Monday, March 23, 2009

Waiting to exhale...

Three strikes and it was out...again. "It" being the IV line the nurses kept trying to start in my arm - blowing the line every time. I was getting really agitated watching them fumble with something so simple, while I waited to breathe again. I just needed air and each time they failed to start my IV, I saw missed opportunities to save my life. I was afraid and frustrated. Finally, the line was in and I was wheeled down the hall to wait. Another bag of lasics, like before, was hooked up and began flowing through my body. It was an eerily familiar scene - Robb, me, and my mom waiting, watching, and praying for another miracle. It seemed that we had just watched this episode, five weeks earlier, when I had almost delivered the babies at 26 weeks gestation. That experience, marked forever in my heart, was triumphantly answered with God's divine interevention (my healing and my labor stopping for a full five weeks - no medicine - just miracle).

This time was different for me. When things are ALMOST taken from you, you always harbor that fear that one day you really will lose out. I was there. I had been sick. Made whole. I had been in labor. Then not. I had the potential to give birth to very sick or impaired babies. They were healthy. I was high risk. But, had delivered with minimal complications (up to that point). Now, my body was failing again along with my hope. A few days earlier, I had been confident that the worst was behind me. A few days earlier, I had spoken my promises of health, long life, and protection with boldness. On that day, I was feeble and clinging to those words - wondering where that strong girl with boldness had gone. Add a failing body to that equation and you had me = a mess. I was a mess.

That day marked the beginning of a very long week for me. A week that I would spend wrestling, like never before, with God - His goodness, His faithfulness, His choice to save or not to save, His provision, His sovereignty. I would spend that week waiting for God to show up, praying that He would come through for me, and waiting to exhale (literally). My faith was waivering amidst the flames of refinement. I wanted the happy ending. I wanted the miracle again, but the realist in me hurled the "what if" scenarios at my faith. "What if" God chose not to heal? "What if" God chose not to save this time? "What if" my purpose was to simply give birth to those babies, not raise them as my own? "What if" His good plans to prosper me meant that I would go home to be with Him?

Me + my feeble faith + hardship = a mess.