Tag: Abortion

I had lofty dreams when I was younger. I wanted God to use me; to be an example to others and to show what God could do through your life when you leapt off the boundaries of your own limitations and ideas and followed him instead.

I had a lot to learn.

These days I observe friends who lament their lack of community. Their desire to join Bible studies. Those around me who demonstrate a strong faith.

I find myself wondering. “How deeply have you been tested?”

Friendship, social connection, loving others, sharing my faith; these were all important values to me.

Until life as I knew it – and expected it – exploded in my face and I felt like I found myself in a battle for life or death.

My war wasn’t on the fields of a battleground. It was inside my own heart and confined to the sterile walls of a hospital and our own home.

When you face one of your own personal nightmares – a pregnancy carrying a child you’re warned may not live, has multiple confirmed disabilities and health issues (and other possible additional ones) and the pressure to end that child’s life, you’re in a fight.

You’re in a fight for what you believe. What value you place on the life inside you, and the deep dreams and desires you had for your own life that are now forced to change? Will you stand firm with your values, or will you fold in the face of a battle and pressure too great to withstand?

Those internal battles stay with me still. We made our choice and I believe it was the right one. We have paid a high price for our choice.

We have also been blessed by our choice.

As time goes on, more layers are added to our life and we finally start to get some medical breakthroughs. Having a stomach tube now to feed our son all liquids absolutely saves us. It lifts the daily pressure around drinking and sickness enormously. (Children with disabilities who get a common cold can find tasks like drinking really challenging – they can’t coordinate their suck and swallow reflex when they are very snotty and clogged up. Drinking becomes hazardous as they try not to choke so they avoid it, leading to disastrous outcomes. Put that in the context of a global pandemic and you have a situation of epic internal dilemnas.)

Medication to help calm our son’s behaviour makes life more liveable and eases the strain in our day to day living.

Suddenly his giggles and snuggles become more apparent. His brain development starts to skyrocket in ways we had hoped for but hadn’t really seen until now. Our spirits and our hopes start to rise again. We have hope again.

We still live in a world of what I see as immense disability. We still juggle our son’s lack of hearing or ability to speak; his developmental delays; his regular nappy changes and spoon feeding him purée still for his meals. The list continues.

But I am so grateful life is easing.

I am not the bold, strong Christian I always envisioned and wanted to be. So many times on this battlefield for survival – the bleeding in pregnancy, the premature birth, the heart surgery, the apnoeas, the risk of aspiration from so many vomiting episodes, the brain damage – I have wanted to raise a white flag of surrender. I have cried out for relief and begged for change and found none. I have put one foot in front of the other in constant anguish and struggles of heart as I have sought – and fought – to keep our family together and tried to balance everyone’s needs on so many days when even a common shower was out of my reach.

It has been an uphill battle, the likes of which I can’t begin to describe.

Now as time goes on, I have a chance to reflect. I am not standing on roof tops proclaiming the joys of my faith.

I am instead possibly emerging from the trenches, dirt smeared and eyes ringed with exhaustion, proclaiming;

“I survived.”

I can only speak for myself, but I guess sometimes, for some of us, faith is not a cute exterior that looks beautiful and appealing.

Sometimes faith is a raw, nitty gritty truth that you wrestle with in those times of darkness and very limited hope. When death seems too close and you don’t know if you will be given the choice of keeping your son, or if life and medical issues will steal his life from you prematurely. You are forced to adapt and live within the shadow of that understanding.

When statements come at you from all corners like, “He might not live.” “If there’s lots of handicaps you would be better to terminate.” “If there’s brain damage you would be better to let him die.” “If you do not medicate, he will die a slow and painful death. But if you medicate, we can’t tell you what his outcomes will be.” “Have you considered a ‘do not resuscitate?’”

It alters you. It marks you. Ultimately, it changes you.

I read in Psalm 71:20-21 this morning:

“Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up. You will increase my honour and comfort me once more.”

I don’t hold myself to the same pedestal of “being an amazing, praise filled Christian” I used to. (I’ll point out my dreams and desires and understanding could have been wrong in the first place). I don’t know if I’ll ever be someone speaking to large groups of people about God and his journey with us.

Now, all I can say as we head into yet another surgery this week, is it feels like the level of the daily struggle is easing. I can start to walk out of the depths, holding my flag, and proclaiming;

“I survived. My family – survived.”

Survival has become the biggest and deepest statement of faith I can make.

For us, that’s a big deal. It’s not something I take lightly.