When Blessings Hurt

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“God, why did you let this happen?”

Those are the words we utter when we don’t understand the bad things that happen to us.

But have you ever blamed God for the good things that come your way?

When I graduated from college, getting accepted to Medical School became priority one. I enrolled in test-preparedness classes, labored over every personal essay, and then waited expectantly three different times for a positive answer that never came.

In the midst of my educational angst, my husband landed the job of a lifetime at a top-notch consulting firm in Atlanta. Traveling and working long hours became his modus operandi.  I didn’t mind because I filled my days logging volunteer hours and fulfilling a number of other civic responsibilities, in addition to my own full-time job as a child welfare member services coordinator. I was doing everything I could to present myself as an attractive candidate to medical school.

Every time I signed and sealed the application envelope, my stomach churned. Not going wasn’t an option, and every application cycle left me a little older, a little more cynical. Interviews were grueling, letters of recommendation humbling.  I trolled the message boards and followed what other people were saying about their own application journeys. Whenever I heard about someone who received an acceptance letter, my heart died a little bit. “It’s never going to happen for me,” I lamented. “Never.”

On may 27, 1999, after months of being on a waiting list, the letter I had been praying for finally arrived. “On behalf of the Mercer University School of Medicine, I am pleased to offer you a position in the Class of 2003 ….” We whooped and hollered and celebrated with a trip to our favorite restaurant.

And yet by May of 1999, I was just beginning to feel the first flutters of another kind of news.

I had recently found out that I was pregnant with our first daughter.

A double blessing, right?

Why then was I so sad?

Because I knew that I had to choose.

And that’s the thing about God. Sometimes, he lets us choose.

The acceptance letter was a definitive answer to a fervent prayer, but the timing was all wrong. In fact, the letter itself seemed to confirm what we secretly suspected all along: God isn’t participating in what happens on earth. He’s just letting everything play out like he’s not even here. The “good”, the “urgent”, and the “really, really awful” are all the same to him.

I knew I couldn’t begin medical school that fall. The baby was due September 5th, and I was expected to report for my first day on August 7th. The quick-fix answer was to request an immediate deferment. The university allowed it, and I wasted no time claiming a spot on that list. Besides, the reality was that I was looking forward to spending that time with my growing family. Those extra months would allow us to prepare ourselves up for the logistical challenges that lay ahead. What would we do about childcare and housing? How would we ensure that our marriage stayed strong during the extended absences? And what about our young daughter? Would she be resilient enough to counteract what were sure to be stressful first years?

If God had not allowed me to get into medical school or had prevented me from getting pregnant, he would have solved these two pressing, conflicting dilemmas, dilemmas disguising themselves as double blessings. I didn’t know what to do. I may never have another opportunity to go to medical school, and the baby would always be with me. Would I be resentful of my child if I didn’t pursue my dream now? I begged God to do something. Audibly. And quickly.

And yet he tarried.

In trying to discern his will for my life, I rationalized things for myself. “Perhaps God wants me to have both.”

I lamented the unfairness of it all. “I’ve been trying to get into medical school for three years, God. Why now, God? Why not three years ago?”

I begged for more time. “Just a little more time. That’s all I need. If this school wants me now, won’t they want me even more in a couple years?”

At the time, someone even said to me, “Maybe God is giving you a great gift, a blessing. He’s allowing you to be the one to choose.”

It didn’t feel like a blessing to me.

So I did what I always did.

I procrastinated.

Three hundred and sixty five days passed in no time. And when it was over, I felt no closer to a decision than I had twelve months ago. Desperate, I prayed harder.

At the last possible minute, I decided to rescind my place among the white coats.

Thirteen years have passed since I made that lonely choice, and there hasn’t been a single day when I’ve regretted it. Adjusting to motherhood did not come easy. My difficult newborn turned into a difficult toddler, and then a difficult child. Currently we are in the throes of the very difficult middle school years. It hasn’t really gotten any easier (especially after adding three more precious ones to the mix), and yet these last thirteen years have been the best years of my life.

It’s hard to measure what suffering might been prevented by virtue of the road I’ve traveled. Some couples may have been able to survive the intensity of having one spouse in medical school an hour from home and the other traveling on a weekly basis. In those early days of our marriage, I think we would have struggled. In that raw, empty space, God filled me with new dreams. He showed me things about myself that I may never have discovered—a love of cooking, of solitude, of writing.  He helped me build strong, enduring friendships with people I might have never met otherwise. Additionally, through God’s amazing grace, I’ve realized opportunities to work alongside real doctors in other venues, and that has been rewarding, too. He literally multiplied the blessings, the greatest being that I have come to understand what it really means to trust God.

Besides, I didn’t want to be a doctor because I thought it was prestigious. I wanted to be a doctor because I wanted to serve others.  God blessed that desire and revealed a fullness that ensured ultimately it was his name that was blessed anyway, not mine.