On Trust

During my childhood, Mom hung a certain cross-stitched Bible verse in the restroom, positioned opposite the pot at an adult’s standing eye-level.  Word-oriented as I am, it would take a great mental abstraction—or a book in my hand—for me not read it, sometimes more than once, each time I visited.  The repetition resulted naturally in memorization.  I still recall it today, though with occasional confusion on the wording—it being the King James Version and my own Bibles using NIV or ESV translations.  Still, the central message of the words remain, and over the years, the verse continues to come to mind and guide me at opportune moments, different parts striking me more at different times.

Proverbs 3:5-6 (KJV)

⁵ Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

⁶ In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

“Trust in the Lord.”

I.e. He is trustworthy.  Okay, cool.  But what can I trust Him with?  Health, wealth, and happiness?   If He didn’t spare His own Son poverty and torture and death, why should I expect complete safety?  He’ll do anything to turn the hearts of people back to Him.  I can, however, expect Him to be with me in all circumstances, provide what I need (though not necessarily what I want), provide internal peace in all circumstances, and protect my immortal soul.

“...with all thine heart.”

All, always?  Yes.  I can’t trust halfheartedly, or only when it’s easy or makes sense to trust.

“...and lean not to thine own understanding.”

Do I think that I know better than God or His Word?  Who am I to say that He’s unfair or to think it’s okay for me to do what I want even when it’s against His commands?  If I commit to leaning on His understanding and perspective, I have to seek it by studying His ways and staying in a close relationship with Him.

“In all thy ways acknowledge him,”

This means acknowledging God’s sovereignty over me and the world, privately and publicly.  Not only must my mind admit He’s my Lord, but I also have to put that acknowledgement into practice by obeying Him or else my acknowledgement will be proved a lie.

“...and He shall direct thy paths.”

How?  How do I know He’s leading me or if my own desires are asserting themselves and I assume or claim they’re His?  I must evaluate my lifestyle and actions in light of scripture and the prodding of the Holy Spirit.  

Scripture won’t have exact answers to the right career or possessions or relationships or financial decisions that are appropriate for each person, but it does have criteria: Is my choice motivated by love for God or my neighbor, or by fear or greed?  Are my actions Christ-centered or self-centered?  Am I making the best use of the talents and spiritual gifts God has given me?  What route would best enable me to serve God faithfully (without burning out or succumbing to temptations)?  Do I feel a direction or spirit of restraint from the Holy Spirit?—and if I’m not heeding it, what’s hindering me?  Am I you relying on God to sustain me or putting faith in the false security of wealth, strength, and status?  Have I prayed about the decision—and really listened and watched for a response?

This passage—“Trust in the Lord…”—is not a formula for temporal blessings but for a life of faith that promises blessings that last: a purpose, freedom from fear, and a relationship with the Almighty.

On Self-Hate

Self-hate is a deadly habit.  And like all habits, it’s hard to break.  I know--I’ve been trying since at least junior high.

From what I’ve observed, self-hatred assaults introverts more than extroverts.  We’re the ones who “live inside our heads” more, and yes, familiarity breeds contempt.  We know humanity as a whole is in a bad way, but we’re the specimen we observe the most.  

But it’s more than that.

There’s a certain frame of mind, an expectation of perfection.  We know the ideal self we want to be and hate when we don’t measure up to our standards.  We find our self-worth in our accomplishments and the praise of others.  We’re extra sensitive to criticism and embarrassment, less able to cope with the fact that we’re fallible and that our products don’t always match the picture in our minds.

But it’s not just the “incident of the week” that causes grief.  I’ve had a lot of years to collect memories that still mortify me to this day, even incidents from elementary school that most people would look back on with a chuckle and a shake of their heads, saying, “I was just a crazy kid, then.  Oh, well.”  My response is to call myself names and look for the nearest surface on which to bang my head.

Recollections of errors and humiliations from yesterday, last month, or ten years ago invariably come to mind multiple times a day, triggered by innocuous sights and keywords.  Sometimes I wasn’t even at fault, but someone said or did something hurtful, and it stuck with me like a burr on a sock that pokes my ankle when I step just wrong.  This translates into a lot of self-directed anger--sometimes quickly snuffed by reason or productive activity, but sometimes lowering me for much longer and encouraging a retreat into unproductive escapism to get away from myself.

Funny thing is, we critical types often defend this tendency to be overly critical.  We think (that is, hope) that it spurs us to improve, become better people.  But it doesn’t always.  Sometimes we get so sick of trying and failing to do right that we give up--for a time or forever--and hate ourselves even more for it.

I’ve had several people tell me over the years, as if it would remedy everything, that all I needed was a thicker skin.  First off, that’s another insult to a sensitive mind--one more way in which I can castigate myself for being deficient.  Second, that gives a person no constructive way to go about getting a thicker skin.  

I can imagine how it’d work, based on the metaphor: A callus is built when a patch of skin gets roughed up over and over.  So it sounds like people are telling me I should suffer more so I suffer less with each insult.  Really?  The amount of insults I give myself, you’d think I’d be as thick-skinned as a dragon by now, and just about as friendly.  Thankfully, I don’t think I’m the unfriendly, but though the wisdom of age has thickened my skin more than it was, I still can't be called "thick-skinned."  A similar metaphor is “Let it go, like water off a duck’s back.”  That one’s a little more constructive, but how can I grow a metaphorical feather barrier?  Water is a bit adhesive to skin, you know--and unlike negativity, water evaporates with relative speed. 

I have found four techniques that help to decrease my self-hate:

1. Keep a wide perspective of the problem.  What’s the whole situation, exactly?  What may have motivated the other person (or yourself) to say what was said?  Who’s affected, and how much will this problem really affect people’s lives a year or ten years from now? (Avoid the slippery slope fallacy!)  If needed, can you fix it or make restitution?  Can you learn from it?  If nothing can be or needs to be done, clear your mind, take a breath, and think about something else.
2. Stop looking inward so much.  Escapism into fiction or puzzles may help a little.  Taking care of pets can help a little more.  But better yet, turn your gaze on other people. Socialize, volunteer, or do things that help other people.  Consider their needs, their problems, instead of fixating on your own.  Helping others, aside from just being the neighborly thing to do, will also help you feel better about yourself.  
3. Surround yourself with people who support and affirm you.  Demand hugs when needed instead of self-medicating with chocolate, which produces calorie guilt.
4. Most importantly, give yourself grace. Forgive yourself; stop judging yourself for what you’ve done or failed to do, and start looking at who you are--or to put it another way, whose you are.  Define your worth by God’s love for you.  When you forget to do that, when the baggage of your past clings and makes it hard to walk forward, then stop, ask God to take your baggage, and re-center your life on your relationship with Him. 

 
 

On Infertility

For those who aren’t familiar with the exact definition, infertility is the inability to become pregnant after a year of trying.

One year.  

This definition implies that medical professionals and society expect a healthy couple to conceive with relative ease and celerity, and this does seems to be the case for 90% of the female population (womenshealth.gov).  Unfortunately, the other 10% of us have difficulty getting pregnant… including me.  

This can be a difficult topic to write about.  Even when feeling at peace about it, remembering and writing about previous emotions brings on the tears, and I find I have to stand and walk a bit to find my calm again.  It has likewise been hard to know quite how to pray about this situation and hard to know whether, and how, we should act on it.

Joel and I have had six lovely years of contraceptive-less marriage, and my periods continue to appear like clockwork.  We’re still young—just barely under 30.  I got a clean bill of health after my Pap, and Joel has a healthy sperm count.  We’re both a bit heavier than we ought to be, but not to the point of obesity.  We exercise fairly regularly and eat healthfully (well, I do—and I can sometimes convince him to do the same).  We don’t smoke or get drunk (I don’t drink at all).  I take the recommended vitamins, and we make the most of my fertile time when our schedules allow.  But each month brings another disappointment.

Thankfully, that’s all it’s been lately—a mild disappointment.  But about two years ago, I was an emotional mess.  My inability to conceive consumed my mind and left me feeling defective, even worthless, despite knowing in my head that my worth comes from Christ alone.  Grief over my barrenness was compounded by Joel’s disinterest—even relief to not have a child.  I knew we weren’t trying as hard as we could have (I didn’t want to press the issue with Joel’s attitude of “if it happens, I’ll be a dutiful father, but if not, great!”), yet without contraceptives, I thought we still had a good chance.  ...It didn’t happen.

After a few months of praying for Joel to want a child, and then praying for either a child or peace without one—and after a mildly embarrassing emotional breakdown in front of a sweet prayer warrior from our church who agreed to pray for us—God gave me the latter.  

I have greater peace of mind now, but that’s not to say I don’t still have good days and bad—days when I can easily look upon children and new mothers without a thought to myself, when I can consider my potentially childless future with stoicism or even contentment… and days when the same things send a dagger of grief through my heart, and I burst into tears at the thought of an infant I may never hold.  However, since then, the months have passed with only the occasional pre-menstrual tears and postmenstrual let-down, and I quickly regain my equilibrium and faith.  

Then, on our anniversary earlier this year, Joel’s gift was the announcement that he’s ready to really try to have a kid.  I actually cried with joy; Joel looked rather nonplussed.  In the half year since then, we’ve increased our efforts to conceive ...with the same result.  Infertility.

I’m rarely sure how to pray about our lack of a little one.  Of course I should always pray “Thy will be done,” and I continually pray for contentment in all circumstances.  But does that mean I shouldn’t also pray for a child?  I consider how “Isaac prayed to the Lord for his wife, because she was barren. And the Lord granted his prayer, and Rebekah his wife conceived” (Gen. 25:21).  They were childless twenty years and only received their twins by prayer.  Centuries later, Hannah prayed so fervently for a child that the priest Eli thought she was drunk, but God heard her distress, and after she promised to give her firstborn to serve the Lord, He gave her Samuel plus five other children (1 Sam 1-2).  

As one continues to read through scripture, one sees that from bold, specific prayers come curses and blessings, healing and deliverance—this from the petitions of ordinary people as well as prophets and kings.  However, we know we receive only what we ask in Jesus’ name—i.e. on His behalf, or according to His will—hence part of my dilemma.  Are children God’s will for us?  Isaac surely knew that God planned for him to have a child because descendants were part of God’s promise to his father Abraham.  But Hannah couldn’t have known the Lord’s will in her case, right?  How many others prayed for children and never received them?  Then again, our Lord prayed for his cup (his death) to pass him by.  He still had to face it, but apparently there was no harm in his asking.  But then again, we must ask and not doubt (Matt 21:22, James 1:6), and I don't know God's will enough to not doubt I'll receive children.

Aside from concerns about the Lord’s will, I also wonder whether my motives for desiring children are good.  Though our culture no longer expects couples to get pregnant in the first year of marriage, enough of a undercurrent remains in the questions that people ask newlyweds to eventually make a childless wife feel she’s defective somehow—psychologically if she doesn’t want kids (yet or ever) and biologically if she wants them but can’t seem to have them. Considering this cultural pressure, do I wish for children selfishly, because it’s cultural expected, or out of an honest, natural, or godly desire for them?  Do I think a baby will make me feel more emotionally secure?  (What a joke that would be, considering some of the hurtful things children say!)  Still, I wonder if it’s my mind, biology, or spirit longing for kids.

Thinking along these lines, do I really want a child?  On the one hand, I consider all that work and stress and expense and disruption of raising a child, and I wonder if I really want to bring a child into a Fallen world where he or she will face untold heartbreak and hardship.  On the other hand, I consider all that love and joy and laughter and hope, and I consider how much I'd like to bring a child up in Christ’s footsteps, to be a light to the next generation.  My opinion just will not remain consistent.

Should Joel and I truly set our hearts on having a child, we then face the question of what to do if our infertility continues.  Is childlessness a sign we’re not living within God’s will properly or not praying properly?  But then, we live in a Fallen world, so infertility may be merely a symptom of that and not an indication of God’s disfavor; in addition, plenty of rebels against God have no difficulty getting pregnant, and Job and the apostles are examples showing it is not correct to equate temporal blessings with one’s spiritual status.  
Again, could childlessness mean God is preparing us to adopt or foster a child?  Should we seek professional help to conceive a child, knowing God has given doctors the wisdom and skill to help people such as us, or should we accept on faith that God knows best and go on as we have been?  Admittedly, without children, we have more disposable income to give to charities and more time to invest in building up the church.  Is our faith and handling of this undesirable situation meant to be an example to unbelievers?  Could God be preparing us for some some great upheaval in our lives that a child shouldn’t go through—whether an all-consuming ministry or death?  Does God have a specific plan or work in mind for us, or does it not matter where we live and what we do because He can make use of us regardless?

Am I overthinking this?  

Probably.

Infertility poses an endless cycle of currently unanswerable questions and difficult decisions.  I find that I've come full-circle, that I’ve known nearly from the beginning what I should do: I shall pray for both a baby and peace without one, and for the ability to hear and heed God’s direction when He gives it.  Then I’ll trust the Lord to bring us what He knows is best.