Afraid of All the Things by Scarlet Hiltibidal

Author:Scarlet Hiltibidal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Religion/Christian Life/Women's Issues
Publisher: B&H Publishing Group
Published: 2019-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Exploding Organs

My flesh and my heart my fail, but God is the strength of my heart, my portion forever. (Ps. 73:26)

I knew the doctor wasn’t going to say everything was looking happy and healthy. I knew that simply clearing my throat shouldn’t set fire to my stomach. I knew that a pattern of “concerning blood work” probably didn’t indicate a belly full of kittens and butterflies.

But I hoped.

I was young. So young that my purse was shaped like an electric guitar and I had a bleached hair stripe that changed color every couple of weeks. Still working one of those “not it” jobs, I was glad to leave work early for my doctor’s appointment, despite all the cryptic phone conversations I’d had with nurses.

Before I left, I had a few minutes of quiet at my desk. I used the time and the quiet to make promises to God that I’d break. I went through the motions of being faithful, all the while, saying in my heart, “God, You’d better fix this.”

The last thing in my prayer journal that day was a scribbly psalm. I wrote the words I wanted my heart to believe: “. . . in God I trust, I will not be afraid . . .” (Ps. 56:11).

I hoped that by writing the words with my hand, the sentiment would transfer to my heart.

So with undercooked faith and every cell in my body full of fear, I tried to obey in an effort to win my Father’s favor—taking the right steps, subconsciously attempting to manipulate Him into giving me the outcome I hoped for—a healthy pregnancy that would lead to that baby I’d prayed for.

I wondered if He would reward my efforts by “working all things together for my good” (Rom. 8:28), or what I thought would be my good.

You know, like, Hey, God! Here I am, praying.

But, not just praying. I’m super praying!

Hey, Lord, I’m writing Bible verses down!

Are You seeing this right now?

Wow, look how much I’ve written.

My hand is literally cramping.

Surely, God, I should be rewarded by not almost dying, and not losing my baby, and not waking up to multiple blood transfusions . . .

I hoped. I expected. I’d put in handwriting, after all.

But instead, I woke up to IV bags of strangers’ blood dripping into my arm. And I couldn’t sit up straight without holding a pillow over my stomach that had just been slashed by a frenzy of doctors and nurses after they ran my gurney into a room with blinding lights and scrubs and scalpels and face masks and an ominous voice behind me that said, “Just count backwards from ten . . .”

Scary, right?

Even though gurneys were flying and time was moving at warp speed as blood pooled in my abdomen, there was one moment in the chaos that everything slowed down. I’d just been wheeled into the operating room. There were so many people in that room. They quickly moved me from the hospital bed to the operating table with a “One .

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