I feel like my hands and feet have been tied behind my back, and I’ve been thrown into a deep pit of water. I can’t breathe.
If the blog of my journey were a record album, I would want to push the needle down hard into the grooves and scrape it across the entire story, destroying the totality of it with a primal screech before breaking the album into pieces on the floor.
Fortunately the voices in my head are stilled by the more objective voices of friends – friends who can stomach my extremism without judgment. They can share my strong emotions, but talk me back from the ledge of my fears. They speak hard truths, but with compassion.
I just became aware that the first of our twins to identify as transgender has been taking initial steps towards surgical transition. My husband said he’s always assumed it was inevitable, but in my default position of optimism, I have remained sure that there was more time for things to take a different turn. I thought that maybe as I’ve been moving towards the center, they might too. We could come closer together, and maybe even meet in the middle. Blind optimism.
The thought of my baby remaking their body to better fit their picture of who they are makes me alternately feel ill and numb. I already spent nine months making the original, their perfect body forming within the confines of mine. All three of our children were born surgically by Cesarean section. The first was an emergency; the second a choice based on the statistical likelihood of another emergency since I previously had a C-section and that the birth of twins has a higher risk. Though this surgery will not be mine, I will feel the cut of the knife on my heart.
My recently stripped down faith is fragile, yet gaining new strength. Certain that the stories and words of Jesus are ones I can aspire to and attempt to emulate, I’m still unsure of how it looks to live that out honestly. Right now, I’m focusing any scripture reading I do on the gospel stories of Jesus. In the words of Luke, I am reminded that to be a disciple of Jesus means denying myself and taking up my cross daily. I’ve never really felt like I understood that with any depth. Today it seems to take on new meaning.
Taking up the cross was something Jesus didn’t want to do, and he said so. But he did it anyway, because of relationship, with God and with all of humanity. He provided a remedy for humanity’s pain and brokenness by taking it all on himself.
I can in no way match the level of sacrifice asked of and given by Jesus. But I can understand the part of not wanting to do something difficult. I have said aloud to God and people many times that I don’t want to go through this challenge of gender and strained relationships. It is too hard. It is too painful.
I can relate to those family members of transitioned, transgender people who disconnect from them and walk away. I am an all or nothing person, and my all does not have any impact to make the situation into something less painful. I feel like I want to walk away. I want to admit I can’t do it, and just start life over again.
But I won’t. My pain, intense as it is, has no bearing on my choice to carry this weight. Love for my children supersedes even my pain. I will keep loving. I will keep meeting needs. I will keep trying. I will keep writing my story. I will do my best to provide any tiny bit of healing for my children’s pain and brokenness, including that which I’ve caused.
The newness of morning, the light of the sun, and deep words spoken and heard and digested, come together to bring feelings of resignation, responsibility, and relief.
In recent discussions of my life’s challenges, two different friends both commented that I always end up saying, “It’ll be okay.” Somehow, I experience resilience. That doesn’t mean I am not compressed and bent and stretched. It just means I spring back. Sometimes I don’t want to. I just want to break in two and be done with it. But in fact, I keep springing back.
My broken heart, its first few cracks already repaired with gold, is broken further into more tiny, intricate pieces. The repairs will be slow. The little pieces will be hard to match up, some even missing entirely. But the liquid gold will fill in the gaps and draw the parts back together again. Beauty in brokenness, shining in the light of a new day.
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