Burying
Luke made it final; he was no longer with us. I came home with empty arms, to the still bareness of our bedroom.
There
was no rocking our child in the wee hours of the night or cradle bed to lay him down to sleep. There was no
gentle rhythm of baby’s breath or plaintive cry for a midnight feeding. There was an absence of baby smells—the
lotion, the powder, the diapers, empty or full. I missed simply being able to hold the velvety
skin and rest his cheek against mine. To pat his small frame, having my heart
swell with motherly love.
All
these losses added up and left me feeling restless. That night, after the funeral, sleep became
elusive to me. As I lay in bed, I felt
like holding something or someone. I
grabbed a small pillow and cradled it in my arms. It calmed my restlessness a little. It was as if I were fooling my heart into believing my baby wasn’t gone.
The
next morning, Billy and I woke up with a high fevers, chills, and aching
bodies. We could barely get out of bed,
let alone get to the doctor. It turned
out that we both had come down with a bad case of strep throat. I figured grief must have taken its toll and
wreaked havoc on our immune systems.
We
started a regiment of antibiotics and tried to rest. With pulsing head, I lay down on the
recliner, and Billy was sprawled out on the futon. People from church brought us some soup, but
neither of us had the strength to heat it up in the microwave.
My
stomach growled, and I knew I needed to eat something soon. “Could
you heat up dinner, honey?” I croaked.
“Can
you do it? I can’t get up,” groaned
Billy.
We
went back and forth, each trying to coax the other into making dinner.
Finally, Billy spoke up with frustration in
his voice. “You’re
gonna have to get it. I’m too sick.”
“But, I’m
sick and still recovering from having
our baby,” I cried out emphatically. “Why can’t you make dinner?”
Billy
buried his face deep into his pillow and moaned. April looked worried and upset that her mommy
and daddy were arguing.
“Well,
if we’re both too sick to even make dinner,” I lamented. “Then who will take
care of April?”
“Let’s call someone,” answered Billy.
It
didn’t dawn on me that we could ask for help. Billy got up and gave my aunt a call, and she agreed to watch April for
the night. Forcing myself out of the
recliner, I heated up the soup and made us dinner.
A
few days later, we were on the mend, but something had shifted between us. It’s like our grief was so heavy, our deep
love for each other got buried beneath it. It set our relationship off course and we seemed to drift further and
further apart.
At
the same time, something like a shadow crept over me. Even when I went outside in the bright sunlight and pushed April in
her swing, it brought me no joy. All I could feel was the heaviness and the
shadow.
***
It
was a few months later, when Billy and I went to a conference held by our
church that I felt challenged to go on another mission trip. It was a very intense time for me. I felt so overcome with grief, I could barely
lift my head. As the worship music
played, I began to feel closer to the Lord. I literally bowed down in awe of Him and felt like a heavy burden was
lifted off my shoulders.
We
partook of communion and a church elder handed me the bread and the wine and
spoke a verse over me.
“The old has gone, the new is here.” (2
Corinthians 5:17, NIV)
That
particular verse resonated with me in my grief. Everything was different now, but I couldn’t get used to this new
normal. I wanted things to go back to
how they used to be, before Luke died.
I
didn’t know how I could be happy again.
There
were many speakers that night. One friend got up and
asked for people to consider coming with him to Poland to help teach English to
the Polish people.
Something in my heart
began to stir with compassion for the people of Poland. It was the same compassion that drew me to go
to Ukraine to minister to the people there who didn’t know the love of Christ.
At
the same time, I felt a twinge of hesitation. It had only been a few months since Luke died. I was still grieving and wasn’t feeling close
to Billy.
It
was the second time that Billy had the chance to go to Poland. The first time was when April was a baby, and
he felt unsure about going. This time he
had a strong desire to go, and he wanted me to join him.
To
see Billy want to serve the Lord on a mission trip with me gave me the
motivation I needed to go. I set my reservations
aside, and we both prayed and committed to go to Poland.
The
night before the mission trip, the whole mission team prayed and fasted. Shifting the focus from myself and my pain to
the Lord filled me with hope. The Lord
revealed to me that even though He was leading me out of my comfort zone, He
had a plan and a purpose for it. He was
the One who didn’t change, even though everything else in my life seemed to be
turned upside down.
***
From
the moment I set foot on Polish soil, I felt the presence of the Lord with me. It was cool outside, and it started to
sprinkle. As the refreshing rain tapped
upon my face, I looked up to find a misty rainbow stretched out over the city
of Poznan.
Like
in the days of Noah, the rainbow reminded me of God’s provision of
salvation. Though God destroyed all life
on earth, by His grace, He provided Noah, his family, and the animals a way of
salvation through the ark and made all things new. The same is true in Christ. Like the ark, Christ saves us from perishing
in the judgement of God against sin. In
Him, we have new life, eternal life, where all things are made new.
On
the first day of English Club, Billy and I kept arguing over seemingly trivial
things. We couldn’t seem to work together
as a team. It made me wonder. If we can’t get along here, what does the future
hold for us?
The
next day, during class, we read Jesus' parable of the Lost Son (from Luke 15:11-32). Each Pole took turns reading a few verses,
and we asked about their feelings toward each of the characters in the
parable. The students shared a deep respect for
the father in the parable who showed compassion toward his wayward son.
We explained that the word compassion meant
to "suffer with" someone as if you felt their pain. Then we went around the room asking each
student how they had been shown compassion. Everyone had a different story to share.
One Pole, named Micah, had a heart-breaking
story. He told us about a time he was in
an accident, and his car flipped over several times. He was stuck in the car, and kept seeing
people walk by, but no one stopped to help him.
He waited twenty-five minutes before someone helped. He said he didn't feel like people showed
compassion like the father in the story.
By
the end of the week, we felt close to all our new Polish friends. Some of them came with us after English Club to
a park to play American sports.
On
the way to the park, we rode a tram (similar to a trolley) and passed by a woman who was in a car accident. Micah's story went through my mind, and I hoped someone would stop
to help her.
At
first, her back was facing us, but as we drew closer, I could tell that she was bent over and holding her stomach. Then, someone who looked like a nurse rushed across the street to help
the woman.
By
that point, I could see the woman was pregnant. I burst into tears, because I wanted to help her, but I was stuck on the
tram. I buried my face into Billy’s
chest, and he held me and prayed with me for the woman and her baby. It took me a long time before I regained my
composure. I think seeing the pregnant
woman in need of help was a trigger for a new wave of grief.
The
whole mission trip was bittersweet. It
was hard to reach out to others in our pain, but at the same time, it was healing. I was thankful the Lord had led us to
Poland. He was teaching us how to lean on Him as we leaned on each other.
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