Ugly Crying and Undone Laundry

I cried hard the other day. You know, the kind of crying that snot runs out your nose and your eyes are bleary and your whole body aches? Your mouth is contorted open, catching rivers of saltiness while simultaneously trying to gasp for breath? I ugly cried over a broken washer. Of course, it wasn’t just that our washer is broken (along with other ridiculous things in our apartment complex that our landlord refuses to deal with). Work was especially stressful that day, I had stayed up late watching the Olympics the past few nights.  But in that moment, the washer personified my perception of my own brokenness. I gave in to the lies quietly fed to me day after day, year after year, “Because you can’t have a child, you are broken.” In the midst of my crazy meltdown, I told Alec, “I can’t do this. It’s too much; I’m too broken.” Of course, he knew that was Satan talking, not me, and just sat with me, rubbing my back while my shoulders shook with sobs repeating, “You aren’t broken; don’t believe it.” Once I managed to reign in the hysterics, Alec brought our soapy, undone laundry to the local laundry mat so I couldn’t unjustly yell at him about how stupid it was that our washer was broken. And gave me time to ugly cry in front of just God and my cats. 

Of course it’s not fair that month after month, year after year, my womb remains barren. But that night, it wasn’t fairness or unfairness that got to me.  And I could write a whole novel about how this journey isn’t just mine, but Alec and mine as a couple.  But that night it wasn’t the impact this has on our marriage when the past 3+ years have been journeying through this minefield either.  No, the bludgeon thrown at me that night from the enemy was attacking my identity, chipping away at who I am and whose I am.  Allowing me to be defined by the imperfect standards of this world rather than as a beloved child of the king. Tricking me into believing that my empty womb reflected an empty person, someone not worth a second glance.  So I wept. 

So often I want to end these posts with a note of hope or a nice wrapped up life lesson rounding out a three-point sermon or confiding, “yea, it was terrible, but now things are sunshine and smiles because I’m hoping in the Lord!” But life isn’t like that all the time. Yes, I do find ultimate hope in the One who names me.  And no, I’m not suicidal or at the ultimate point of desperation.  But I think, for the sake of being honest, I will end this post with two of the pleas psalmists make that bear witness to the rawness that I experienced that night of streaked mascara and broken washers. And leave things a little messy and undone.

“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? 

How long will you hide your face from me? 

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts 

and day after day have sorrow in my heart? 

How long will my enemy triumph over me? 

Look on me and answer, Lord my God. 

Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death, 

and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,” 

and my foes will rejoice when I fall.” 

Psalm 13:1-4

“Lord, do not forsake me; do not be far from me, my God.

Come quickly to help me, my Lord and my Savior.”

Psalm 38: 21-22