There’s a song we sing at church sometimes, and the bridge
goes like this:
Every step, every breath, you are
there
Every tear, every cry, every prayer
In my hurt, at my worst, when my
world falls down
Not for a moment will you forsake
me.
And it is rare that I make through the second line of that
bridge without melting into tears.
Infertility sucks. It just does. And I’ve sat down to write
this entry a dozen times only to find myself too ashamed or fearful to hit
“publish.” I cringe to think of offending or appearing ungrateful. I hate to
maximize or minimize the pain. But it’s a real, honest struggle that I (we)
have endured and will most likely endure until glory.
I didn’t understand it before. We’re not promised a spouse
or a car or a home or a job. Why does anyone believe she is promised a child?
When I found out that our church had support groups for people impacted by
infertility, I thought, “That just seems wasteful. You don’t see support groups
for single people who desperately want to get married….” Color me judge-y.
I never was the girl that always wanted to be a mom. I
played with dolls as a child, but I far preferred putting on “concerts” or
gallivanting in backyard forts over caring for cabbage patches. And I could
play Barbie all day long, but she and Ken drove a red corvette, not a minivan. Even
as an adult, as a wife, I dreamed about sculpting our home into a
well-decorated nest, but I didn’t really think about the hatchlings. And still,
I have always been told I will make a great Mama Bird.
The pains I have felt from infertility have nothing to do
with the shattering of my biggest dreams. They are small, but real losses that
just make me really sad. Seeing my husband’s eyes in the smile of my son. Rejoicing
over a little, pink plus-sign and the thrill of breaking the news. Feeling a
future ballerina practice pirouettes in my belly. Trading war stories of
swollen ankles and c-sections and the sisterhood of surviving delivery. None of
these things did I really even want – until I knew they would never happen for
me. It’s isolating and disappointing. And even if no one happens to announce a
new pregnancy for a while, there’s always that monthly reminder that’s
decidedly more painful than it used to be.
I don’t say these things to garner your pity. That just
makes me feel more alone. I say these things because they are part of my story.
It is the reality of what we’re going through. The loss of something I was
never promised may seem trivial to some – it did to me. But “empty arms are a
heavy burden.” The loss is real. The pain is real.
Now. With all of that said. Through tears and through
wincing, I can whole-heartedly say that the pain, the loss, the burden – are
worth it. Because the words to that song above are true. Not only has He not forsaken me – He has been “nearer”
to me than I have ever known. He has reminded me that the blessings of a child
are not a reward for doing everything right – that the lack of a child is not
punishment for doing something wrong. He has surgically exposed and removed
things like jealousy, entitlement, pride from my heart. He has bonded me to my
husband with tighter and sturdier binds. He has brought forth support from men
and women who have stood in our shoes. He has surrounded us with community who
may not fully know, but fully love and care. And in the worst and darkest
moment of the whole ordeal, when it physically felt like the ground fell out
from underneath – He instantly caught me. Wrapped His arms around me, cradled
my head, and whispered, “I’ve got you... I know… I’m here.”
Reader, I say all of these things to praise my Father - to tell you just how great He is. He turns mourning into dancing, weeping into
laughing, pain into joy. He never leaves, never forsakes. His love is steadfast
– it never fails. His mercies never come to an end. He is patient and kind, and
he cares for us….
He is a loving Father, and He is always, always good.
