Letting Go of Disappointments and Painful Losses Read online

  When life is hard and God is in us, we can rest assured that somehow, in some way, He will bring His redeeming glory to bear in our lives and in the lives of others.

  The longer I work with trauma victims, the more I am convinced that if a heart is open and truthful, there is no pain so deep or pervasive that God cannot heal it. And, as with Sarah, the broken places of our lives—the fractures, fissures, and jagged edges—can become the very locales where God’s glory spills through in a torrent of light, hope, and healing. Out of our own personal darkness, God’s penetrating light can touch those who still grope in the shadows.

  Just ask one of the regulars on the Rape Crisis Hotline.

  Her voice is strong, but softened by a deep compassion. The calls she receives on any given night vary wildly. But Sarah knows her assignment. She knows she’s supposed to be there—just for those who need a glimpse of a strong and steady light penetrating the long night.3

  Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken.

  HENRI J. M. NOUWEN

  CHAPTER THREE

  RELINQUISH

  CONTROL

  TO GOD

  A NUMBER OF YEARS AGO I WAS INVITED TO SPEAK AT A major women’s conference, but I couldn’t help wondering why God even had me there, because He and I were in the middle of an intense power struggle.

  Bottom line: I was pregnant for the fourth time, and I didn’t want to be pregnant.

  John and I were “finished having children,” and it seemed to me that the Lord ought to have been well aware of that fact. We already had a daughter, Jessie, and a son, Benjamin. Our first baby was safe in heaven, and with one child of each flavor, we were balanced. Content. Comfortable. It was “us four and no more,” and we loved it that way. We loved our ministry. Life was working out very nicely.

  Then, out of the blue, I turned up pregnant.

  How could it be? Well, I knew how it could be, but it shouldn’t have been! We had taken all the necessary precautions. Somehow this baby was conceived in spite of the foolproof birth-control method we had used for seventeen years.

  I guess we didn’t have as much control as I thought. Life has a knack for teaching us that control is really an illusion.

  At the time my emotions resembled a tossed salad—a wedge of guilt here, a slice or two of anger there, with some self-pity sprinkled over the top for spice.

  Guilt, because I had friends who wanted so very much to get pregnant and couldn’t, and here I was upset that the little test stick had turned blue.

  Anger, because my agenda had been interrupted and rearranged.

  Self-pity, because I was sick all day, every day, through most of the pregnancy.

  One morning during the conference, I had some time off the platform, so I ordered breakfast in my room, read in the Gospel of John, and journaled my thoughts and feelings. I can assure you, God got an earful.

  But then, after I had vented, it was His turn.

  Through the years, the Lord has at times made some things very clear to me, and this was one of those times. As I was reading John 15, I came across a familiar passage that jolted me like a double dose of smelling salts. Jesus was speaking: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful” (John 15:1–2).

  As I read those verses, I sensed God saying to me, Pam, you’re not being set back—you’re being cut back.

  In that instant a picture of the three rose trees in our front yard came to my mind. Each summer the trees produce huge, yellow long-stemmed roses that fill our home with a glorious fragrance. Arranged in a vase on a table, the blooms seem to glow with a golden light of their own.

  But in the fall, John cuts them back. Way back. After his pruning shears do the job, I look at those stumps and think, My goodness, the man is ruthless. Those poor things look decapitated! Every fall, I wonder if they’ll ever grow back. But sure enough, every spring they do.

  Pam, you’re not being set back—you’re being cut back.

  In the quiet of that hotel room I knew that God was up to something in my life and that my pregnancy had in no way caught Him by surprise. For some incomprehensible reason, this was part of His plan to produce more beauty and fragrance in my life.

  Ever so reluctantly, I waved my little white flag. Okay, Lord, I said. I surrender to You. That was no small first step! I wish I could say that it had been easier for me. How do you and I let go of the disappointments and losses we’ve suffered? We relinquish control. We surrender.

  But not to “fate.” Not to our emotions. Not to bitterness. No, we deliberately yield the controls of our life to God.

  Oh, yes, it all sounds nice enough—and spiritual to boot. But, friend, surrender isn’t always such a tidy bundle. Often it’s a messy package of painful feelings like anger, rage, and deep sadness, which eventually give way to release and peace. As we surrender, we often feel frustrated and angry at God, at other people, at ourselves, and at life.

  Oftentimes our saying Yes, Lord, simply opens the door to the grieving process. We suddenly find ourselves at the very core of our pain and sadness: the heavy emotional burden that has to be released before we can feel right again. By allowing the grief to enter through the front door of surrender, healing can slip in, quiet and unannounced, through the back door.

  The tendency is strong to say, “… God won’t be so stern as to expect me to give up that!” but he will; “He won’t expect me to walk in the light so that I have nothing to hide” but he will; “He won’t expect me to draw on his grace for everything” but he will.

  OSWALD CHAMBERS

  Willpower isn’t the key. Letting go is.

  For many years I’ve heard men and women from all walks of life say things like:

  “I’ve invested too many years of my life trying to make people be what they don’t want to be, or do what they don’t want to do. I’ve driven them—and myself—crazy in the process.”

  “I spent my childhood trying to make an angry father who didn’t love himself be a normal person who loved me.”

  “I’ve spent years trying to make emotionally unavailable people be emotionally present for me.”

  “I’ve poured my life into trying to make unhappy family members happy, even though they don’t seem interested in making the slightest effort.”

  “I’ve given the last twenty-five years of my life trying to make my alcoholic husband stop drinking.”

  What they are all saying is something like this: “I’ve spent much of my life desperately and vainly trying to do the impossible and feeling like a dismal failure when I can’t.” It’s like planting carrot seeds and trying passionately, creatively, and desperately to make those little plants grow prize tomatoes—and feeling defeated when it doesn’t work.

  By relinquishing control and surrendering to God, we gain the presence of mind to stop wasting time and energy trying to change and control things we can’t change or control. Surrender gives us permission to stop trying to do the impossible and to focus on what is possible.

  I wish I could say that surrender, letting go, is a onetime event. As I mentioned in the previous chapter, it’s not. Yielding to the Lord is a continual, daily, sometimes hourly process. When God and I were locked in a wrestling match in that hotel room, it was only round one. Unbeknownst to me, down the road there were many more rounds to go.1

  Less than three months later, our baby arrived, six weeks early and with a few surprises of his own. On the day Nathan was born, something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He was blue, not breathing well, and his little cry sounded muted. Instead of placing him in my waiting arms, the technicians scurried around trying to help him breathe. John held my hands, and we prayed for Nathan, asking God to help him and to guide the doctors’ efforts.

/>   I kept asking the nurses if Nathan was all right, but all I could get out of them was, “He’s in good hands” and “They’re helping clear his passageways.” When I asked if I could nurse him, they said they didn’t know. An hour later, impatient with vague answers and frustrated about being separated from my son, I asked the delivery nurse to wheel me into the care unit where they were working with Nathan. The pediatrician on call came over to talk with us. I didn’t know this woman, and I didn’t want to believe a word she was saying.

  “Mrs. Vredevelt, your son is not oxygenating well, so we’re trying to help him with oxygen and IVs.”

  “Is this life threatening?” I asked.

  “It could be,” she replied. “It’s also my observation that he has Down syndrome. I’ve called a cardiologist to examine him because I think his heart isn’t functioning properly.”

  At that point I wasn’t tracking well and blurted out, “What does this mean?”

  “It means he will be mentally retarded, Mrs. Vredevelt. There is also a higher incidence of leukemia for those with Down syndrome. There’s a catheter in his heart, and the technicians are still working to stabilize him.”

  I spent that night alone in my room, listening to happy families around me celebrating their babies. My own doctor was in Russia. My pediatrician was on vacation. My parents were in California. John and the kids were home in bed, and a tiny boy named Nathan Vredevelt was in a sterile room under impersonal fluorescent lights, fighting for his life.

  And me? I began to wonder just how much God really loved me. As hot tears rolled down my cheeks, I whispered into the night, God, what is this? A bad joke? Well, I’m not laughing!

  The next morning, the cardiologist ran a battery of tests on Nathan. Based on the results, he said, the center section of Nathan’s heart was not formed, and he would likely need open-heart surgery at the age of four months. During surgery, the doctor would construct the center portions of Nathan’s heart so he could oxygenate better and grow more normally.

  When the cardiologist left the room, wild and unchecked ruminations entered. What if Nathan’s heart fails and he doesn’t make it four months? What if the surgery doesn’t work? What if he gets sick and his body isn’t strong enough to fight infection? How do we raise a child with Down syndrome? What if Jessie and Ben can’t adjust to having a handicapped brother? What if …? What if …? 2

  Round two of the wrestling match had begun.

  Have you ever wrestled with God? Jacob did. Remember him? He lied to his blind, aged father and eventually stole his brother’s inheritance rights—the most precious thing a man could possess. The name Jacob means “crafty deceiver,” and Jacob tried hard to live up to his name.

  Ah, but there came a night when this son of Isaac slipped through the ropes in the darkness and climbed into the ring with the angel of the Lord.

  Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob’s hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, “Let me go, for it is daybreak.”

  But Jacob replied, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.”

  The man asked him, “What is your name?”

  “Jacob,” he answered.

  Then the man said, “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome.”

  Jacob said, “Please tell me your name.”

  But he replied, “Why do you ask my name?” Then he blessed him there.

  So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, “It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared.”

  The sun rose above him as he passed Peniel, and he was limping because of his hip.

  GENESIS 32:24–31

  The text says that God allowed Jacob to prevail, but before He let His man up off the mat, He dislocated Jacob’s hip. Let me assure you, friend: A dislocated hip isn’t a hangnail or a bad-hair day. It’s an extremely painful condition. And through all the years that followed, it was a constant reminder to Jacob that he was not to depend on his own strength. He was to rely entirely on God.

  God loves us so much that He will wrestle with us. He’s not going to give us everything we want all the time. That night when Jacob was alone in the dark, he wrestled with God—and God blessed his life. In spite of Jacob’s seedy track record, in spite of his scheming, manipulative, and deceitful ways, God chose to open heaven’s great storehouses and pour His favor out upon him. (Why does that encourage me so much?) From that point on, Jacob knew that his well-being was dependent on God’s help, God’s guidance, and God’s blessing, not on his own devices. He gave up control.3

  The reason why many are still troubled, still seeking, still making little forward progress, is because they have not yet come to the end of themselves. We are still giving some of the orders, and we are still interfering with God’s working within us.

  A. W. TOZER

  It’s a lesson about letting God be God—a lesson that I’ll be working on every day until the Lord says it’s time for me to exit this world and follow Him home.4

  While we were in the hospital, the people in our church prayed for Nathan at a Wednesday evening service. That very evening his vital signs took a turn for the better. His oxygenation improved, and by morning the doctor was able to remove the IV from Nathan’s heart. Four days later, during the Sunday morning services, the congregation prayed for Nathan again. This time they prayed specifically for the healing of his heart.

  Mom flew into town to help us, and on the following Tuesday, she and I took Nathan to the hospital for more tests. The cardiologist wanted to examine all the cross sections of Nathan’s heart on the ultrasound screen in order to determine how much of the heart muscle needed to be constructed.

  We watched the screens intently as he focused on various chambers of the heart. When he got a clear shot of the center section, he started to shake his head and chuckle. Then in his clipped British accent, he announced happily, “By golly, the center of his heart is absolutely normal!”

  I started to cry, my mom started to cry, and the doctor just kept shaking his head in amazement, muttering, “Very good, oh, very good.”

  Then he pointed to a small hole between the upper and lower chambers of the heart, showing us on the screen where the blood was spilling through. After taking some measurements, he consulted with us in his office.

  “Mrs. Vredevelt,” he said, “Nathan has two small holes in his heart. I want to watch them for the next six months and see if they will close on their own. If they do, surgery won’t be necessary. If they don’t, we’ll need to patch them when he’s a little older.”

  I cried, my mom cried, and the doctor beamed broadly, telling us how much he enjoyed giving good news. The presence of two small holes was much better news than any of us had expected. During the following six months, a host of friends around the country prayed for Nathan, and at his next appointment the cardiologist told us that the holes had closed. We no longer had to be concerned about surgery.

  I left the hospital that day with a renewed awareness: God is still in the business of healing. That truth applies to baby boys with holes in their hearts and grown-up women with holes in their faith.

  Either way, when we put everything in His hands, His is the touch that heals.

  The greatness of a man’s power is the measure of his surrender.

  WILLIAM BOOTH

  CHAPTER FOUR

  REMEMBER

  I’VE NOTICED SOMETHING ABOUT MYSELF AND PEOPLE IN general: When we have suffered disappointment and loss, our thoughts can easily wander onto a negative track. Grief distorts our perceptions. Emotional pain fuels faulty thinking and can bring on crises of faith. Pain skews judgment and can cause us to view reality with a pessimistic eye.

  On the other hand, deliberately recalling God’s goodness can lead us out of our discouraging doldrums. It’s a good life strategy. That’s wha
t David, the writer of many of the Psalms, did when he was worn so thin that he didn’t know if he could face another day in this world.

  David, a man with a big heart and a tall assignment, knew well the highs and lows that come with life. His words reflect the anguish of his soul:

  I cry to the Lord; I call and call to him. Oh, that he would listen. I am in deep trouble and I need his help so badly. All night long I pray, lifting my hands to heaven, pleading. There can be no joy for me until he acts. I think of God and moan, overwhelmed with longing for his help. I cannot sleep until you act. I am too distressed even to pray!

  Has the Lord rejected me forever? Will he never again be favorable? Is his lovingkind-ness gone forever? Has his promise failed? Has he forgotten to be kind to one so undeserving? Has he slammed the door in anger on his love? And I said: This is my fate, that the blessings of God have changed to hate.

  PSALM 77:1–4, 7–10, TLB

  But as we read further in the Psalm, something in David’s mood and tone does an about-face. Suddenly a song of praise bubbles from the depths of his dark pool of despair:

  O God, your ways are holy. Where is there any other as mighty as you? You are the God of miracles and wonders! You still demonstrate your awesome power.

  PSALM 77:13–14, TLB

  What made the difference? What brought about the change in David’s heart? What washed away his grief? Sandwiched between verses 10 and 13 is the key—the passage in which David pauses and remembers. Here he recounts God’s faithful acts of love in his past:

  I recall the many miracles he did for me so long ago. Those wonderful deeds are constantly in my thoughts. I cannot stop thinking about them.

  PSALM 77:11–12, TLB

  How about you? What do you do in those times of life when you’re so beaten down by demands that you’re too tired to pray? (By the way, lest you think you’re all alone, I haven’t yet met a person who hasn’t been there, including the woman I see in the mirror every day!) What do you do when you feel as though you’re at the end of your rope and there’s simply not enough strength to keep holding on? What do you do when it seems that the entire world is fighting against you?