What There are No Words For
I like words.
There are words for lots of things.
Lots of experiences. Lots of feelings. Lots of love and people and places and times.
I count on words to get me through the day.
But there are some experiences where words fall short. There are some moments that can’t be given language. There are occasions in life where words do not do justice.
I’m learning what there are no words for.
There are no words for doctor’s offices.
There are no words for medical desks and chairs and exam tables. No words for when my shaky, 16 year old skinny legs rub up against their cold metal, and feel their lifelessness. I never knew what to say during these doctors visits. At 16 years old, I was just beginning to understand my body and its limitations. At 16 years old, I held my hope in my hands. I sat with optimism and faith and an unwavering belief that it would all work out in the end. But I didn’t know this was all just the beginning. Just the beginning of years of tests and lab reports, referrals and specialists, a brave face worn to mask an entire identity of fear. It was just the beginning of knowing there are some questions without any answers.
And there are no words for all of this.
No words for the moments when physicians, in white lab coats and sporty ties, take your dreams away. No words when they tell you “having children may never happen for you,”or “the tests confirmed what we suspected.” There are no words to describe watching someone hold your hope in their hands, watching them juggle it, play with it, maneuver it around so many times that you start to believe your hope was theirs in the first place. There are no words when they take your hope away.
“You may not be able to be a mom this way,” my last physician told me, “your body just wasn’t built for it.”
I was 23 at the time. He stole my hope like a schoolboy and smashed it into the ground.
There are no words for this.
But there are other things that cannot have words. There are other things that are in a category of their own.
Sound defies language.
And today, today miracles made sound. Miracles played music for me.
Lying in a room with my head tilted up at the ceiling and a gooey jell smeared onto my belly, I got to hear a miracle. I got to hear a sound to remind me that God makes promises the world can’t understand. I got to hear a sound that speaks louder than words ever could. I got to lie back and listen as angels sung over me and a hand reached down to bless me and all the things I thought I’d never be started happening.
Thump, thump, thump, thump. I let out a small gasp. Thump, thump, thump, thump. My hand goes up over my mouth. Thump, thump, thump. Does that sound really exist? Thump, thump, thump.
I hear my baby.
I hear my hope return to me.
I hear my baby.
Not someone else’s. Not my friend’s or my sister’s or a woman’s on TV. It is my baby. My baby with a beating heart and growing body and a life that is being molded and shaped into someone I can only imagine it will be.
Love makes sound. It is the thump, thump, thump of doubt and worry and brokenness all falling to the ground. It is the thump, thump, thump of life and movement and strength. It is the thump, thump, thump of God’s laughter. The thump, thump, thump of his smile, and his tears. The thump, thump, thump of his promises spoken over me even if I was too deaf to hear them.
And God’s promises make the loudest sound of all.
And this, there are no words for this.
No words for this moment.
No words for the sound of the soul when it grows.
No words for the moment when you can hold your joy in your fingertips and lay it down, to dance.
In this moment, there are just gentle tears and quiet laughter and the feeling of my husband’s hand on mine.
That is all this moment needs.
Words might ruin it.