouldn’t fully celebrate. As experience often proved true, we would probably lose this one too. I just couldn’t handle all the false hopes. I didn’t understand why I was given these babies and having them taken away. My heart was reeling.
It was late at night, and my husband was asleep in our bedroom upstairs. Was this going to be it? No baby, ever? Not long before this, I had miscarried for the fifth time. I paced around our living room feeling broken. My sadness and tears that I gave freely so many times before to God were dried up. I was mad. Angry.
Everyone I knew who got married after us either had children or were expecting soon. It wasn’t fair. After all these invasive tests we went through, our results came back normal. Normal! We were now impatiently waiting for an appointment at a more specialized clinic further away from home.
I let God have it.
No more sad tears. Only bitter. I was so angry. I prayed strong and clearly for Him to stop sending me babies that I didn’t get to keep. In a whirl of anger, I finally went to bed exhausted as if I had just lifted the mammoth of a trial up into my arms and thrown it toward Heaven. I didn’t want this anymore.
Days turned into months as time passed us by. Life continued, and my husband and I kept trudging along at our jobs. One night as we were discussing our sadness on not having a baby yet, our confusion as to why we hadn’t been able to get pregnant anymore headed the conversation. What was going on now?!
Instantly I felt a tap to my shoulder’s memory that I had prayed for this. I felt His love surround me as I recalled the prayer-filled night of fury long forgotten. He heard me that night. He understood.
And He granted my harsh request to stop sending me babies that I didn’t get to deliver.
The months continued, but not for long before another pregnancy came. Through different miracles and interventions, I was able to carry and bear our first child to full term. A baby girl.
I don’t know why God chose to grant me that prayer’s request over so many others, but I do know He listened to all of them. It was always in His hands. That’s the thing about prayer.
We’re not always given answers, but we are always, always, always heard.
I believe in a Heavenly Father, one who loves us as His children. A perfect, all-knowing parent. One who can not only handle our hurt but our anger too. He wants all of it. Our whole heart.
Even and especially the broken pieces of it that we are scared, ashamed, or otherwise reluctant to reveal.
Because that’s what parents desire for their children. They want them to know that no matter what the action or emotion, that they can come to them. That they can be their safe place to let out all of the things. Not just the good stuff, but the ugly too. Because we’re His and He knows all.
That night wasn’t my first, or my only, or my last prayer I gave angrily. To have that safe space to release my angered confusion is such a blessing. God is great.