weak and alone. But I’m not sure I can be strong enough.
Not for this.
When I manage to collect myself somewhat, I sniffle again and tilt my head back, garnering the last of my strength and courage to finish this confession.
I’ve confessed to the priest. I’ve confessed to myself. I’ve confessed through a throat that’s as raw and scratchy as my battered and bleeding heart.
But I did it.
I did it.
“I think I declined treatment because I was afraid. I was afraid of what it would do to me to hope. I was afraid of what it would do to my husband. I didn’t want to put him through that hell for nothing, so I didn’t. I opted for no treatment so that we could live out my last days together, doing things we’ve always wanted to do. And for the first time in years, I never once considered a baby. In all this time, I haven’t been able to get pregnant, I just didn’t even think...” I pause, anger suddenly welling inside me. It bubbles up and bubbles over, pouring through me like a squall, escalating. Escalating.
I’ve always known Fate is a cruel bitch, but I wouldn’t have guessed her capable of something like this.
Something so…punishing.
Turning my head, I stare into the blackness from whence the priest’s voice had come before I began my breakdown. I pin his invisible presence with furious eyes.
Anger rolls and tumbles.
“Why is this happening now? Why now when there is no hope for me? Why now when I need hope more than ever? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to get through this? How can I tell my husband that I’m carrying a baby that might die before I do? How can I tell him that I might make his loss even greater? How can I tell him that his dream finally came true and I might be the one to steal that away from him? And there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no way I can stop it. How am I supposed to deal with that? What am I supposed to do?” I wail in desperation.
Rage courses through me, a wildfire of crackling emotion. But like a wildfire succumbs to a heavy rain, my ire quickly succumbs to my anguish, the embers extinguished by tears that pour in watery rivulets down my cheeks.
I’m crying again. It seems I’m unable to stop the flood once I let it flow. My confession scraped off a scab, opened both old wounds and new, exposing my injuries to the elements. Leaving me more vulnerable than ever.
And so I cry.
Until I can’t cry anymore, I cry.
And the priest lets me, saying nothing for what seems like hours. He holds his words for the moment when my well finally dries up and I can speak again. I’m more broken than I’ve ever been before.
Broken and dejected.
“How could God do this to me? To us? How can I have hope in a God who is capable of this? He’s a monster!"
There’s a long pause before I hear his voice, bathed in kindness and encouragement. “My child,” he begins, “our God works in mysterious ways. It is He who has brought you the gift of this baby, and it is He who will see you through to the resolution, whatever that may be. You must only believe in that, believe in Him.”
“But how can I? He’s taken so much from me already. How can I believe in a God like that? Why should I believe in a God I have nothing in common with?”
“Because you do have much in common with Him. Much more than you think. Our God is a God of sacrifice. It is written throughout the ages, in His Word, in our lives. He knows your suffering. He knows what it is to love so deeply that He would give up His own life for that of His children. In fact, that is precisely what He did. He came to humanity in the flesh of a man, His son Jesus, and He was crucified so that we might have life. He knows the sacrifice of pain and death. He knows what it is like to be afraid and to feel alone. You must never forget that He has been where you are, where all of man has been. He knows your torment like no one else. But you must also believe that He loves you like no one else, as well. He would never