(Two examples of lament, taken from my own journals during postpartum depression. For a primer on lament, read Mark Vroegop’s article or my essay.)
Lament: a cry of confusion, a protest that God has acted in a way that seems inconsistent with his lovingkindness.
April 2017.
I don’t really trust you right now.
You left me, you wounded me. I said I would go as long as you were there but in the pit it was only darkness. I can’t go back, I won’t go back, I’m terrified.
It seems like you broke your promise to never leave nor forsake. The abandonment was so great I didn’t even want heaven because I was so angry with you, and so there was no consolation even in the glorious gospel and the surety of my salvation.
But even when there was a barrier between you and I – barriers of my own making with sin and selfishness and wanting you to do what I wanted and being angry when you didn’t give relief, feeling you didn’t love me when circumstances were so difficult and only grew worse, and barriers of the devil attacking me so I could not lift my brow and drowning out the Truth with his whispers and the heaviness of his presence when yours was gone, and even a barrier of you hiding your face- and I felt like Job and David and Jeremiah but was powerless to recall their laments and how you always came through in the end.
Even then, when all I could see was that it looked like you were not acting in accordance with your promises – you kept on holding on – or rather, you would not let me go.
Though you bruised me, I was not broken.
Though I was smoldering, you did not blow me out.
Though my frame of dust was shaken, you knew its weakness.
You gave me Ezra, and made E an easy baby, and gave S an easy transition, and answered prayers for Hannah being there, and gave me support in Renee and Katie, and offered help through Mrs. M and Mrs. C and in the times of no domestic burden at Christmas.
I’m sorry for my doubt and anger.
I’m sorry for demanding You do things my way and wanting your gifts and help more than you.
It still hurts. The wound is scarring but it is deep. I know for it to heal I have to trust You again, to say like Jesus in the garden and like Job that even if you slay me and your presence is gone again that I will trust and praise you and that your will be done.
I’m terrified to say that again because I need your presence and can’t bear to think of being plunged into darkness without it again, whether in PPD after a third or any other time.
I need You.
July 2017
Reflecting on Psalms 42-46.
I feel like you’ve rejected me,
I can no longer come before You
I need Your presence but the enemy’s is surrounding me
Your waves overwhelm me
But my soul can still hope in You because despite my perception you are (note the possessives):
– the living God
– lovingkindness all the day
– with us in the night
– life giver, the God of my life
– my rock
– the help of my countenance
– my savior
– God of my strength
– vindicator
– light
– truth
– dwells in holiness
– my exceeding joy
The past the Psalmists are remembering was not “He was faithful when times were good,” but “He was faithful when times were hard.”
Hush the voices that call you to fear and remember instead
He is
Refuge, strength, present help, powerful, protection, exalted, here among us.
Therefore we will not fear.
And not only will we not fear, we can be bold enough even to say “let it come!”
If my greatest desire is for Him, if my heart is steadfast, then even evil tidings will not shake me, because I can know He is true to His word and character even in trouble.
The Sorrows of Eve 