A Prayer for the One Who Feels Angry

God, I am angry. So angry. Furious. Bitter. Resentful. Offended.

I am angry that you took my baby from me. That you would allow me to know the joys of pregnancy and motherhood only to strip them away. That you would leave me feeling so empty. So alone. So broken. I am angry that you would give me this road to walk. That the steps you have ordered for me would take me down this road. That the plans you have for me could harm me so deeply.

I am furious at myself. I am furious that my body could not do the one thing it is meant to do. That it could not protect my baby. It could not sustain him. It could not get him here safely. I am furious at how foreign this body now feels. That my very form could betray me in such a way.

I am resentful towards my husband. While he grieves, he doesn’t also bleed. He doesn’t have to feel the physical reminders that what was is no longer. He doesn’t hear phantom cries in the night. His breasts don’t swell with the milk no one needs. I am resentful that he can go back to work and not be asked, “Where’s the baby?” -or- “How’s the baby?” -or- “Weren’t you pregnant”?

I am bitter that my friends continue to get pregnant. That those pregnancies continue on uneventfully. That those two pink lines will eventually birth a rosy cheeked little baby. I’m bitter that pregnancy and childbirth are unscathed for them. That they are not marked by terror and death. When I hear them complain of swollen ankles or morning sickness, I want to scream.

I am offended by acquaintances who say the wrong thing. Who suggest, “Everything happens for a reason.” -or- “God must have needed him more than I did.” No one needed him more than I did. What possible reason could have warranted death? I am offended when they suggest, there was something wrong with my son. When they say they just know I’ll have another. He was perfect. And no other child could possible replace him. Every time I hear the phrase “at least” I could explode.

But through my anger, I trust you. You are like the ocean, and my anger but a stone. No matter how many or how hard I throw, you remain unchanged. Undeterred. Constant. Ever moving toward me. Bigger and stronger and more steady than I could possibly comprehend.

Somehow, I know, you will redeem this pain. You will guard my heart and keep me near to you. Like a mother holding her angry child as she flails. These feelings are too big for me. They are more than my human form can contain. They terrify me. But you are bigger. You can contain them all. You are not scared. Until I can be still, still you will hold me.

As this anger swells in my chest and my heart feels hard, still you love me. You are my refuge. Help me to find others to whom I can safely express these deep and daunting feelings. Protect me from myself. Bind my lips when the anger wants to spill forth toward those I love. Guard my relationships as I wade through this bog of bitterness. May intimacy grow as I allow myself to fully experience and safely express the myriad emotions along this journey. Intimacy with you. With myself. With my husband. And with my community. May this anger lead to authenticity and life.

Amen

Sam is a graphic designer and marketing professional in Frisco, Texas. She and her husband, Spencer, have been married since 2011, and have two children in heaven, Baby Martin (Jan 2016) and Max (Dec 2016), and two in their arms, Lachlan (Dec 2017) and Meryn (Aug 2019). They enjoy serving in their church, building community, and restoring their 100 year-old home. Sam is in two book clubs and can always be found with a book in her purse and a warm beverage in her hand.

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