Ash Wednesday

It was on or about this time five years ago that we stood in a parking lot in Fairfax, Virginia, staring at an ultrasound photo of an 8 week old embryo. We had already had a scare that took us to the emergency room in the middle of the night, but today the doctor told us that everything looked fine, that we didn’t have any reason to be afraid. I will never ever forget standing next to Todd’s car in that parking lot with my arms around him and asking him are we really having a baby and how he held me and said, yeah, I think we really are and we giggled. Just burst out laughing for the joy of it all.

I’ve been thinking about those kids in that parking lot for a few weeks now, how young they seem in my memory, how naïve and scared and hopeful, how simple it was then, how clueless they were to what was ahead. How here we are, 5 years later, and still no babies. How old I feel now, both more mature and tired.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. We lost that first baby on Ash Wednesday, 2011. Stood again in that same parking lot, gaping at each other in complete confusion, bewildered as to how to cope with the sudden loss. Clueless again, having not yet learned to love each other while grieving. My first real taste of hope turned to ash in my mouth.

It’s unfair to say we’ve been trying for babies for 5 years. We took a healthy break for a while. Then we took a longer, unhealthy break. The times we’ve tried I’ve only been 1% braver than I was afraid and there were lots of times I was 800% more afraid so we put it off. But we’ve been trying again for half a year, maybe finally no longer completely paralyzed with fear, and I was certain for a few reasons that this was going to be the month.

It wasn’t. Obviously. And the finding out we weren’t pregnant was brutal, drawn-out, inconclusive for far too long to be fair. Todd said it wasn’t personal; it felt personal.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. Our pastor opened the sanctuary for most of the day for people to come and receive ashes. Todd and I were the only people there at 5:15 yesterday evening. The reading provided for our meditation was Joel 2:

But there’s also this, it’s not too late—

    GOD’s personal Message!—

“Come back to me and really mean it!

    Come fasting and weeping, sorry for your sins!”

Change your life, not just your clothes.

    Come back to GOD, your God.

And here’s why: God is kind and merciful.

    He takes a deep breath, puts up with a lot,

This most patient God, extravagant in love,

    always ready to cancel catastrophe.

Who knows? Maybe he’ll do it now,

    maybe he’ll turn around and show pity.

Maybe, when all’s said and done,

    there’ll be blessings full and robust for your GOD!

I bowed my head and tried for a minute to conjure up the properly contrite spirit for Lent. But you know what I really wanted to say? You’ve put up with a lot from me?! I’ve put up with a lot from you! Kind and merciful? Sure, if I tilt my head and squint real hard I can see your kindness. Where is the kindness that blows the doors off the place, the mercy that is more than me just being grateful for crumbs?

I promise I’m more scandalized by the contents of my heart than you are. I read through some of my old blog posts recently, back when we were actively losing babies all the time. I was in all kinds of agony back then, but damn if I didn’t also really believe in the mercy of God. There was a song back then that saved me, played on repeat for an entire few years, with one line that I loved for its honesty but I realize now that I didn’t fully understand: if this waiting lasts forever, I’m afraid I might let go. I get it now.

And yet. I say I’m all out of hope, but there is a voice in the back of my head that says, this is it. This is when the miracle happens, when hope is completely run dry and five seconds before you let go.

Ah hope, you sneaky bastard.

My Lenten reading this morning was from Habakkuk 3:

Though the cherry trees don’t blossom

    and the strawberries don’t ripen,

Though the apples are worm-eaten

    and the wheat fields stunted,

Though the sheep pens are sheepless

    and the cattle barns empty,

I’m singing joyful praise to GOD.

    I’m turning cartwheels of joy to my Savior God.

I want that kind of faith. I don’t have it today.