I stood on the wooden deck looking out over the glassy surface of a now still lake. In the days prior waves had rolled across the surface but this morning it was quiet and calm. Thick icicles lined the docks and the cold air tempted me to hurry back inside, but I stayed put, focused on the moment.
In my hand I held a stone with a single word on it.
All weekend at the women’s retreat I was attending we had talked about stones of remembrance – ways God had worked in the past that we could cling to throughout our lives.
But today was different. Today I was holding something that I needed to let go of. Something that I tried so hard to control and figure out and plan for on my own. Something that I needed to hand over to God.
I lifted my arm and tossed the stone out over the lake. It hit the surface, sinking fast in the clear water, spreading ripples across the stillness.
The word on that stone? Future.
The next day I would go in for blood work to determine whether our most recent round of fertility treatments had been successful. But in that moment, even after over two years of trying, I felt such peace and encouragement. God had been with us every step of the way and He would be with us whatever the results turned out to be.
In that moment I felt sure that I could rest in His plan, that I was letting go of the future I imagined and clung to for myself and laying it down at His feet.
The phone call came the next afternoon. Pregnant! We were overjoyed and so thankful. All those prayers, all the questions and tears and waiting. I thought about how I’d surrendered my future to the Lord just the day before and I sat down to pray and praise Him for this incredible gift.
Just over three months later I would realize how far I still had to go in this journey of surrender.
We waited in the ultrasound room, filled with excitement. Our 20 week scan had just been completed and we thought all was well. The ultrasound technician had told us that we were expecting another girl, then told me to walk around a bit to see if the baby would move so she could look at a few more things.
The moment a doctor walked in the room I knew something was wrong.
Her eyes and voice were kind and sad as she broke the news… “I’m so sorry, but we found some fluid around the baby’s lungs.”
I sank to the chair next to Steve and put my head in my hands. “I can’t do this again,” I cried.
Hours later, at another ultrasound in the specialist’s office, we were given the full scope of it all. Hydrops again, just as Faith had, with fluid filling her chest cavity. But there was more too. A heart defect. Her stomach on the wrong side.
The doctor said that many people in our situation would choose to terminate and if that was something we were interested in we could decide over the next couple weeks. It was never a question in our minds that I would continue to carry this child, but it was devastating to even hear the option mentioned.
It was further confirmation of what they had already said – there was little to no hope this baby girl would survive.
For two weeks I wrestled with a nearly crippling feeling of claustrophobia. There’s no other way I can describe it. I felt trapped in my own life, my own body. I couldn’t stand the sight of my growing belly. Couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the house for fear of some stranger asking about my pregnancy. Couldn’t grasp the idea of living through the loss of another child.
We prayed, we begged God to intervene.
Fifteen days after the initial news we waited and watched the ultrasound screen. We both noticed but didn’t dare speak our thoughts out loud in case we were wrong. The doctor came in and confirmed what we had barely dared to believe – the fluid was gone!
Suddenly the situation was no longer so dire and hopeless. This baby girl had a chance to live! We rejoiced, we praised, we went out to dinner that weekend, and for the first time in those two weeks I felt hopeful again.
But there was, and is, a long road ahead.
Since those first appointments we have learned more about our baby girl’s complicated heart. A heart defect that is significant and will, if the current diagnosis stands, need several surgeries. There are still unknowns. Exact timing and extent of surgeries. Length of NICU stay. Is her aorta blocked? Could there be other complications with her organs, given what we know about the stomach, that we cannot see?
And I’ll be honest… truly releasing my future is a lot harder than it seemed to be when I stood on that deck on that cold March morning and threw my stone in the lake.
The struggle to surrender is a daily, sometimes moment by moment, challenge for me. A battle really. I know God is with me, I trust Him and believe He will never leave me, but it is so very hard not to know what will happen to this baby girl.
I wish I could say that all the things I learned during our journey with Faith, all the things I know about God from my life with Him, have left me feeling at peace about all of this, but that wouldn’t be the truth.
The truth? My emotions have been all over the place, and feelings of peace have been few and far between. I’ve been angry, sad, confused, bitter, afraid… a lot of not so pretty things. And I’ve come to see, over and over again, how desperately I cling to control of my life.
Even when I know things are out of my hands, even when I know it’s impossible for me to physically do anything to change them, still I grasp for some semblance of control.
Maybe I feel like the future would seem less scary that way. Maybe I’m just fighting against the helplessness that crashes over me when I imagine my newborn baby going through open heart surgery. Maybe I’m stubbornly holding onto the “perfect” picture I had in my head for what my life could or should look like.
And maybe this is where God wants to meet me.
I have a long way to go. Sometimes I think this is going to be a lifelong challenge for me. But as our due date draws closer, and with it all those unknowns about our life ahead, I pray that God will hold me tight and help me to let go and lean on Him.
Because I am confident in this… that here, in my struggle to surrender, He remains.