The Weight of Affliction

Have you read the story of Job? Probably. We all know how the Lord allowed Satan to bring Job great adversity, from his painful physical afflictions to the loss of all of his children and possessions. That’s about as bad as it gets.

In the end, after the Lord responds to Job’s lamentations by declaring, “Shall the one who contends with the Almighty correct Him? (40:2), Job says poignantly: “I have heard of You by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees You” (42:5).

Almost six months ago, this verse hit home. Actually, a lot of verses hit home, mostly the ones about trials, affliction, grief, and sadness. It was a dark period in our previously sheltered, rosy home. On November 14^th, we found out that we had lost our little boy, Thomas Kirk, at 23 weeks gestation. After not feeling any movement for a day or so, I chose to drop by the doctor’s office to check the heartbeat. It’s difficult to reflect on that moment when our world shattered and the waves of grief rolled in as the ultrasound tech just said, “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat.” I sobbed violently as Michael held me and Eli, who had no idea what else to do but cry because mommy was crying.

Less than 12 hours later, and sparing the details which no woman should have to endure, we met our little Thomas, born sleeping at just over 2 pounds and 12 inches long. He was perfect in every way, and we wept over him as we processed the reality that we would never know him in this life. He was spared the very grief we were experiencing in those moments and in the days and months that would follow. Sweetly, Michael reminded me that Thomas had fulfilled the days on earth that God had ordained for him—and he’s reminded me of that every day since.

As we walked the halls of the hospital to go home, I kept my head down, painfully aware that we were empty handed. We had to say goodbye to Thomas and to all the memories we had created for our life as a family of four. Eli would never share his bunk bed with Thomas. We would not have the experience of raising two boys so close together in age. Thomas would never know his cousin Cate, born just 10 days later. While we ached for what wouldn’t be, both Michael and I were thankful for God’s protection over me during the delivery, for our incredible nurses and doctor who cared for us, and MOST OF ALL, for the strong assurance that Thomas was in the arms of his Savior for all eternity. What a glorious thought!

In the days and weeks that followed, we have never felt the community of Christ more strongly than we did then. Meals, flowers, and cards poured in—all of which I will never forget. We cried over and over again each time sweet notes arrived in the mail, written by so many different people, some of whom we weren’t aware even knew about our loss. I have kept every letter as a reminder of how many people took the time to minister to us. We clung to one another and to the promises of Christ that He would “heal the brokenhearted” and “bind up our wounds” (Psalm 147:3).

Like Job, I began to understand how little I knew of God’s sovereign love (and I choose those words intentionally) before we lost Thomas. The Lord had spared Michael and me from affliction of any kind. Chronic back pain was the most debilitating trial I had ever experienced. But this. This was the stuff of nightmares. Why? We had no medical explanation for Thomas’s death. We had no option but to trust that the Lord had reasons that we could only see through a looking glass, darkly. And in the weeks that would follow, we drew close to the beautiful reality that we serve a Savior who was acquainted with grief, who experienced sorrow beyond our own when He sacrificed His only Son on our behalf.

Our grief was real, intense, and by no means sinless. I wish I could say that everything fell together with perfect clarity and that I humbly and meekly accepted Thomas’s death the way Christ submitted to His own death on the cross. But I fell. Over and over again. And still do, if I let my thoughts drift. But the words of Scripture have been a constant companion, and by them I am continually being transformed.

Because this has been an intensely personal and sometimes lonely journey, I haven’t felt “up to” sharing with people. Hence the delay in updating the blog. But since we lost Thomas, I know of at least five other women whose dreams were shattered in the same way ours were (through stillbirth), and I grieve for each of them in a way I never could have before. This is a journey that we are still on, and as others join us (whether through experiencing a similar loss or knowing someone who has), I want to grab their hands, cry with them, and commit to praying for them in the very specific ways I needed prayer, especially in the days right after we lost Thomas.

 A Facebook friend posted this status back in December, and I was so struck by it that I recorded it in my journal, and hope you will soak it up as I did, with gratitude that we serve the Most Holy who willingly went to the cross for sinners:

“The incarnation means that for whatever reason God chose to let us fall into a condition of being limited, to suffer, to be subject to sorrows and death—He has nonetheless had the honesty and the courage to take His own medicine... He himself has gone through the whole of human experience—from the trivial irritations of family life and the cramping restrictions of hard work and lack of money to the worst horrors of pain and humiliation, defeat, despair, and death...He was born in poverty and...suffered infinite pain—all for us—and thought it well worth his while.—Dorothy Sayers

The picture below is an ornament sent to us by one of the nurses that cared for us that night. Those are Thomas's sweet footprints--we look forward to adorning our Christmas tree with this precious keepsake next Christmas.