Grieving the high chair.

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I bought the high chair at a rummage sale. It was wooden with chipped, white paint flaking the sides. I had known from the moment I saw it that I wanted it to be mine. It reminded me of high chairs I would see in vintage black and white photos. It had no safety precautions, yet I am sure it had stories it could tell. Stories of the families and children it had served.

At the time that I purchased it for ten dollars,  I was not even pregnant. We had just started the process of filling out the paperwork for our adoption. And as we all know that high chair did not get used for a very long time. What we expected to take months took years. Years of waiting. Years of praying. Years of hoping. Years of anxiety, anger, frustration, signatures, home studies, finger prints, and did I mention paper work?

Yet after three years we were sitting across from our sweet little boy.

That high chair became the place where my little one ate his first meal as a family of seven.

It became the place where he clearly showed us that broccoli was never going to be one of his foods.

It became the place where he fell asleep when days were just too long for him and he couldn’t make it through dinner.

It became the place where he discovered pasta for the first time and decided the walls needed it too.

It became the place where his personality began to emerge and he entertained us all.

What I didn’t expect is that it would become a symbol of grief for me.

After little one clearly could not fit in the high chair any longer I scrubbed it all down and left it in the corner of the room for months. I would walk by it and think about what was next for our family. I would dream of my belly expanding and getting to wear cute maternity jeans. I would rationalize that I was keeping it for my grandchildren some day. Knowing full well that any mother would not let their infant sit in a chair with zero safety features.

And breathing in that I knew why I was really keeping it.

I was keeping it because I wasn’t ready to face my truth.

My truth, that I would never carry another child in my belly again.

Seven years before I lay on a hospital bed, sobbing as I signed on the dotted line. I wanted someone to save me. To save me from the choice. I needed someone else to make the decision for me.

I knew that the level of depression that I had suffered after each of the four children I birthed, had only gotten worse. I knew that I needed to make a permanent decision that I later would come to grieve. I knew at the time that I was scared of who I was after each child. And although I firmly believe in medication and that God created Prozac on the eighth day,  I could not function as a human.I knew that depression would swallow me if I chose to continue to grow our family through childbirth.

I remember the day I sold that white high chair in the corner. It went to a woman who loved to refurbish furniture. To make things new.

My truth, is that I grieve every moment when a friend or loved one is struggling with infertility or a miscarriage. The truth is, that I feel like I was so selfish to take that choice away from my family.

But I know this.

I know God uses everything. He opened my eyes to adoption, to safe families, to foster care and to taking in those around me. He shows me daily how I am that high chair. Chipped, tired, and covered with messes. But in His grace and mercy He is making me new. He is filling me with joy and wonderment. He is letting me heal and rest in in Him.

Where ever you are sweet one. Worn. Tired. Lonely. Grieving. Searching. Empty. Anxious. Fearful.

He is there.

He is binding Himself to you.

Making you new.

 

“Let us then approach God’s Throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” Hebrews 4:16

 

the clock said 2am- My Messy Beautiful

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2am.

The clock said 2 am.

Sitting up in bed

watching the minutes go by.

Begging the clock to go faster. If just for this night I needed it go faster.

My hands clutching onto the side of my hair.

In the dark

systematically pulling each side of my head

tears flooding my cheeks

pleading with the voices to stop. Penetrating my mind with-“you are a horrible mom” , “ she needs to go away”, “ it’s better here with me” “ you are going insane you will never be the same,”” just be done, they will be better off”.
I still close my eyes and taste the sweat from my brow. I can still touch the panic that is embedded in my skin. Years later and the darkness still scares me.

I knew that postpartum depression was a risk factor with this pregnancy. I had wrestled with it after my second child was born. But not to this extent. This was six months later .It had been six months since I had pushed this screaming child into the world. Why was I feeling like the world was suppressing in around me? Clutching to hold on to reality. To not let the night consume me.

That was seven years ago. Through the powerful hand of God, amazing doctors and friends who were not afraid to go to the darkest place with me I am in a healthy place. Depression and psychosis is real. And it is scary. I could not just pray it away. Don’t get me wrong. I do pray. I did pray. I prayed that God would take it all away. I pleaded for my life. At his feet I cried that I would not harm myself or my children. But I also prayed for wisdom. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him.(james 1:5) Yes I do believe that Christ alone has the power to heal. I also believe that He gives us the wisdom to seek and ask for help when we cannot function. I had three other children at home young, gorgeous children who were defenseless. Defenseless against this evil that had assaulted my mind. Taken over and made me into someone, something that they did not recognize. God has the power to heal. And He also has the power and strength to carry you through the darkness, holding you up until you can walk again.


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