you shall not pass

I wanted to give everyone an update to ask, once again, for your specific prayers. As time goes on - and I know Conor said this in the previous post - things just seem to feel worse, the darkness heavier, the uncertainties stronger. So prayer from the saints is all I can lean on. My own prayers, I suppose. But, as I've heard several times in this journey, I know that sometimes, you will have the strength to pray for what I can't.

We received the good news - and I say "good" with a sense of its relativity... certainly we are not elated to even be having a discussion with anyone about any of this - that when Copeland is born, we will be able to keep her with us for as long as the Lord allows us to. There will be no NICU admittance. The charge nurse that I spoke with assured us that, in these cases, parents are permitted to "call the shots." I am grateful. And I believe this is the result of your approaching the throne on our behalf. Knowing that as long as Copeland breathes, I will be there, Conor will be there, and that her life will not be interrupted by any sort of medical ridiculousness is a blessing. I confess it makes me a great deal less anxious about our time after delivery.

It may be evident in my tone, but I am definitely struggling. I say this to you because I never want to look back on this and wonder why I wasn't more authentic, why I wasn't more willing to just share my heart? I have found immense strength over the past 12 weeks, and I have no doubt that it's because you have been willing to carry as much of the burden as you can. But I confess I wake each morning hating that this is where we are, hating the situation, longing with all I am to just make it go away. I'm sure this is natural, to be expected. But it's exhausting.

I don't think I've ever told anyone about this outside of the group that gathered at my parents' the night we learned Copeland was suspicious for trisomy-18. In the doctor's office, literally in the darkness of the sonogram room, I remembered a scene from a movie I think I'd seen one time, the first installment of the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy. That film released about a month after Conor and I were married, so back in December of 2001. I'm not a sci-fi fan; I've actually never even read the books themselves. In fact, it's a irony that I'd remember much of the movie at all, other than those gruesome orcs and the incredible special effects. But I did. I thought of the moment when the Fellowship of the Ring is crossing through those dark, demon-possessed underground passages, running desperately from one seemingly inconquerable foe straight into the path of another. One such villain is a demon of incredible might and power, and as you watch, it's apparent that the little band of heroes is unlikely to get past him. It's only when Gandalf stands firmly fixed between his friends and the towering monster, shouting like a mad man, "You shall not pass!" with his staff banging frantically against the ground, that the rocks crumble, the demon falls to his death, and the Fellowship is free. Certainly there's more to the story - two movies' worth - and Gandalf's opposition to the demon costs him a great deal, but the image remained etched on my memory for years, so much so that it was what I thought of as I lay on the table in the sonographer's office, waiting to hear from the perinatologist about all the complications our little girl had.

Like I said, I'm no sci-fi fan. I hadn't seen the movies in almost six years. Conor and I had neither been talking about them or listened to the soundtrack recently. I sincerely believe this scene rose up in my mind because the Lord wanted me to remember those words: "You shall not pass." I know it may seem odd or even a little quirky to say that I do, in fact, believe in the supernatural, the stuff our eyes can't see. That afternoon, that room wasn't simply a doctor's office furnished with a few cold pieces of medical equipment. It was apparently a battleground. And the Lord was apparently wanting to signal to me that, no matter what happened, there would be something He wouldn't let pass. I don't know what that something is. I thought at the time it would be the trisomy-18. But the tests came back positive. I've thought, to this day, that perhaps it will be the words "incompatible with life." Maybe Copeland will defy the odds. Maybe she'll be born healthy, or even if she is affected, maybe she'll live longer and happier than doctors would have ever expected. I don't rest in that, but I can see how telling the Gandalf story years from now, looking at a perfectly healthy daughter who was thought to die almost immediately upon birth, would make for a very dramatic twist.

But as I sit here, 2:30 in the afternoon, the sun shining outside, my husband and daughter safe and healthy in this world, I am compelled to think that there's something greater, something far more sinister and more menacing than even death that wants permission to skulk into my life. I am a strong believer. I don't say this to pat myself on the back or to puff myself up; I say it because it's true, and I've been that way for a long, long time. But this is a whole new ballgame. It's easy to believe in a God that loves you and that wants the best for you when things are going well - even when things are going semi-well. But this is different. We have exactly eight days until we bring Copeland into the world. Eight days. It feels like a vast distance away and also like someone's knocking at the door, and I can't decide which terror is easier to live with. Maybe there's more than one "something" wanting entrance into our world; perhaps doubt, defeat and despair.

I need you to pray that this terror, this fear, this anxiety, this anguish, this heartache, this incredible burden the Lord has asked us to bear, will not be able to "pass" - will not have control or a hold of us. You are not Gandalf. But you know the One who is. Please ask Him to "stand in the gap," as my sister has so often said, and cast Himself between Conor and Sellers and I and the one who comes to steal, kill and destroy. I am not naive about the incredible darkness we may walk through in the next few months. I need you to pray the Lord will equip me to leave my house. To put earrings on. To go on dates with my husband. I need you to pray that Sellers will see Conor and I cry and laugh and endure a hardship with a belief, steadfast and unshakeable, that will influence her for years to come. I need you to pray that in the moments when I am completely alone, when Conor is alone, when we can't distract away the pain, that there will be no foothold of resentment or anger between us - that while he goes through his own private experience of grief, and I go through mine, we will still be knit together.

Most of all, pray we will walk with eyes fixed on Jesus, even when we are angry with Him, or confused, or frustrated, or unsure if He even cares. Pray we will be able to remain completely afixed on Him, so that nothing - no desire or hope, nor even future blessing - will detract from the glory He wants us to witness in Him.