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The Reflection
by Deb
Shirley
Since the
elevator was filled to capacity, I continued to face the front and stare at the
reflection cast upon me. I should
have been elated that she had overcome the infertility battle.
I should have been thrilled that one of the stricken had conquered her
disease. I should have been happy
for her; but as I viewed her reflection in contrast to mine, I wondered
silently, "Why her? Why not
me?" I
subconsciously ran my fingers across my own abdomen and contemplated how it must
feel to have a miniature person growing inside.
My recent surgery had deprived me that possibility.
I would never savor the moment when life announces itself with a sudden
flutter. I would never experience
the force of a tiny arm or leg pushing against the inner walls of its temporary
shelter. My body would forever be
void of the instant when a child makes its presence known to its mother.
She was given the chance to possess every sensation of a life within her,
but I had been denied. Why? We had a lot
in common, she and I. We both had
endometriosis. We both had been
through surgery. Her surgery was an
overwhelming success; mine a complete failure.
She was bringing new life into the world; I was enduring life, childless
and barren. She had been blessed; I
had been shunned. Why? I remember
the first time we met. She was a
young girl in her early twenties and I an older woman in my late thirties.
A mutual friend sent her to talk to me about her medical problems.
The doctor told her she might have endometriosis, but he did not prepare
her for this devastating condition. I
provided a list of symptoms and we talked for several minutes comparing notes
and treatments. I shared my
experiences with her; she shared her fears with me.
She had questions; I had answers. Together
we diagnosed her illness. There was
no doubt in either of our minds. She
had been invaded by the silent fertility thief – Endometriosis.
I promised to pray for her, and I did. A few months
later her doctor confirmed our prognosis and scheduled her for laser surgery.
Her reflection in the mirror confirmed that her surgery had been a huge
success. God heard my prayers for
her. I felt as if He had turned a
deaf ear to me as I fervently pleaded for a child of my own, yet He heard my
prayers for her, and now she was pregnant. Why? The elevator
doors opened and as she exited I congratulated her and wished her well.
Immediately, I felt guilty for my earlier thoughts.
I was happy for her – really I was – but I still couldn't help
wondering, “Why not me?” Why did God
choose to heal others and not me? Why
did He answer one prayer yes and
another no?
Why did He allow so many the gift of life and refuse me and others like
me? Why were we denied this
blessing? Some days
there are too many questions and not enough answers.
It's at times like this that I am reminded of one certainty in life.
God promises in Isaiah 42:16 (NIV) "I will lead the blind by ways
they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the
darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth.
These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them." He has not
forgotten me. He will never forsake
me. He promises to make the roughest
times smooth. Even in the darkness
of a dimly lit elevator, He sends His light.
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Last modified: July 05, 2007
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