Rachael Newham's Blog, page 9

The Girl De-Construction Project

Recently I was honoured that my friend Rachel Gardner chose to include an excerpt of my writing in her new book “The Girl Deconstruction Project“. Here it is in full.

Recalling Your Tears

Recalling your tears; there is not condemnation, but compassion. 

The one whose feet were washed in perfume and tears, wept his own tears;

for His friend, His city, for what was to come. 

 Tears are a language beyond words and in our fallen world, they are a language of love.

They are not be be dismissed as a weakness or an irrelevance – because you are not weak or irrelevant. 

There is not a single tear that falls down your face or in your mind that goes unnoticed. 

Tears that flow from anxious minds, aching minds, exhausted minds. 

Tears aren’t to be dismissed as a weakness or an irrelevance. 

The Psalmist speaks of our tears recorded, not forgotten. 

And yet they are not the end. 

When one day every tear is wiped away and the sorrow and the pain are a distant memory on heavens shores, you will be remembered. 

Whether your tears flow in the quiet moments of pause, the ache of unfulfilled perfection or the fear of tomorrow, they do not go unnoticed. 

And in the tears of Jesus Christ, we see the promise of something new. 

Tears are not the end of the story, because through Mary Magdalene’s tears, the risen Jesus was first glimpsed. 

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” 

God gave us tears to grieve in this fallen world; but He offers not just comfort, but hope for a better tomorrow in this world and the next. 

Joy comes in the morning and signals His presence, not pains absence. 

His grace took His Son to the cross, and it promises to lead us home. 

The journey home is paved with the promise that God doesn’t abandon us to fear, powerlessness and fractured minds. 

Through the wisdom of God we are not left alone to face our fears, but armed with His word to test every thought that passes through our minds. 

Through the power of God we are not left weak – because His power is made perfect in our weakness as it reveals more of Him. 

Through the love of God we are strengthened, for whatever anguish we suffer we are assured that through Jesus our depths are never further than His love for us. 

Through the healing of God our wounds are given balm; through the touch of the physicians’ hand or medications flow we can know that our minds are not abandoned to the darkness. 

When the answers to our prayers feel lost in the mystery of God. 

When we are desperate for answers and all we can hear is silence –  we are not abandoned to the darkness. 

We cannot abandon those in the darkness. 

We recall the tears from the darkness and point to what we hope in. 

That the God for whom stars were an afterthought will lead us home and our questions will be answered at the sight of his glorious grace. 

Pregnancy After Loss

It’s taken me a long time to write this; I found out I was pregnant back in March and I’ve wanted to write about it ever since we announced that we were having a baby.

So what’s stopped me?

Pregnancy after loss is an incredibly complicated time; for me, it can be described primarily as a loss of innocence.

The first time, the idea of anything going wrong was something vague, something that happened to other people.

This time, miscarriage has been at the forefront of my mind most days, particularly before the first scan.

The fear has been omnipresent.

And yet, so has faith.

Fear and faith have sat side by side, in an uncomfortable alliance.

They have not negated one another, as I might have expected, but I’ve lived in between the tension of the two.

I have had faith that God does and will work, that He is love, that He is trustworthy.

And I have feared the loss that I’d only just begun to get my head and heart around when I fell pregnant again.

I have written very little; in part, I think that’s because so far, pregnancy has been good to me. I’ve felt almost guilty that I’ve (so far) escaped the worst and in part because I’ve not wanted to sound like I’m boasting in any way.

I also haven’t written because losing our baby in December changed the whole way I relate to God, it pulled away my certainties. Shortly afterwards, I lost my voice after a virus and all of a sudden I couldn’t use my voice to sing and lament, I found myself silenced in worship.

And in my silence, I began to listen. Sometimes there has been comfortable silence, but at other times I was able to reflect on scripture in ways I have never done before.

As I wrote in my last blog, I felt the call of the those truths which drew me to faith in the first place.

Now, as I enter the second half of pregnancy the hope and the fear are growing still – but what is growing more than I’d imagined is my faith – whatever happens going forward, I’m trusting that God is moving and God is present in the darkness, but also in the light.

 

Back to Basics

One of the casualties of being a theologian and well, me, is that I have a slight tendency to over think things.

And as I’ve walked through the strange path of grief, I’ve over thought everything – and none more so than my faith.

Everything I believed came under the microscope – I’d worked out my theology of suffering – or so I thought, but all of a sudden the old answers didn’t seem to touch the sides.

The hope and redemption that a future story might bring felt futile.

I was tying myself in knots as I attempted to unravel years of theology based on the power of redemption.

Don’t get my wrong – redemption is powerful – but somewhere along the way I’d begun to trust more in the power of redemption than the power of the redeemer.

And so I went back to basics, to the roots of my faith dug in my earliest years.

The night I became a christian, we sang a song called ‘Safe in the Father’s Hands’ and its first verse goes like this:

Safe in the Father’s hands

We are safe in the Father’s hands

Though there may be things

We don’t understand

We’re safe in the Father’s hands

I had trusted in the safety of the Father’s arms since I was five years old and it was one of the reasons I had said yes to Him over and again in the years that have passed since then.

As the long forgotten words settled in my mind, I realised that I cannot dismiss twenty-seven years where I’ve trusted in the safety of the Fathers loving hands.

To trust God, was to trust in His inescapable, unquenchable love for me.

And so I found myself answering the question that Jesus posed to Simon Peter one morning after a boat trip:

“Do you love me?”

The question made me realise that it was what I had forgotten over the past months; the love I have for God and the love God has for me.

It went back to the very first hour I believed and although there have been many questions over the years about His plans, His will, I have never questioned His love for me.

And that hasn’t changed. I remain believing in the words of Paul in Romans 8:38-39.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,k neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Nothing can separate us from the love of God; and to love God is the first and greatest commandment.

It is the first thing I believed, it is the belief that has carried me thus far and it is the belief that will carry me through the rest of my days.

Take Care

I wrote this last year as a part of the ThinkTwice #TakeCare campaign and it seems right to share it here to mark this years Self Harm Awareness Day.

For the longest time, the idea of taking care of myself was an anathema to me.

I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do something nice for me – and I found it acutely painful when someone reached out with an act of care or words of comfort.

I just didn’t feel I deserved it.

I didn’t feel I deserved to be liked – and I certainly didn’t deserve the luxury of eating or taking care of myself.

The hatred I had towards myself and my body was unlike I’d ever experienced – it was visceral and violent. And the only way I could manage the intense feelings was by cutting myself or making myself sick.

Both the self-harm and eating disorder served the same function – to manage the unmanageable – to make the mysterious emotional pain, tangible.

I used to wonder, as I watched the scars heal, whether something inside me could be healing in tandem.

It was bundle of contradictions, even then.

I was consumed with shame – but the only way I knew how to deal with the shame was to hurt myself.

I believed God forgives sins – but I couldn’t count myself among the forgiven.

And then, still in the depths of self-destruction, I went to Bible College.

Before I went, I made a strange decision to be myself. I decided I wasn’t going to hide behind a facade – but be honest about who I was and how I was feeling. I fully expected to be hated and disliked. I’d convinced myself that those who loved me did so out of duty.

The problem was, people welcomed me, they became my closest friends.

It turned my worldview on its head.

And yet I still lived under my own tyranny.

Until eventually, I began to loosen my grip on my self-destruction and cereal eating.

With the support and encouragement of my friends, I began to take care of myself.

Small ways at first; making sure I got out in the fresh air once a day, eating more in small increments.

The small increments grew; I started to eat more healthily, exercise gently.

It took a long time to get anywhere near something which looks like recovery, the thoughts have remained, but life became a better option than death.

Quite simply, I let the community around me love me back to life.

As they cared for me; drying my tears and  encouraging my faltering steps, I began to take care of myself.

I glimpsed something of a God who cared more than I could imagine through the acts of care I received from my friends.

And so this week in particular, I want to encourage you, reading these words, to take care of those around you who are struggling.

And to those of you who are struggling – hold on – and let those who love you take care of you.

For more information on self harm and where to get help- check out www.selfharm.co.uk

Yes and Amen

“All your promises are yes and amen”

It’s the refrain of a popular worship song, and I can’t get that line out of my head.

Because for me at least, it has raised some unbearable questions.

What happens when life feels as if we have no promises? When it feels like our promises have been broken?

It’s struck me over the past couple of weeks that I (and I suspect many others) have forgotten that God’s promises are not our wishes.

I wish my grandparents didn’t have dementia.

I wish we hadn’t lost our baby.

But God hasn’t promised us a life without pain in this world – and there lies the problem.

We remember the hook of the song and songs like it; that His promises are yes and amen, but it’s all too easy to gloss over the verses.

The verses remind us that the promises of God are rooted in His character.

We are promised the Father of kindness, Giver of mercy, Beautiful saviour, Blessed redeemer.

These are our promises – not that life will be easy or pain won’t interrupt our lives – but that our God is greater.

Scripture doesn’t promise anyone an easy life – but it promises God’s presence.

Just one of the verses that promises this is found in Deuteronomy 31:6.

“It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.”

The promise is that God will never leave us, never abandon us.

And to that, it’s yes and amen.

 

 

The Strangest Grief

As the snow fell thick and fast, excited squeals could be heard from small children discovering the world covered in white, but my husband and I sat together on the sofa, tears falling unchecked down our faces.

Just two days before we had been excitedly planning for the baby we’d just discovered I was carrying. It was a longed for pregnancy, and we were over the moon. We knew that miscarriage was something that happened, but our excitement wasn’t particularly marred by any fear, we were going to be parents and we happily sat together and planned how we would rearrange our flat to accommodate a new arrival.

When I awoke on the Saturday morning after a blissfully long sleep I wasn’t, at first, particularly worried about the spotting, I knew that it was normal in early pregnancy but I rang my Mum and we called NHS 111 just as a precaution.

As the morning went on however, and the pain started and fear bloomed.

All we could do was wait; it was a Saturday and it was snowing so there would be no resolution, no answers until Monday at the earliest.

As the pain and bleeding continued I clung to the most fragile of hopes that this little baby (the size of a chocolate chip the app told us) would survive.

It wasn’t fair.

And the uncertainty was agony.

As time went on I knew in my head that I was probably losing the baby, but I refused to believe it; there was hope.

My husband and I huddled together and watched countless episodes of our favourite sitcom, pleading with God. All we could do was wait for Monday.

As the weekend passed our prayers changed as our hope flickered falteringly, I just wanted to know what was happening. Our changed prayers were answered; no wait for an appointment, a scan that same day.

And yet in the small cramped room of the Early Pregnancy Unit, the screen showed starkly that our baby was gone.

The sound that came from me was guttural, the empty screen scored into my minds eye.

In the month that has followed, it has been the strangest grief. Christmas came and the message of the baby who came to save felt sharp on my bruised heart. That I could get pregnant was, at the time little comfort. I didn’t care about the possibility of a future baby – I wanted the baby that was lost to us.

Friends and family rallied around us in the most wonderful of ways; providing love, food and company.

After an early miscarriage there is no burial, there is no one to miss as such; it’s the loss of potential, the loss of what could have been. I can’t help but count the weeks that I would have been happily anticipating and tracking on apps and in journals.

I can’t help but rage at God – because the Bible talks of God knowing us before our birth, choosing us and crafting us in our mother’s wombs – and the questions this raises are unbearable.

If God knew my baby – what does that mean for them? They were known by God – but why did they never see life on earth?

I can’t answer these questions; but I can put them to God.

I’m learning to talk to God in a new way, lamenting the loss of what could have been and trying to trust in the sometimes invisible, incomprehensible plan of God.

For more information and support I recommend The Miscarriage Association, https://www.sayinggoodbye.org and http://saltwaterandhoney.org/

Word for 2018

Over the past few months, I feel as though God has been saying something specifically for the coming year. It’s a relatively rare occurrence for me to be so confident of a word, especially one that’s a single verse, but I feel confident in this one, because I think it applies to us all and wanted to share it in case it resonates with anyone else today.

Philippians 1:6

“And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.”

God is not done with us yet.

We won’t see the completion of His work until heaven; but God doesn’t stop working in us and through us.

Sometimes I have a tendency to think that having had counselling and taking my medication and trying to exercise and rest regularly that I am somehow owed good health – it’s the payoff right?

But grace doesn’t work like that.

Grace isn’t dependant on the work we put in – it’s the dependant on the unchanging character of God.

And grace, as the great hymn proclaims, will lead us home.

So this year, I’m encouraged that God won’t be giving up on us, and that encourages me to never give up on Him.

Born of Mary

For Christ is born of Mary

And gathered all above

While mortals sleep, the angels keep

Their watch of wondering love

O morning stars together

Proclaim the holy birth

And praises sing to God the King

And Peace to all on earth

For Christ is born of Mary.

The Son of God, coming to earth as a human baby to grow in Mary’s womb.

We get too used to the idea I think.

We forget the wonder of it, the impossibility of it; the fear and confusion Mary must have  faced.

The angel’s earth shattering pronouncement that this virgin teenager was going to carry the Son of God was not met in the way we’d expect.

I imagine I’d have far more questions; in all probability I might have refused.

And yet Mary’s response in Luke’s gospel is:

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.”

She defines herself, not as we so often do by her family, her status her relationships, but as the Lord’s servant.

Her identity as the Lord’s servant governs her response; and Jesus’ identity as the Servant King governed His earthly life.

Our identity governs our responses.

So the question: Where is your identity?

 

Vulnerability Hangover

On Sunday I preached three times on a theology of mental health and finding Jesus in the darkest of places, sharing some of my story along the way.

It’s something I do a lot, it’s a part of my job.

But there was something particularly poignant about sharing at my home church. Usually I can share and then leave churches to mull over their response without having to worry that lots of people now know some of the darkest parts of my story. Sharing this message at my home church seemed riskier somehow; they’re family, I see them every week.

And after each service yesterday I felt as though I were missing a layer of skin and today I feel a little bruised – but in a good way – because I think I’ve learned a few things along the way about story sharing and the vulnerability hangover which follows.

Over the past seven years of sharing some of my story online and in person; gearing up to release the book there have been a few things that have helped keep me safe and sane along the way.

The first is that very early on, I decided on the parameters of what was for sharing and what was to be kept safe. This has been a helpful yardstick, knowing how much of my story to share from the beginning means that I’m not tempted to share more or less depending on the situation and I don’t get into tricky situations where some people know more than others and I have to keep track of who knows what!
The second is related to the first, but its that I’m mindful to share my own story – not anyone else. Obviously there are plenty of other key characters in my story, but their stories are not mine to tell, where I do share stories featuring others I make sure they have copy-approval before I share and anonymise them if needs be.
Thirdly, as much as there are parts of my story I keep between myself and my loved ones, I recognise that my story is just a tiny part of the story of God’s people trying to love Him better and share that love the best way they know how. It doesn’t matter, ultimately if others think differently of me because of my story; what matters is that at every junction I point others to the ultimate author. Telling our stories shouldn’t be done at the expense of the gospel to fill time, but told to highlight the greater story we are all a part of.
Finally, I try to make sure that a day of intense vulnerability is followed by one of rest and fun. If I’m to keep doing what I believe God is calling me to do, I need to make sure that I’m having time to recharge and allow the bruises to heal.

What things do you think are important when sharing your story?

The Hopes and Fears

O little town of Bethlehem

How still we see thee lie

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

The silent stars go by

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting Light

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in thee tonight

There is something so evocative for me about ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, in my church growing up its a carol synonymous with Midnight Communion, the air thick with candle smoke and fragrant with the pine needles desperate to make their own carpet in the church foyer.

And two of my favourite lines are the ones which end that first verse.

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.

It reminds me of the four hundred years of silence the people of God experienced before John the Baptist declared: ‘He who comes after me has surpassed me because he was before me.’ (John 1:15b)

I wonder what it was like, for the Jews, with the words of Malachi ringing in their ears down the centuries for the words of John the Baptist to break the silence in such a revolutionary way.

The hopes and fears were met in Jesus because He came in a way no-one expected.

They expected a victorious King, reclaiming the throne from the Roman Empire, what they got was a baby born into obscurity.

Let’s pause and linger awhile to wait and meet with Jesus; advent is our privilege, to reexamine the ancient story glimpse something of the King who gave up His throne for our sakes.

Let allow our hopes and our fears to meet in Jesus tonight, and every night.