Alana
I was sure by now
God, You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say, "Amen" and it's still rainingWell, as the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I'll raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away
“It’s still raining.”
After 27 years, it’s still raining.
The white fluffy clouds that hung over our confident, optimistic, dream filled hearts that day in June 1993, became dark and gloomy very soon after.
We made plans for our jobs, our home, the bedrooms, the chairs at the dinner table and the heirlooms that were ready to pass onto the next generation. Our little ones. There were going to be mini Davids and mini Alanas. We wanted to hear the pitter patter of feet as they neared our room, flinging themselves onto our bed. We would buy plastic spoons and plates. The toys would be spread all over the lounge room. Endless laundry. The fitting of car seats. The little clothes hung up on the line. The couch to sit on when holding the little ones as they took their sustenance from my breasts. The look in our eyes when milestones were reached. The lack of sleep. The tantrums, the cuddles, the bible being read as a family, the talks and prayers late into the night about how we’d do better tomorrow.
But the dreams in the white clouds burst and the rain fell. The doctor said we’d never be parents. The thunder rolled and the lightning struck the ground. The storm was dark and ugly bringing a plummeting mass of pain and denial. That gloomy day in 1996, our hearts were ripped apart and the rain poured.
It rained when we realised our dream of me being a stay at home Mum would not be and now I was to look for a full-time teaching position.
It rained when the first of the siblings told us they were to be parents. Family events were uncomfortable with the lack of nephews, nieces and cousins that we thought we would be adding to the mix.
It rained when the friends placed their newborns in my arms or sat me down to tell me “their news”.
It rained each time family members celebrated their children’s milestones and we had to look at the photos and smile through misty eyes.
It rained when others hurt us with their thoughtless, uncaring words. Others can not possibly know what “childless” looks like when they’re “childfull”.
It rained as I taught 3 to 8 year olds and I had to say goodbye to them at the end of each year and in particular those little ones who “moved” me, who in some ways, helped to heal my heart, who motivated me to be better at my job, who kept me getting out of bed every day.
I really thought God would “reach down and wipe our tears away”. I really thought He “would step in and save the day”. I prayed He would but He didn’t. I thought a miracle child would come along. I thought after 8 years on the adoption list, a child would be ours. We even had an opportunity offered to us to be houseparents in an orphanage overseas and I thought this was it. But it fell through too. The empty bedrooms and dining room chairs continue to stare at us and the rain is unrelenting. Sometimes it’s a storm, sometimes it’s just a drizzle. The tears are ever-present, an outlet of the constant emotions just near the surface when it rains.
I do hear “His whisper” and I know “He’s with me”. I know He’s a good God who always does what is right even when I think it’s not. I’m thankful for “His mercy” and strength each day. Through the rain, I see some sunshine. I see the friends who have given us opportunities to love, care for and mentor their children. I see the students I’ve taught working in jobs knowing I taught them to read, write and calculate. I see the nieces and nephews that let me wear my aunty hat with pride.
The dark clouds hit us every now and then. The news of friends or family members becoming grandparents bring a crushing, heavy, burdensome emotion. It’s like a vicious storm in our hearts, making us catch our breaths as we get hit again by the hard rain, years later. Never to hear the pitter patter of feet as they run into our home and to be Grandma and Grandad. It just keeps raining.
I know I can live in the rain. I know, because I have done so for 27 years. I can smile despite the pain in my heart. Our God gives us purpose and meaning even though what has been taken away makes us less than we ever wanted to be.
Yes, it’s still raining.
