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At a loss for words
Three mothers share their thoughts on how we can be sensitive to parents with a child who has special needs. Megan Redfield begins the conversation:
I’m leading a Bible study on grief as I write this. A few days ago, I was preparing a lesson that included a portion of Lamentations chapter 2: “My eyes fail from weeping, I am in torment within; my heart is poured out on the ground. . . . What can I say for you? With what can I compare you, Daughter Jerusalem? To what can I liken you, that I may comfort you, Virgin Daughter Zion? Your wound is as deep as the sea. Who can heal you?” (vv. 11-13).
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In these verses, the author looks at the devastation and grief all around him and speaks specifically of the children starving in the streets. He sees them fainting in the streets, begging for anything to eat or to drink “as their lives ebb away in their mothers’ arms” (v. 12).
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The author has seen awful, unspeakable horrors. Yet the condition of these women and children has affected him deeply. He struggles to find the right words. I’m so thankful the Holy Spirit led these inspired words to be included in Scripture. If here, in this setting, a man going through suffering had difficulty finding the right words . . . well, then, maybe I can give myself a break for all the times I can’t find them either.
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In the earliest years of our marriage, my husband and I kept our struggles with infertility to ourselves. We just were not ready to share that grief openly with others. You can imagine the sting of the well-meaning comments and questions made innocently by people who were unaware of our struggle. Once we decided to pursue adoption, we began to share more openly. In some ways, it was a relief. The every-Sunday-morning chorus of “You’d look good with a baby in your arms” came to a swift end. In its place we received encouragement and support that were specific and meaningful to our situation.
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But still, I was surprised at how some relationships began to shift. There’s an awkwardness, a distance that can occur, when we walk through something that our loved ones can’t understand. It’s nobody’s fault. It happens because there’s this big gaping hole where we can’t relate and we don’t know how to communicate. We love so much, and we don’t want to cause pain with our words. We don’t know how to fix it. We don’t know what to say. So we pull away a little.
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This summer marks 12 years since we traded the awkwardness and loneliness of infertility for the awkwardness and loneliness of parenting a child with special needs. I’ve learned a lot in those years. Not much offends me anymore. I’ve healed a lot of the early grief I carried, clearing space to see the good intentions of others and to take words and actions in the kindest possible way. But writing this article challenges me to take a step beyond how I process the words that people say. This article challenges me to help people choose better words.
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Megan Redfield with daughter, Libby. Megan's husband, Tim, is included in the featured image above the story.
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Photos courtesy of Forte Films + Stills
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