Miscarriage

Just as you do not know how the life breath enters the human frame in the mother's womb, So you do not know the work of God who is working in everything.

Ecclesiastes 11:5

The Architect and the Bee

The blood. The cramping. The physical manifestation of loss. A week long daily reminder that I was pregnant and lost. Other reminders hit unexpectedly - a pregnant woman walking in the neighborhood or a friend excitedly announces their baby is due August, or now, December. The first time I miscarried, I thought, “This is very common. Just get through this, you’ll get pregnant again, keep trying, you’ll be fine.” That was the narrative I told myself and it worked; I got pregnant again. With a cruel twist in the story, I miscarried a second time. And now...the blood. The cramping. The constant reminder of loss.

Although my body may have gone about the biological business of constructing cells and wiping out the imperfections in a bloody outpouring, I was an architect. Philosopher Hilde Lindemann writes that the purely biological view of pregnancy diminishes a woman’s agency. This view sees the woman as a flower pot, an incubator or a passive receptacle (82). Lindemann brings to mind Marx’s creative architect and the bee. To quote Marx:

“A spider conducts operations that resemble those of a weaver, and a bee puts to shame many an architect in the construction of her cells. But what distinguishes the worst of architects from the best of bees is this, that the architect raises his structure in imagination before he erects it in reality.”

I raised in my imagination a child before she became a reality and took steps to prepare for her. Yes, I called the fetus into personhood (84). I began to prepare physical space for her, and social space in my family and wider community. I nurtured her in my body with what I ate and by taking care, and in my mind with dreams for her and through sharing plans with my partner. In imaginative projection, I lived as if this plus sign on a stick was becoming the born child I hoped she would be. The metaphor of the architect and the bee can highlight ranging perspectives of internal and external locus of control in the face of miscarriage. The stories of loss around this event certainly range in diversity from person to person. But, miscarriage can often lead to loss of agency and of connection - to the future, to self, to others, and to the world.

Ask, Seek, Knock

In an egotistical society, we are taught that we alone can control the good and bad that come to us. In that setting, how does one account for good that comes unexpectedly, or for sudden tragedy and loss? The opposite is believing that we are pawns to the whims of the gods. In that setting, personal accountability and hope for change is lost. Yet, the biblical words give a different take on these polar extremes. We are given Job who says, “Shall we receive the good at the hand of God, and not receive the bad?” (Job 2:10). We are given the poetry of King David, “Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4). And in the New Testament, we are given Jesus’ teaching, “Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you” (Matthew 7:7). Taken together with many other similar biblical sayings, these messages give a new more realistic context for both internal and external locus of control. We are not gods; we cannot control every event in our lives. But, we also do not need to be pawns subject to the intractable whims of destiny or fate. We can become the imaginative architects (earthly priests) in relationship with the Architect of the universe (the Most High), the One who sees and hears. Hagar, the Egyptian slave woman, became the first person to name God in the narrative of the Hebrew Bible. Hagar named the Lord, “El­-roi” t​he God who sees me.​ Faith can give comfort in our despair and a voice in the direction of our lives.

The words of Lamentations set the stage: “Is it not from the mouth of the Most High that good and bad come?” (Lamentations 3:38). The women of the Bible fill the stage with life, complexity and a story. They are the architects imagining new beginnings in relationship with the Most High, calling new lives into being despite their situations of time and place. The Bible is packed full of women experiencing life with all it’s heartache, injustice, and harms. In their book, Jews and Words Oz-Salzberger and Oz (a father, daughter pair) write about the women of the Bible:

They do not follow the Greek pattern—either goddess or mortal heroine. They do not follow the medieval pattern—either saint or prostitute. They do not follow the European pattern—aristocracy, bourgeoisie, or lower class. They do not follow the British pattern—upstairs or downstairs—although their tents are sometimes as intricate as a manor house. The Bible’s women are so variegated that they simply inhabit a full human spectrum. (70-71)

The stories of these women bring comfort. They inhabit the full human spectrum set amidst poetic and prophetic words and they give us a glimpse into knowing God, the God who sees me.

In our patriarchal society and religions, the male voice is most often heard; the male experience is known. Our genderless God is usually described as “He”. In Judaism and Christianity, the living God is signaled by naming “the God of [the forefathers] Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.” However, I’m interested in the ways that the (albeit patriarchal) stories speak to women and the marginalized. I’m fascinated by the ways women in these stories respond to their situations, resist oppression and deal with heartache. To approach the Bible in this way is to see it from the vantage of the marginalized. We are socialized in our western culture to elevate wealth, prosperity, men, Christianity, health, perfection, and “normalcy” above all else. When I approach the Bible from the perspective of the poor, of women, of the outcast and of the non-dominant groups, I see a different story. Listening to these groups, I meet people who have ears to hear and eyes to see the written words of scripture. I come across those who do not have other god’s before the Lord God, the One who frees the slave. I watch as the proud are humbled, and the humbled exalted. The Lord is creating something new on earth. As the prophet Jeremiah states with ambiguous meaning, but entirely intriguing: “For the Lord has created a new thing on the earth; a woman encompasses a man” (31:22). In many ways, the stories in the Bible show the Lord resists dominant social norms and patriarchy, even as they reveal the patriarchal societies they came from.

In a world that venerates fecundity, what kind of holy scripture has this sort of verse:

Sing, O barren one who did not bear;

burst into song and shout,

you who have not been in labor!

Isaiah 54:1

This grabs my attention. The founding mothers of these strange prophetic words also grab my attention. It is written: “Now Sarai was barren; she had no child” (Genesis 11:30)...“Isaac prayed to the Lord for his wife [Rebekah], because she was barren” (Genesis 25:21). “...but Rachel was barren” (Genesis 29:31). In the Bible, our heroines are not fertile goddesses. Our heroines are barren. Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are husbands of women who cannot have children. This means something significant written in an ancient civilization that was as least as anxious about infertility as we are, probably much more. Yet, these are the barren women through whom God chose to bring about something new on earth. These stories move us away from the cycles of birth and death venerated by many other ancient religions in the near east at the time. They also move us away from the image of the “perfect” woman venerated by media and western culture. This story begins with women who are empty, fruitless and barren with hope for something radically new to come - children as numerous as the stars and becoming blessings to all the nations on the earth. Throughout the Bible, there are countless heroines who do not or cannot have children. The end of their stories vary from person to person, and the outcome of my story is yet to be seen. But, something new is being created here and, in my sorrow, I am all ears.

Connection

Maybe we aren’t just imaginative architects executing an preconceived design. Perhaps, we are imaginative storytellers deeply connected to those who hear and see, and co-authors of the story of our lives. Our actions, our prayers and our participation in life give us locus of control. Miscarriage has become a part of my story but is not the end. This dry, barren, sorrowful part of my story will become the soil for new seeds being planted. It also connects me to women’s stories of the past and creates fertile ground for greater connection with others who suffer in this way.

At a local Jewish temple, on the donation box for the food pantry for the poor and homeless, these words are inscribed: We give thanks to God for bread, But for those who are hungry, WE must help provide instead. This struck me as a great example of a healthy locus of control. Give glory to God for all things (shall we give glory to God only for the good?). But, for those around us in need, WE must provide the help instead. We are called to action in connecting with others. Isaiah calls us to loose the bonds of injustice, to set the oppressed free and to share with the hungry and homeless. In Isaiah, it is written: 

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly...Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer (Isaiah 58:8-9). 

Connect to others in this way and your light will break forth like the dawn. This perspective connects us to ourselves, to others, to the world and God. It gives us agency in times of loss. Just as I do not know how the life breath enters the human frame, I do not know the work of God working in everything. But, perhaps, the story of our lives together may testify to the work of God who is working in everything.


Works Cited:

Lindemann, H. “MIscarriage and the Stories We Live By.” JOURNAL of SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY, Vol. 46 No. 1, Spring 2015, 80–90.

Oz, Amos, and Fania Oz-Salzberger. Jews and Words. Yale University Press, 2014