These days, I have more questions than answers. The standard Christian answers aren’t working for me anymore. I was once referred to as someone who had a “deep” faith and by choice, my intensely focused buy-in to the fundamentalist church was where I was dedicating much of my time and energy. What I now have is a rule-breaking, messy belief in a God of love without black and white answers. It continues to create more questions I will likely spend a lifetime wrestling with. 

I received an outpouring of love from some in the church community after I shared about the loss of a pregnancy and my subsequent inability to have children. From others who I honestly believe had good intentions, I received an indoctrination into the standard unsolicited advice and explanations for loss and suffering that the church seems to have on a ready to serve a la carte menu. I’ve spent several years grieving and trying to reconcile with both God and the expression (or suppression) of loss from the church. I’ve learned a lot about myself and as well as what the church must see as their role or duty when it comes to “ministering” to someone grieving a loss. 

Several years ago, before I did my own inner work, I didn’t understand the complex trauma and grief I carried and had stuffed for so many years. I could not tolerate, nor did I have the capacity for working through and accepting my own losses, let alone the ability to be there for anyone else in need. Not everyone can accept the grief of others, and yet the language developed in Christianity around loss does its best to offer what it can. It’s nearly impossible to meet with someone in their loss if you’ve spent a lifetime turning away from all of your own trauma. I come from a place of positive intentions and assume that most of us want to help. I realize the church provides structure and with that structure comes a list of things they feel they should say, not realizing how unbelievably invalidating these supposedly helpful pats on the hand and zings to the heart are. For those of us healing from past emotionally abusive relationships, in a sad sort of way, these things are expected and feel uncomfortably normal. Until we take a deeper dive into our inner world, searching to find courage or borrowing it from a friend, therapist or other healer, it’s just not possible to navigate this terrain.

At some point in the process for me, I realized the things I was being told weren’t true. I was filled to the brim with being shut down with the message that if only I had a stronger faith, if only I trusted God more, or if I only realized that my own sin was causing me to suffer, I’d move past my grief or I’d have the baby I wanted to have, since it was all within part of God’s grand plan. I was told that “God wasn’t done writing my story.” I mean, geez, I sure hope He didn’t throw in the towel at that point! I pictured Him up there in the sky holding a clipboard with the story of my life drawing a big X on it (strong enough to break the pencil point) and tossing it all in the air. Another one thrown around a lot, was “With God all things are possible.” or “Be anxious for nothing.” These shut down the very emotions God created in us.  These emotions need to be heard, validated and accepted before healing can move forward.  

Shaming those who can’t have children in a highly pro-natal church culture is like shooting not one, but two arrows right into the heart. One causes pain, and the second increases the suffering. Cherry-picking scripture to silence someone’s deep feelings and unstoppable tears is not what heals. What does heal is the friend or partner who sits quietly beside you with a box of (high quality) tissues and says nothing because he or she understands there is nothing to say. Lack of judgment and the silent presence are two of the most healing and validating things that can be offered, and that I was lucky enough to experience that from my spouse and friends apart from the church. I’ve had some serious fights with God. I am still fighting. I haven’t found satisfying answers and explanations for my loss. What I have done is ditch the image of a God in the sky with the clipboard and the thick, dark pencil who will stop writing my story if I don’t believe enough. I’ve learned instead that there is love and kindness and compassion. There is an acceptance that grieving is messy. It’s a jagged path with no limit to the timeframe. What I still feel sad about is the seeming need for the church to put parameters around the grieving process and to try to convince me that if I prayed hard enough and had “stronger” faith (by the way, who is judging the strength of my faith?) I could have that baby and would be worthy of sitting in the pews as a Christian woman who has finally reached her highest calling. 

I’m saddened by the protection of generations of standard answers and explanations because we’re afraid of the uncomfortable questions and the unknown. I’ve found greater comfort in the open field of the unknown than through the ready-made responses the church would like me to accept at face value. So, where does that leave me? I’ve decided I want to walk through the world with my messy love and be an example of someone who is navigating life with an aching heart full of unanswered questions and yet is at peace with all of it (or at least most of it). I am learning how to be the friend who can sit in a silent healing presence so I can offer the same thing that was given to me with such grace.  

I’m terrified how this article will be received, but I decided that after how alone I’ve felt over the past couple of years, others need to hear that getting tangled in the seaweed of grief and confusion means we are engaging with our grief, which is one of the healthiest things we can do. We need to remind ourselves there is so much love to support us as we find ourselves enmeshed in a fresh wave of confusion or sadness. We are worth no less than a child bearing woman in the church, despite what so many denominations out there would like us to believe. When we are rested and ready, it will be our voices of love and truth that will bring about the change. It will cause discomfort and maybe even anger, and we will hold onto the truths we’ve pulled out of our own battles. We will break ourselves out of the fact that we don’t fit standard church categories and send the message that our lives are not second tier, wherever we decide to grow in love, worship or find our community of belonging. The messy love we held inside will continue to be the strength that carries us forward.

Holly Martinson

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