United States of America
Meant to Be
I lost count of the pregnancy tests when the count exceeded my age… that was around the time that the anxious anticipation which buoyed my first years of hoping turned into desperation and masochism. I knew the outcome, but a plastic stick offered irrefutable evidence.
For seven years, we tried to start a family. After two years of marriage, my husband and I decided to pursue adoption through foster care. As we started the paperwork, Glenn wrote that “fostering felt like a natural extension of our work as educators.” I loved that explanation, and I clung to it like a lifeline until the reality of our circumstance broke it. We fostered our son with the intention of adoption for nine months before he was removed and eventually returned to his biological parents. I wish I had prepared myself for the grief that is inextricably tangled within the foster care system and within adoption itself.
It took time, but we eventually re-routed. Instead of adoption, I submitted my body to the fluorescent lights, prescription hormones, and a thousand other IVF indignities sheathed by an ill-fitting hospital gown. It is frightening how quickly indecencies are normalized when longing becomes desperation… Yet, I paid for it over and over again. Thousands of dollars paid to defile what I once held as sacred. Any romanticized notions of life’s conception were shed with the undergarments that I neatly folded and hid beneath my purse. Six failed mock trials, and I still could not hold my dreams.
When the fifth mock cycle failed because of a precipitous drop in my iron levels, I started to cave inward. I lost trust in my body, and I eventually lost trust in my mind and my God.
We spent our spring break that year exploring the coastline between Savannah and Myrtle Beach, and we happened to stop in Beaufort one afternoon. As we walked along the waterfront, I started to cry. I told Glenn that it felt like we had stumbled upon yet another “not right now”– a beautiful place for a potential someday that would never come. Glenn encouraged me to look into teaching jobs.
Two weeks later, I received a job offer at a coveted school in Beaufort. The day after receiving the offer, I had an appointment with my fertility specialist. When the nurse retrieved me from the waiting room, she congratulated me on my pregnancy, and told me that the doctor would be with me momentarily for the ultrasound. I was confused. The doctors had recommended embryo adoption, and we had scheduled and rescheduled the embryo transfer multiple times because of the pandemic, my anemia, getting Covid, and failed mock cycles. I politely tried correcting the nurse who was adamant that she looked at my chart and the bloodwork indicated I was in fact pregnant.
After several awkward minutes of waiting, she came back and apologized profusely for looking at someone else’s chart– I was correct about the purpose for my visit… a blood draw before the prescription of daily hormone injections to replace the oral hormones I had been taking.
Driving home from the appointment, I made the call to accept the teaching position in Beaufort.
While the move from Virginia to South Carolina was abrupt, I was the one who invited this interruption to our plans, rather than being told by doctors or betrayed by my body. With the sale of our home in Virginia, we put aside the money necessary for private adoption. I busied myself for months with the move and then with the home study. The work provided a welcome distraction from my cavernous grief… until I ran out of tasks, and we were told that it could be two years before we were selected by a birth mom.
The precipice of hope crumbled beneath me. Vicious lies echoed as my mind sought to rationalize my grief, rather than feel it. God must know that I would inevitably fail as a mother. God must see something ugly in me. I must be unfit to parent a child. I must be unfit to be around children. The lies spiraled into crippling anxiety. I started having multiple panic attacks each day, and I struggled to leave the house. I took a leave of absence from work.
For nearly three months, I relied on the borrowed faith of my husband and the inherited faith from my parents, as they took turns combatting the lies with the truth of their love for me. After a ten-week leave from work, I was able to return to my classroom. God made himself evident in His provision of grace and understanding through people who barely knew me.
The worship leader at our church invited me to join her in singing praise, and I encountered the love of Christ in dozens of refrains and harmonies. God met with me over and over and over again, as I prayed and processed my grief and my unmet desire to be a mom.
As I started sharing my experience and the ongoing ache more openly, I could feel the prayers of others shifting the ground within and under me.
On a Thursday morning in June, my husband’s phone rang.
Seven days later, I held my daughter for the first time.
Suddenly the ache and grief were transformed by the beauty of the promise that this is what God intended– I was made to be Espy Grace’s mother, and she was always meant to be mine.
Austen
United States of America
It was May of 2005. I had recently given birth to my daughter, Annie. She was now two months old. My husband of three years, step-son who was 16, son who was 2, and now daughter, were renovating and living in an old Grist Mill in Heath Springs, SC. It was adjoining my husband’s parents’ property just over the creek. Recently, I had been having severe panic attacks. I had suffered from these since I was about 14-years-old, but never knew what they were until recent years, when I was diagnosed with Panic Disorder (one of many diagnoses over the years and to come).
During this May, one night, I startled awake, as I often did. This time, my hands and feet were completely numb and cold to the touch. I couldn’t catch my breath and was disoriented as to where I was. I didn’t want to wake anyone because if someone were to talk with me at this moment, I felt like it would make the symptoms that much worse. I ran to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and noticed my lips were blueish purple. I kept repeating to myself, “This is in my head.” “I am not going to die.” I paced back and forth in the bathroom, which was very small, and the lighting was so artificial that I felt my surroundings weren’t real. I was breathing shallow, and my thoughts just kept repeating like they were stuck. The walls would close in on me, the pictures were moving, the floor patterns were distorted, and all I could feel was this: I am not real, life is not real.
At this point, my heart was racing so badly that I kept checking my pulse, I was getting dizzy, and I knew I had to ground myself somehow. I would try to go out of the bathroom, but I became so terrified, I couldn’t make myself do it. I was afraid of dying, but at the same time, all I could think about was killing myself. It was the only way to end this. I had been here before. I had tried to commit suicide on several occasions. It was my go-to resolution to these overwhelming thoughts that would consume me. I finally got the courage and made my way down the hall and outside on the back porch.
I remember it being warm with a small breeze coming across the pastures. I was in my nightshirt, and although it was warm, I was chilled to the bone. My body was in full fight-or-flight mode. I was caught between wanting to hop in my car and drive away and shutting myself off from the world where no one could find me. The physiological components of my state of mind were chills, hyperventilating, a constant need to urinate, stomach and leg cramps, and an extremely dry mouth. I was on high alert, but completely exhausted.
It was a clear night, and as I looked up, I wondered if there was a God. I remember stating, “If you are real, please help me!” My other thought was, if you are not real, what is the point of all this? I will just go back in and find a razor and cut myself again. Cutting relieves some of the pain. It brings a focal point to my thoughts. Rather than repeating to myself, “What is real?” “What is reality?” “Why am I here?” Who am I?” When the cut goes into the flesh, for a moment those thoughts cease, and I focus on the blood that comes to the surface. It also brings me back to a point, I don’t necessarily want to die, but maybe just feel something other than panic. The decision now is how far and how deep.
As I was walking back in the house, I heard my little Annie starting to cry. She needed me. Instead of going back in the bathroom to find my razor, I chose to go in Annie’s room to look at her. I was still feeling very frightened and was not able to calm myself. I would pace back and forth in-front of her crib. She was fussing, and I picked her little body up. She was warm and smelled so good. I focused on changing her and decided to sit and nurse her in the rocker in the corner of the room. She gave me comfort as I gave her nourishment. She reminded me, I was needed. I could not continue to be as I am.
I rocked her for another hour or so. I would gaze out the window, looking up into the night sky, that was now turning to dusk. I knew when I saw the sun, it would be over. I wouldn’t have to be afraid because the light was coming. Little did I know that this scene would play out later and there was significance in dark and light. I slowly came out of my warped mind. My heart beat returned to normal, I began to feel sleepy, my mouth was moist again and now all I wanted was to sleep. I put Annie back in her crib and I crawled into my son Samuel’s bed who shared Annie’s room. I put him near my chest and was able to sleep for a few more hours.
When I woke, I went to my husband and stated I needed to go back to the doctors and get back on medicine. That I was having my “crazy” thoughts again. As always, he was very supportive. He could see me suffering and was worried about us, our children, and my future. He knew that I would have to sleep the rest of the day, because having a heightened state of panic as I did for hours, took a huge physical toll on my body. I literally felt as if I had been fighting all night or like something had run me over, and over, and over again. I was achy, my stomach hurt, my legs crawled, and I couldn’t have conversations with people, due to my being overly sensitive from sleep deprivation.
I made an appointment with my primary care doctor in town. We had moved to Heath Springs after my husband and I left the military. I had not been to see him very often, and having moved around so much since being in the military, I could reinvent myself everywhere I went. I did not have to have a mental illness or anything else, I had been told growing up. So, I made the appointment and was able to get in the next day.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Barr.”, says my new doctor. He was African, not from America, but from Nigeria. I was timid and guarded but said “Hello”. I immediately started crying, as I woke last night with the same episodes. I was so tired, just so tired of being sick, tired of wanting to die, tired of me. He was so gentle and nice. He did not have the usual bedside manner, he seemed to want to help me and immediately started asking some questions. I am used to being asked all these questions, because I would have to see new doctors all the time. Most of my answers were lies in the past, but for some reason with him, I was a little more honest, didn’t spill it all, but more than usual.
He told me he would send me to a specialist, who was a psychologist and would be able to help more with my type of symptoms. He made sure I was not suicidal and was able to get me in to see Dr. Sydney Langston that week. While waiting for my appointment, at night I would have to walk over to my in-law’s house to try and sleep there. This was something I learned earlier on when having panic attacks. Whatever I was doing at the time of the attack or beforehand, either reading a certain book, or watching a certain television show, wearing a particular night shirt, or whatever I ate before having an attack, I would not be able to ever read it, watch it, wear it, eat it or be there again! I would make sure all the children were down and around 10 pm walk over the creek and through the woods to grandmothers house I’d go! Literally, this was the way. I still get a chuckle out of that. I would return at dusk when the sun came up again and everything was “safe”. This would continue until I saw Dr. Langston.
I remember pulling up to the place my printed-out Map Quest directions had given me. It was in Waxhaw, NC just over the border of SC. I parked the car and was nervous as usual. I looked up and saw the name El Rophe Center. It sounded South American to me?? However, when I opened the door, I immediately became uncomfortable. There were Bibles on every table, Christian music softly playing, and pictures of what I could only imagine to be from scenes of the bible and families working together, and more of the like. I thought to myself, “Oh God, (no pun intended) I cannot be here. I am not a Christian. I do not need scripture thrown at me and judgment about how I am a sinner!” I NEED a doctor!! For some reason, I signed in and sat down. I took a deep breath and remembered my plea on the porch of my house. I asked for God’s help. I decided to stay and at least be open minded and hear what this woman had to say.
She came out, and I remember her gray hair and blue skirt suit. She looked very pleasing, put together, and welcoming. She asked my name, and when I confirmed it was her next appointment, had me follow her into her office. She did something next, no one had ever done before, except for a family friend who used to clean our home when I was a teenager. She asked if we could pray together. Now, when Pam used to pray for me, it was usually when I had come home in the wee hours of the morning, smelling of alcohol at the age of 16, and she would be cleaning the jacuzzi and simply ask if she could pray for me. I would stand there, uncomfortable, but with respect and love for this woman who had been in my life since I was five, I would stand and endure it if it made her feel better. She also played a huge role later in this part of my life.
Dr. Langston had me sit down on the couch, she sat next to me, and then took my hands. I remember trembling and feeling as if I wanted to say STOP! I was nervous she would feel my anxiety and disapproval. She gripped my hands tighter and began to pray. I can’t remember all she said verbatim, but I do remember listening intently to every single word, and as she went on, I literally melted in my seat and began sobbing uncontrollably. She just gripped firmly and continued to pray. After, she handed me a tissue and went to her desk. She then asked me a question I had never heard from any of my other doctors. “Do you know Jesus Christ?” I looked at her questioningly and really was not sure how to answer. I stated, “I know who Jesus is.” I went to some Sunday Schools with Pam when I was younger. She asked again in a different way, “Do you believe Jesus died for your sins?” I thought, “Um, I guess I am not sure?” She took out her Bible and began reading to me. It was the first time, as an adult, I had heard God’s word read “to me”. Sure, I had gone to some church services since being married. My husband and his family were Christians, so I would go with them to church. It was more of a Sunday event, though, for me, like this is just the routine. It didn’t really mean anything to me.
Dr. Langston ended up prescribing me some medications that had relieved some symptoms previously, and I was to see her each week to give updates and to get counseled. I started to take my medications as prescribed and would go to her each week to talk about my progress, and she would share how God’s word is relevant to me. She encouraged me to start reading the Bible and praying for me to believe in His Word, and particularly that Jesus loved me and wanted me to come to him with all my cares and burdens, and sin, to gain healing and restoration. I did as she asked, and this went on for months before I truly understood what I was reading and “believed” that I, too, could be saved, and Jesus died for my sins, my very bad, bad sins.
One afternoon, Ben came home from work, and I had one of my severe moods “pop-up”. Now, these moods had no rhyme or reason to them previously. I would just become enraged and literally want to fight about anything. I was just angry, livid and wanted someone else to suffer. What was really going on though, was because I was reading the bible and had recently told Dr. Langston and my husband that I believed in Jesus, He (Jesus) was working on my soul and there was some unfinished sin I had not confessed. I didn’t want to confess it. I knew it would ruin my marriage, I could lose my children and I would be shamed the rest of my life. I didn’t want anyone to know my deepest secret.
Amid fighting, I ran to the bathroom. Ben was outside the door. I remember looking in the mirror and truly seeing myself for the first time. I was ugly, really ugly. Not by our worldly standards but, my soul. It was dark, and I could not blame anyone, any longer for the things I had chosen to do because of what had happened to me. You see, I was sexually abused when I was younger. My memories of the first time of abuse, were when I was four. However, those memories are very spotty. When I was a teenager though, I was horribly abused by another pedophile, who had infiltrated our home and lied about who he was. I believe this pattern repeated itself due to what happened when I was four. Truly, if I think about it, there is probably a reason my husband is 17 years older than I am, but he is so good, and honestly that is why I hated him so much! I felt like such a wretch compared to him and it made me angry.
Looking in that mirror and knowing Ben was outside, I just started saying “you married a slut, you married a whore, you didn’t know who you were marrying, our marriage is based off a lie of who I am.” I kept repeating these things that I felt and needed to say about myself, particularly to Ben. There was one sin I had not let anyone know and I had been confessing them all week to God, to Ben, my therapist and myself. About my abuse, drug and alcohol use, promiscuity, being in and out of psychiatric and rehab facilities and on and on. I had already decided then, that I would keep this one to myself. Unfortunately, God does not work that way and is all knowing. He also knew I could not really be free and have Jesus’ healing power unless I let this go. I didn’t understand yet, that he already died for it. It was not mine to keep.
I slid down the door of the bathroom, my breath was short from crying so hard, I took a deep breath and told Ben I had to tell him one last thing. I told him it would be hard to hear. I started out with asking if he remembered when he was very concerned about me after being deployed to Germany after 911. We had only been married for a month when they told me I was to go support the efforts with Operation Enduring Freedom. I was sent to Germany to work at Ramstein AFB on C-17’s. It was the first time I had ever been oversees. At this point, I had no children accept for my step-children. I didn’t really understand the mothering thing at this point. I was 26-years-old and when Ben and I married, I became a step-mother of an 11-year-old and a 14-year-old. This was all new to me.
When I was deployed, I went back to old habits of binge drinking. I did this for many reasons. I was scared, socially awkward, couldn’t be in crowd, wanted to be able to talk with people and alcohol, and previously drugs, gave me the means to overcome these things. I went to a bar with some people I was rooming with and while there met two men. The men had brought in some hard alcohol, maybe 100 proof. I began taking shots after being offered and ended up doing some inappropriate things for a married woman, or really anyone due to intoxication and lack of care. I remember kissing one of them.
When I got back to my barracks, I passed out for a while. During this time Ben had been trying to call me and the girls just covered and stated I would call when I returned. I woke up from my stupor and made it to the showers. This was also a pattern for me. I would binge-drink, be inappropriate, or in the past promiscuous, not remember what had happened, feel disgusting and seek out the showers to stay in for hours to wash away the filth. I remember being balled up in the shower, thinking “My God, I just ruined my marriage!” This marriage was supposed to save me. Prior to that, the military was supposed to save me. My other go-to coping skill was lying and then for it to become fact or reality. I believe even if you gave me a polygraph test on the lies I used to tell, I believed them so hard or made them my reality, so I could cope with my vileness, I would have passed the test.
I told all this to Ben from behind the door of our bathroom. While I was telling him, I literally felt like a weight had been lifting off my chest, as I just let this detestable truth slip from my lips. I needed him to know how ugly I was, and he had married someone under false pretenses. I stopped crying and was ready for him to say he was going to take the children and leave me, but to my surprise he showed me the kind of love I can only imagine Christ has. He lived out what I had never felt before in my life, forgiveness and love that did not want anything in return. He said from behind the door, “I am so thankful you have finally trusted me. I have known everything from the time I met you. I chose not to see those things but saw the beautiful person who was hiding inside.” He said, “How on earth could I not forgive you, when my Lord and Savior has forgiven me?”. He did say he was getting tired though, and he was relieved that we could get on with our lives together. At that moment, Ben and I decided to get on our knees and truly give our lives to Christ. He rededicated his life and I was all in this time.
That night I was startled awake in the morning. I felt the coldest chill I had ever felt in my life, like death. I looked over the corner of my bed, near the foot post and saw this figure that I can only describe as Anubis, the ancient Egyptian God. His face was gnarled up and moving at a fast pace back and forth, and then it just disappeared. I was so frightened by what I saw and felt I jumped back in the bed and Ben woke up to see what was wrong. Of course, immediately I thought “This is it, I have truly gone mad and now I’m seeing things.” I told Ben and he believed me. I told him I wanted to go see Dr. Langston to make sure all was okay. We made an appointment, Ben came with me. I told Dr. Langston of all that had occurred to include my confessions and truly understanding I could not hide from God and he needed all of me to be able to help as I asked for.
Dr. Langston did not treat me as if I were crazy. She told me she has traveled all over the world and seen many strange things that can not be explained by science. However, she said it can be explained in the Bible. She said, I am not telling you this is what happened to you, but many times there have been documented demons. She said perhaps this was one of those experiences. Ben and I believe that Satan had a hold of me, and I was going deeper and deeper into sin with him, and this figure was something that appeared out of my anger at repenting and refuting sin. This was from Satan, maybe one of his demons, trying to figure out how to get me back. However, I refuse to be defeated anymore and will fight to my dying breath to live in freedom with Christ.
Since this time, I am not telling my story of redemption to say my life has been peaches and cream since believing in Christ. I fight daily with my sin nature, I have become intoxicated, taken pills I shouldn’t have to feel numb, reverted to cutting again, fighting and attacking out of fear, and other ways my carnal self copes. However, there is a huge difference. I have hope. I can forgive myself. Each day is new. I am growing in Christ. These coping mechanisms are being replaced slowly. I do this by staying in Christian Counseling, learning what trauma can do to a person and why I have PTSD and flash backs, which bring on some of the other symptoms such as panic attacks, but most importantly, I am learning who Christ says I am and learning to listen to His voice through His Word and choosing to call out the liar, who tries to whisper softly to me at night sometimes or when I have fallen off my path. With God, he always welcomes me back and is strengthening me with is Word and has a plan for my life, which might include telling this story.
Kim
South Africa
I have seen a lifetime of God making what seems impossible, possible in my life.
Taking complexities in our 52-year marriage to a love that has lasted and stood the test of time.
The greatest of all God’s miracles and working in our lives, is the healing of our first-born son, Mark, from a debilitating illness.
In September 2022 he began to experience a slight blur to his right eye, coupled with excruciating pain. After rounds of CT and brain scans, hospitalization and multiple visits to a doctrine of doctors, none could give a conclusive or satisfactory explanation for his intense suffering. By December he was completely blind in the right eye, coupled with excruciating pain.
January 2, he collapsed at home from pain this time to his abdomen. He was readmitted. More tests and scans revealed a large mass on his liver. After three biopsies which revealed no cancer cells, it was presumed his prior melanoma diagnoses had returned, and he was referred to oncology. He would require 6 rounds of immunotherapy but there were no guarantees. So began endless rounds of hospital visitations and fewer answers.
My journal entry for 13 January, read: ” Last night was a disaster. My poor boy’s suffering is off the chart. I need 90,000 South African Rand this morning for his first treatment. All I have is Jesus. He is all I need.”
The struggle for his soul was a bitter one. By evening his body was wracked with pain. The maximum medication had been administered without relief. Unable to sit or lie down his emaciated body hung between the support of his brother and father … As he hung there I thought of Jesus … an image etched in my mind forever. I thought of how Jesus hung on the cross in excruciating pain for my boy … his only hope. I’d only just read: “I and the Father are One and We have come to bring salvation to this soul. He was bought at a high price, the precious blood of Christ. Stand back Satan, this soul is mine.” Hope welled up in my heart knowing the Father and the Son had come to draw my boy to salvation. Jesus draws a line in the sand that Satan may not cross, because of what Christ did on the cross – with power and authority He could claim my boy back and bring him to salvation … and He did!!!
By evening, the money had been paid, and the precious, life-giving treatment was on its way. As the sun was setting on the Sabbath, Mark’s best friend and a pastor friend arrived at the hospital to anoint him. Since then, we’ve watched with amazement and gratitude the miracle of God’s saving grace and answer to a mother’s prayer unfold, as Mark gains strength and grows in Grace. There’s nothing too hard for God. All power in heaven and earth has been given Him … united with His Father, they do battle for the souls of men and women. All we need to do is reach out in faith and touch Him.
On the 15th April he recommitted his life to God in baptism.
There’s so much more…God is enough ❤️
Olivia Maritz
