Two weeks ago to the day, I was laboring in a hospital bed, straight off a chopper, surrounded by unfamiliar faces--sorrow filled faces--faces that silently told me everything I needed to know about the chances my Baby Alder would make it through the day. In the space of a few hours, our Thanksgiving boy had transformed into an impossibility, a danger, a grim statistic.
And I wept. I wept and wept like I have never done before. I wept so much that I could have filled the entire Atlantic. Up until that day, I had never known a pit so deep, so black, so entirely without hope. The weight of losing my child, my Alder, was so heavy that even typing these words makes my throat clench and the words come slowly.
Hours passed. Monitors beeped. Magnesium Sulfate performed its (secondary) task of causing wretched flu like symptoms. Contractions charted. Procardia plummeted my blood pressure. My tongue swelled from thirst, water denied thanks to the magnesium. And I suffered, wondering where my God was and why He was allowing this to happen to us.
My brother-in-law came in my big sister's stead; she had left earlier that day for a girl's trip in Florida. The timing couldn't have been worse, but John came. And his timing couldn't have been better, for the words John spoke to me that night changed my life. As I lay sobbing in bed, face red and wet and desperate, I told John, "I don't know how to stand under this. Tell me, how can I stand under this weight?" And he replied, "Gina, you don't have to stand. You just fall into His arms."
"Will He catch me, John?" I asked. "Will He catch me?"
I don't remember his response. I just remember his gentle smile. My weeping continued; my fear continued; my total darkness did not become light. But I realized then, in that very moment, that the burden of trying to stand and to "be strong" under this immense pressure would be fruitless: my back would break; my soul would be crushed; my heart would be hardened against the only One who could truly comprehend my sorrow, because He Himself suffered with and for me. He had already chosen to catch me, long, long ago, before the creation of the world itself. Jesus.
These past two weeks, the Lord has shown me that it is in this very place, the place of falling unreservedly, completely lax into His strong and mighty hands, that He lifts us up to soar like eagles. "The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit," He promises in Psalm 34:18. "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds," Psalms 147:3. "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted," Matthew 5:4.
Through complete surrender, the recognizing of my very real weakness, and wearily collapsing in His arms, the Lord raised me up to His face, snuggled in for a caress, and carried me tenderly through the coming days. Here, here is where I want to be: weak, powerless, completely dependent on His strength.
"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12:9-10
So, dear friends, I proudly shout to the mountaintops of my weakness. There isn't a strong bone in my body. But my God is a strong, fierce God. And He is mighty to save.