I’m interrupting your regularly scheduled Monday Writing Minute to turn over my blog to author/ghostwriter/editor Kathy Ide so she can share her post Five Most Common Grammar Mistakes Writers Make. Kathy Ide has written and ghostwritten books, articles, short stories, devotionals, and curriculum. She is a full-time freelance...
Catch all the Monday Writing Minutes Here. Want to dig deeper? Check out the Writing Tips...
Catch all the Monday Writing Minutes Here.
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When I got pregnant with my daughter, Maddy, a few of my other pregnant friends were choosing to give birth au natural.
My thought—Why not?
I’d had epidurals with my boys, but because I’d progressed quickly, I didn’t get them until well into labor. The pain early on hadn’t been that bad. My friends had done it. I could woman up.
If you’ve had children, naturally or not, you’re laughing now. You may be laughing even if you haven’t given birth. And you should be.
Fourteen years after the trauma of labor and delivery au natural, I can laugh too. Most of that day has faded into memories and stories Maddy likes me to share.
About my false bravado in going epidural and drug free.
About my grave error in remembering how much I hate to suffer.
About the Nazi nurse and her soothing words of encouragement. “Of course it hurts, you’re having a baby.”
About my poor husband who had to listen to me scream, “How could you let me do this? You’re sleeping in the driveway. Forever.”
About Maddy rushing into the world while my doctor was still running down the hall.
But there was a darker side to that day, a trauma I haven’t forgotten, that I’ve never shared with anyone. The feeling of being abandoned and isolated during the worst of the pain.
In the hours leading up to and during the actual delivery, time and space seemed to fold in on itself and lock me in a vacuum until everything but hurt disappeared.
I lost track of who was in the room, my husband’s grip on my hand, every sound but my heartbeat echoing in my ears and my voice begging for the birth to be over. My world tunneled like I’d been sucked into a black hole. A black hole even God couldn’t breach.
“I can’t do this,” I told God. And there was silence.
“Make it stop,” I begged. More silence.
“Why did you leave me?” I cried. Silence. Silence. Silence.
Can you relate? Have you ever walked through an hour, a day, or a week feeling alone, abandoned, invisible? Have you survived a trauma that left you emotionally dead and spiritually cold?
Maddy’s birth wasn’t my first, last, or worst black hole moment. I’ve lived through others.
The morning my dad walked out.
The day I knew he wasn’t coming back.
The season my marriage fell apart and I didn’t see God’s plan for redemption.
The weeks following a friend’s death.
When anxiety held me in a chokehold.
Both times my son was diagnosed with cancer.
Some moments lasted hours. Others months and years. But length is relative. Ten seconds can feel like ten hours when you’re stuck in a void. And when I’m sucked into that vacuum, it looks like I’m alone, sounds like I’m alone, feels like I’m alone.
Yet God promises we’re never alone.
“If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there” (Psalm 139:8 NIV).
“The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged” (Deuteronomy 31:8 NIV).
If I believe God’s Word to be truth, then I must also believe that no matter how much I feel abandoned, I am not.
I can’t always trust my feelings, especially during those black moments. I can trust God. But taking His word at face value is hard when it requires going against my senses and believing in the unseen. That’s where faith comes in.
“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1).
The good thing about black hole moments? They eventually end. The better thing about God’s truth? It lasts an eternity.
Going through a serious struggle? Check out Surviving the Storm.
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