Part 2/2 (In 4 Parts)

Part 1

I pulled my chair out from under the shelter of the veranda as the sky darkened and gusts of wind scattered dust all around.

I had to see it - the rain we had been praying for. Even though I had been warned by those living there that despite the appearances rain on this day was highly unlikely, I still hoped. And prayed. And pleaded.

In South Sudan, the year is divided between the dry season and the rainy season which allows crops to grow for villagers to eat and sell and...well, stay alive.

In South Sudan, if there is no rain during rainy season, people literally die.

It was rainy season in Tonj, South Sudan, it had not rained much, and I could not let this go. 

I sat in my chair, writing, praying, and wrestling like Jacob with the angel until I got my blessing.

My journal reflects the disconnected connectedness of the inner war: 

"Why won't You let it rain? The clouds are directly overhead, ready to burst. Why won't You water these crops, give these people life? Why won't You do what we ask? Why won't You call lightning down on those idols, show Your power?

IT'S RIGHT HERE!!!

LET IT COME!

You can silence the world, the flesh, and the devil - but can you silence me? 

Do I want Your glory above all else?

Does the rain fall on the just and the unjust?

Babies are crying. People are dying. Why wouldn't you save my baby? 

It's so hard to know you can do things, but You won't." 

Before this trip, I had prayed that on it, God would speak to me in a new way. I wanted a miracle - a rainbow, a promise to soothe my doubts and fears. It wasn't the voice I expected, but speak to me He did as I finally vacated my seat under the clouds and moved into a mud hut to wrestle some more. 

I grabbed my Bible and started reading in Job (I'll bet that was just a coincidence), stopped dead in my tracks by this:

"Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm. He said...

Can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water?

Do you send the lightning bolts on their way?

Do they report to you, "Here we are?" 

Who gives the ibis wisdom, or gives the rooster understanding?

Who has the wisdom to count the clouds? 

Who can tip over the water jars of the heavens when the dust becomes hard and the clods of earth stick together?...

...who has a claim against me that I must pay? Everything under heaven belongs to Me."

(Job 38: 1, 34-38; 41:11)

Like I said...probably just a coincidence. 

Part 2 

In 2016, I found out I was pregnant two days before Mother's Day.

My sisters and a cousin had already planned to take our moms out to Painting With A Twist the next day, where we would each paint a family tree. A literal tree, with a tiny bird representing each member of our family. It was "too early" to start telling people, but the opportunity was too good to pass up, so on my painting, I made one bird for me, one for Tim, and then added a third. There were happy tears, hugs, and congratulations all around as the women in my family put the pieces together.

It was a good day.

Not long after, on the day of my husband's grad school commencement ceremony - a day that was supposed to be the much-anticipated celebration of his hard work - became one of the worst days of my life as my body began telling me that something was wrong.

After the festivities of the day, back in the safety of our home, I cried so hard.

We prayed so hard. 

"Please, protect our child."

After an agonizing few days of cold, clinical doctor's offices, blood draws every day, and pretending everything was okay to avoid the fallout that would surely happen if my toxic office-mate found out I was pregnant when she wanted to be...it was finally over. 

It truly was one of the worst things I've ever experienced.

And I didn't understand why.

And I still don't.

Part 3

I finally finished wrestling with God in that mud hut, not knowing if He had really blessed me or not, but realizing that my heart was calmer and that He had spoken. Not through signs and wonders like I was hoping, but through His word. 

I still didn't understand why He didn't save my child, or why, despite months of treatments and trying, He hadn't given me another one. And I still didn't understand why there was no rain.

We carried on with our day, and at our team debrief that evening, I shared that I had been struggling with a God who would withhold from desperate people the very thing that would sustain their lives. We pleaded together under the veranda that the rain would come.

It didn't.

A few days later, I was still feeling calmer but not radically altered. My team was scheduled to leave Tonj to fly to another town in South Sudan. As the morning progressed, the sky darkened again, a chilly wind set in, and those who called the place home confirmed that yes, this time, it felt like rain. 

As a final send-off, we took tea together in a hut in the mango grove while surrounded by the melody of the wind through the rustling branches.

I prayed again to see the rain before I left. I needed to see it. I needed God to answer me.

I needed God to answer me. 

Finally, we boarded the bush plane for our next stop, Aweil, and I never saw the rain. But instead of kicking and screaming, questioning and agonizing, I realized that nothing in this situation answered to me. 

Not the clouds, not the lighting, and not God. 

 A mustard seed of renewal had been planted in a heart that for so long had been full of distrust instead of faith. 

After a night in Aweil, it was time to head home to the States. Exhausted from long, hot, emotionally taxing days, we made it to our final layover in Amsterdam. As one does, I gave in to the impulse to see what I'd missed on social media for the duration of the trip. 

Here's what I saw:

A photo from Tonj. A legitimate downpour, just after we left. A giant puddle the evidence of our answered prayers.

The crops were watered, but it wasn't for me. 

The harvest grew, if only slightly, but not for me. 

God answered, and granted our requests. But it wasn't for me. 

Everything under heaven belongs to HIM.

Part 4

For my 30th birthday, I gave myself the gift of a permanent memorial, a standing stone to remind me of love. Love for my little one. God's love for me, and for those on the other side of the world. 

Over the last few months, my theology of suffering and my understanding of death has shifted. I no longer believe that God took my baby, but that what He intended for good, the enemy perverted and tried to use for my harm. 

Yes, I still have questions that I will probably always have. And I think it's okay for me to wrestle with those.

But now, like Job, I also say "I know that You can do all things; no purpose of Yours can be thwarted. You asked, 'Who is this that obscures me plans without knowledge? Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know...

...my ears had heard of You, but now my eyes have seen You." (Job 42: 2-3, 5)