Father-Prayer

I had many expectations of this process. I dreamed of nursery decor, of name choosing, of fluttery kicks, of swollen belly. One thing that I pictured in my dreamworld of expectation was a scene, late at night, laying in bed side by side with his hand on my swollen belly as he prayed for our child. You see, Cole was created with a father heart. He was made to be a dad.

Without even realizing my unspoken expectations, I now find a similar scene playing out - yet not quite as I had envisioned. I now find us late at night, laying side by side with his hand on my not-so-swollen belly - still praying faithfully for our child.  One night, quite a few months ago, we laid there in silence with his hand on my midsection while I was probably scrolling through Facebook on my phone. After awhile, I grew self-conscious and asked him what he was doing. "I'm praying for you," was his response. I put down my phone and asked him to do so aloud. And every night since then has found us, side by side, his hand on my stomach, praying. For me, for us, for our someday-children.

***

You see, his faith buoys mine when it seems I am sinking. His hope gives me hope when tomorrow seems dark. His prayers remind me to trust in a sovereign God as he prays, "yet, not our will, but yours, oh Lord." When all of me wants to scream, "Don't pray that! We may never get what we want!"  He steadfastly prays, "Whether by our flesh or by another's, we pray that you would grow our family, and give us the strength, grace, and wisdom to raise them according to your will."

My husband lives life with an open hand: giving freely to those around him and receiving with thanksgiving whatever his Good Father sees fit to give him. My life is so much richer with him in it, and our children will be so blessed by the prayers of their father.

In the Middle

You know what we rarely do? We rarely tell stories from the middle. Necessarily, stories have a beginning, a middle or crisis, and an end that, more often than not, resolves said conflict. But, we never write the story in the middle.

More often, people write from a perspective looking backward, having arrived. War-torn and battle-scarred, survivors gaze back over the trial and proclaim, “I made it.”  Stories are tied up with beautiful bows or moral lessons to be learned. All of the uncomfortable situations, mistakes or missteps are safely packaged up as past-tense. Though the story may contain a beginning, middle, and an end, it is always written once the enemy fire has ceased and the threat has passed.

Everyone loves a good redemption story. Everyone loves to hear of transformation and of victory over struggle. People are uncomfortable in the unresolved, in the middle.

It’s easier to write, “I used to struggle with trusting God,” because simply the way in which that is written connotes that the struggle no longer exists.  It’s more comfortable to sit back and read how someone “used to strive for perfection,” with the assumption being that they have now found a balance of grace over perfection. There seems to be a cognitive dissonance with stories that fail to resolve.

The hard thing about telling a story in the middle is the unknown. Because sometimes, the middle is the end. Our situation may not resolve, we may live in the uncomfortable middle for the entirety of our lives. And God is in that too (perhaps, especially) and He is up to something and every single day I need to breathe those truths to myself because a lot of the time I struggle to believe it.

It’s uncomfortable to read about the trenches and the dirty and the questioning of the goodness of the God who is Good. But here I am.  These trenches feel deep and this load feels heavy and God feels far. But this should not keep us from walking together in the trenches, so that we may shoulder each other’s burdens and point out the truths that God is, in fact, not far off  - rather, He is the God who pursues, the God who bent heaven to earth to be with us in the trenches. He is Emmanuel, God with us.

May we never let a lack of an ending keep us from telling the story.

Avoiding Christmas

Normally, I can't wait for Christmas. I love all things holiday. I love the soft, cozy feel of twinkle lights at night. I love the way they light the trees lining Main Street. I love the clean look of snow on the ground. I love the music and the food and the overall feeling of excitement in the air. I love our family traditions. I love wrapping gifts with a Christmas classic playing on the TV in the background. Everyone is a little warmer, everyone smiles a little more quickly. On the day after Thanksgiving every year, I'm ready to hit the ground running full boar into the Christmas season.

Not this year, though.

This year? Well, this year I think I would be okay skipping Christmas altogether. November is coming to a hurried end, and my heart is in no way ready to be met by the holiday spirit. When I think about Christmas coming, I dread living through the season with an empty womb. A holiday so focused on family feels as hollow as our spare bedroom.

I have no real explanation as to why Christmas looms so daunting to me. Mother's Day is understandable, but Christmas? Must infertility ruin Christmas for me too?  I want to hang a third stocking (and a fourth and fifth and....). I want to wrap a gift for Cole and write, "To Daddy," on the tag as though it is being given by our children. I want there to be more than just the two of us on Christmas morning.  There is something that feels so empty about a Christmas without children.

I want to skip Christmas this year.

But, the truth is, I need Christmas more this year than I ever have before. My arms physically ache for a baby, but the truth is, my hope can only be found in the baby who didn't stay in the manger. While I long to understand Mary's feelings upon the birth of her firstborn Son, it is more important that I understand the implications of that baby's birth, life, death, resurrection on the whole of humankind. I need Christmas this year. I need to be reminded that God incarnated himself to be with us in our grief, our sorrow.

His name will be called Emmanuel.

"What I desperately need is the Christ of Christmas. I need to know that my worries, my sorrow, my grief, and my fears of the evil of this world have all been taken care of by a baby born in a manger. It's the most unlikely tale the world will ever hear, this story of Christmas. It is the best news a weary woman could receive. And yet even Christians have romanticized Jesus' birth to the point that I wonder if we truly recognize the full wonder of it. The baby heralded by angels and greeted by shepherds changed the fate of the world." (Source)


And, because of that, I, along with the weary world, can rejoice.

"'But when the fullness of the time came, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman, born under the Law, so that He might redeem those who were under the Law, that we might receive the adoption as sons. Because you are sons, God has sent forth the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” Therefore you are no longer a slave, but a son; and if a son, then an heir through God.'
Galatians 4:4-7 (ESV)

The Balance of Hope

I'm in the window right now. There's a small window that exists between hope and despair, and I'm in it.

I'm scared to hope, yet part of me wants to give myself completely over to the chance that this might be the month. I want to hold back now, so that it hurts less later; but then, I want to lean in, feel the breeze on my face, and dream of jumping, landing on the other side of all of this with bright eyes.  In times past, I've leaned in, I've felt the breeze, I've jumped and I've fallen down, down, down... the landing is always the hardest part.

But for right now, this month feels different. I don't know why, and I hope it's not wrong.

Hope is such a fickle thing. I hold it so tightly in my hand, yet I'm afraid to squeeze too tight lest it slip through my fingers. It's a delicate thing - a thing that shrinks with each new cramp, each new symptom - until my hand is empty, my womb is empty, and my eyes are full of saltwater.  Again.  I don't know how to strike the balance between hope and reality. How do I fully let myself fly while solidly anchored to the ground?

The Weight

Today infertility feels heavy. It feels heavy to have to bear the label. It's heavy to feel so empty.

Today the brokenness feels heavy. To have a body that, for some reason, does not do what it's supposed to, does not conceive like it should. I weigh less than I have in months, and I've never felt so heavy.

Today the bills feel heavy. The exploratory tests do not qualify toward the deductible. Triple digits, quadruple digits, these tiny pieces of paper in official-looking envelopes feel heavy.

Today a doctor told me that it may be very, very hard for us to have children.  Those words, a childless future, feel so very heavy.

Today, one of my best friends told me she's pregnant. Juggling great joy and great sorrow is exhausting.

Today, I don't know how to feel. So I just feel heavy.

Where Joy Meets Sorrow

We pulled out of our garage at 12:45am. We had debated shortly about whether we should go or not. "It's too late; they're probably exhausted. And we're exhausted."  "But they said they wanted us to come; and he needs his pajamas."  Neither one of us pushed back very hard. We both wanted to go, no matter what time of night it was.

It had been a long day. We had been tirelessly chasing four busy children around in circles, trying to make sure they ate their meals, washing dog poop off a bare foot, blowing bubbles, coloring, breaking up argument after argument, dancing in the living room and surviving toddler tantrums. It had been a long day; and we waited and waited for the news to come.  At long last, (11:25pm to be precise) we got the news. He was here; he was healthy, and he was here. It wasn't until 12:45am that we were relieved of our post. We had to get to church early the next day and we had meetings and obligations and responsibilities and all the things.  But we couldn't not go meet our new nephew.

So 1am found us cruising down an abandoned interstate headed to the hospital. We talked about the busy day we just had and laughed remembering the kiddos' antics. The car was full of our conversation for the entire twenty minute drive.  We parked in the empty parking lot and headed toward Admission. A man from one abandoned parking lot over yelled to us, "You gotta go through the ER this late at night!"  The ER doors swished open and the doctors looked a little disappointed to learn that we were not in need of care.  We were directed to the Maternity Ward and made our way down the hall.

It was a weird feeling: exhaustion and adrenaline.  This is what we had been anticipating for months now. And he was finally here.

Through the doors of the Maternity Ward, the night nurse knowingly directed us to Room 102. The hall smelled like a hospital. That familiar scent of hospital food is enough to turn anyone's stomach. I was glad we were here for a joyous occasion.

When we cracked the door, we saw him there, nestled safely in his dad's arms. I hurried to her side and hugged her and said, "You did it, Sis!"  Then, I found my way to him and gingerly pulled him into my arms. He was perfect. All the little details, all the tiny fingers, all the smooth skin. Perfect. I handed him to Cole (who, not inconsequentially, was able to calm him from the fit that, apparently, his aunt had set off) who studied and rocked and cooed at his nephew.

We chatted for a little while about the ins and outs of the delivery. And then we needed to go - we had an early morning, after all. So we hugged them goodbye and closed the door to Room 102 behind us.  Back down the hallway, the night nurse bid us, "Congratulations!" And we walked back out of the Maternity Ward.

He held my hand down the hallway. I commented, "It feels kind of funny for her to be congratulating us."  "Yeah," he agreed.

Back out to the lobby, we bypassed the ER and the disappointed doctors. Back out into the cold, empty parking lot, he helped me into the car. Back out to the abandoned interstate, he grabbed my hand.

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. And the air in the car felt heavy. It seemed that both of us were lost in thought and neither one of us wanted to be found. Save for his hand. We drove past the cows and the hop fields and the Safeway and the sleepy downtown and the gate at the end of our road - and still, he held my hand.

I blinked in the brightness of the light streaming from our garage as we pulled up to the house. He gave my hand one more squeeze and said in a shaky voice, "I really hope we get to do that someday."   All I could choke out was, "Me too, babe."

Lean In

Pain is a gift. Think about it: pain serves as a warning, a life raft before the flood overtakes. The pain you feel if you place your hand on a too-hot surface saves you from burning your entire appendage off. The pain of hypothermia alerts us to the fact that we need to warm up, effectively saving our lives. And pain helps us learn (if we're attentive students, that is!) what not to do again. Paring knife blade faces away from the hand... Got it.  It's a gift, this pain thing, to save us from our selves.

I have been thinking lately of how we cope with pain. When do we run? When do we fight? And when do we lean into it? The pain of a knife blade should be fled, the pain of a headache should be fought, and, perhaps, the pain of the muscle ache during a good session of cardio ought to be leaned into.

So what of the pain of grief in the face of infertility? What do we do with that?

My sister-in-law is 41 weeks pregnant today. All topics of conversation anywhere I go revolve around the baby: when she'll deliver, how bad contractions are, is she dilated, is she effaced, when will they induce.... all the questions.  It is as though it's all people can talk about, and, it seems that most of them just see me as a primary source of information.

On Monday I made seven meals. I woke up, went to the store, spent nearly $100 on food, and cooked all day until my feet hurt. Their freezer is now full, and my heart is aching.  I couldn't tell if the tears were just from all the onions I chopped.

Lean in.

On Wednesday, I took my niece to pick out a gift for the new baby. And we came home and felt the movements and the kicks and the contractions. From the outside, looking in, not knowing if I will ever know such kicks firsthand. That night, I painted her toenails since she cannot reach over her swollen belly.

Lean in. Lean in.

Last night, my niece asked me if I had a baby in my belly. I told her that I didn't. And she said, "Well, that's pretty sad, huh?"   Oh, kiddo, you have no idea.

Today, I stopped by the church for music practice. Everyone asked me how she's doing and when she'll deliver and if she's dropped; and they forgot to ask about me. And so I smiled and answered their questions and told them how excited I am to be an aunt five times over.

Lean in. Lean in. Lean in.

Pain is a gift. This pain is reminding me - reminding me of the broken world in which we live, and reminding me that this is not my home and my broken body does not mean I have a broken spirit. It is reminding me of my misplaced hope. Pain is a warning, a life raft that tells me to look up, lean in to the One who is comfort and the One who is good and the One in whom all my hope must rest.

And If Not

It was a familiar feeling. That pit in your stomach, that light-headed spinning, the racing heart. As it turns out, anticipating test results sends me into a near panic attack.

In April 2014, I remember being unable to sleep. My heart would race out of control and the room often felt like it was spinning. It seemed that all of our future hinged on those test results. I refreshed the website, anxious to see if they'd been posted. As I watched the browser buffer, my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest - building, building, buffering.... nothing. The scores weren't posted yet. So I would go on about my day and unsuccessfully try to think about anything else, only to return to refresh the page again in five minutes.

I remember thinking, "All of our future depends on these test results." And, "If the results are good, I'll soon forget all this fruitless, dramatic anxiety."

He passed. Our future plans remained intact. And we rolled our eyes at our unfounded anxiety.

********

It has been almost a year and half since those results. And today found me struck with that familiar light-headed anxiety and a pit that was eating its way through my midsection. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring, head spinning. One way or another I just had to know.  I knew the results were in, but I couldn't be the one to hear them first. They had to call him. And all I could do was wait.

I tried to go on about my day and think about anything else, but I could not. All I could do was stare out the office window.  I sat and I stared and I prayed. I couldn't think clearly enough to assemble a cogent prayer, so all it sounded like was this:

"And if not, He is still good."

Over and over and over again, willing my heart to believe it.

********

That is what this journey has been like. Willing my heart to believe truths that I know I believe; but I tend to have a hard time fusing the theoretical and the practical. What if His good is a "no"? What if our idea of good does not align with His idea of good for us? What if we never have children?

We still don't have the results back yet. We're still waiting, watching phones that haven't rung. We're still clinging to that which we know to be true, and we're still praying that He gives us a baby.

And we're learning to pray, "And if not, God, you are still good."

Waiting

There is so much about this process that just feels like a cruel joke. The waiting room at the OB/Gyn is its own kind of torture.

The receptionist greets me with a smile and a form to sign and asks me if I'm looking forward to my ultrasound. She must not know.  So I feign a smile and simply respond, "Sure." As I sit among expectant mothers in the waiting room, there is an air of excitement: "how far along are you? Do you think it'll be a girl or a boy? We're almost done with our nursery. This is our first! This is definitely our last. Do twins run in the family?" Proud expectant fathers smile wide. And there I sit, surrounded by burgeoning bellies and newborn cries, fighting the urge to join the little ones' chorus.

Hands comfortably rest on swollen midsections. And suddenly I feel conspicuously thin. (For the first time ever.)

The nurse appears at the door and calls my name. As I get up I try to avoid making eye contact with the other women. The one in the purple, stretched-to-capacity maternity top catches my eye and gives me a smile and a slight thumbs up. She has no idea. I lay on the cold exam table, warm jelly on my stomach and probe pressing in on my full bladder and empty womb - all while the rapid thump, thump, thump of a baby's heartbeat can be heard through the exam room walls from the next room over.

Sometimes, it all just feels like a cruel joke.

Brave

It was sandwiched in between "Do you smoke?" and "When was your last cycle?" A question that was innocent enough, and yet, how could she have known the gravity behind my, "Yes,"? She asked it so quickly, so nonchalantly. It's a question she probably asks every patient, but I knew the version she asked me was slightly altered:

"Are you still trying to conceive?"

Still.

Yep. We sure are.

*****

There's a Starbucks exactly two blocks away from my doctor's office. I almost always stop there after my appointments. When I was younger, my mom would take me to McDonald's or Dairy Queen after a rough doctor appointment that required shots or uncomfortable tests. It was my reward for being brave.

And now I'm rewarded with a vanilla latte. If I reward myself for acting brave, perhaps one of these days, I'll actually be brave.

*****

They drew blood yesterday. And I have the bruising on my inner arm to prove it. Step one. The road looms long before us, and it is a scary, scary path to start down. But here we are. Two small, scarlet-filled vials. Deep breath.
Step one.

Insanity

We have been married for five years today. There's something about that benchmark that makes me feel like we should be adults by now, or something. In five years, we have seen so much fun and so much adventure and so much heartache and so much joy and so much of God's hand at work in our lives. In five years, we have moved six times. In five years, we have welcomed four nieces and nephews (soon to be five!). Five years ago, I'm sure we figured we'd have welcomed one of our own by now.

In five years, I've had about 60 periods. The last 15 have found me crying in the bathroom.

I had an anniversary gift for him wrapped in the closet in my office. (To be fair, it has also been a birthday gift, a Christmas gift, a Valentine's day gift, a Mother's Day gift, and a Father's Day gift.) Last August, I bought this figurine when I was just *sure* I was about to tell him that he'd be a dad. Three negative tests later, my monthly reminder was two weeks late and extra heartbreaking. So there it has sat, waiting month after painful month until I have good news to share.

And now, it looks like it'll stay in the closet for another month.

I had a teacher in high school who would often remind us of his favorite (and, in his mind, most applicable to high school sophomores) quote from Einstein who said, "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

Frankly, this whole thing is beginning to feel a little insane.

Ordinary

We sat outside on our back patio last night reading. Half of a glass of red wine sat in front of each of us on the wooden table, and the hot summer day finally relented to a pleasant cool evening. The neighbor's cat brushed across his leg and he greeted her with far more tenderness than I would have. She definitely knows which one of us to prefer. But all living things are like that: drawn to him. Especially kids and animals. I think it's because they just know they can trust him.  (And, perhaps, because he's so gosh darn fun!)

I looked over the yard as the last of the day's light cast shadows and colors on the fence and sighed contentedly, "I love it here." "Me too," he said, "Thank you for being willing to live an ordinary life with me."

"I wouldn't trade it for the world."

And yet, we both agreed, we wished that our life was just a bit more ordinary.

Comfort

What is your only comfort in life and death?

"That I am not my own, but belong with body and soul, both in life and in death, to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from all the power of the devil.  He also preserves me in such a way that without the will of my heavenly Father not a hair can fall from my head; indeed, all things must work together for my salvation. Therefore, by his Holy Spirit he also assures me of eternal life  and makes me heartily willing and ready from now on to live for him."

Heidelberg Catechism 

What It Looks Like

It looks like quiet mornings and second cups of coffee. It's a clean house with everything in its place. It looks like long dinners full of adult conversation and a second glass of wine and "How are you really doing, babe?"

It is spontaneity and last minute road trips. It looks like a quiet evening on the couch reading side by side.

It looks like morning temperature-taking and night-time crying into pillows. It looks like a cavernous home and closed doors to spare bedrooms to spare hearts.

It looks like feeling empty and filled with guilt for the emptiness. It looks like holding other people's babies and feeling both healing and heartache.

It looks like that familiar crease of disappointment I see on his face when I have to tell him month after month, "Not this time, love."  And he responds, though his believability waning, "Maybe next month..."

It looks like clean windows and clean carpets and expensive dinners out and sleeping through the night.

It looks like pretending that her well-intended comment didn't break my heart.

It looks like negative pregnancy tests.

It looks like hopes soaring and hopes dashed. Week after week after painful week.

It looks like lonely Mother's Days and trying not to be selfish in my grief. It is so very lonely.

It looks like hope and heartbreak, joy and sorrow.
And it looks like try again tomorrow.

The Hard

I'm under no impression that it's easy at all. In fact, I'm aware that it's quite hard. I know the complaints are innocent and I know that motherhood is work. Right now, I would give much to be the one with the noisy house and the sleepless nights and the fingerprints on the windows.  Our house is too quiet, too clean, too restful.

I've heard that carrying a child for nearly ten months can ruin your body, your sanity, your ankles. I'm afraid, if I'm not vigilant, that not carrying a child could ruin my body, my sanity, my faith. To where do I run in the hurt? In whom do I place my trust?

I want the hard. I want the sleepless. I want the hurt.

Because right now is hard; right now is sleepless; right now, it hurts. And I'll gladly exchange this hurt for that.

Heart Prayer

You are the father to the fatherless and the comfort to the childless.
In your great mercy, hear the cry of my heart.

For all that you have given, for all that you have taken away,
    and for all that you have withheld,
    that I might grow in the likeness of your Son,
I give you praise and thanks.

In your endless wisdom, withhold nothing from me,
    whether pain, suffering, or immeasurable joy,
    that would cause me throw myself at the foot of your throne in worship, praise, and need.

Set your guard about my heart from the warring bitterness and discouragement.
Teach my heart the song of your comfort.
Teach my soul to hope in you alone.

Carry me in my weakness,
    for in it your power is shown to be perfect
    and your glory declared.

Give me a desire for you that is greater than all else.
Guide my heart in its pursuit of you.



And, God, though I am so very undeserving, would that you would grant me the desire of my heart.

The "i" Word

Well, today it's official. It's been a year. It can be labelled.  And it's a label I never wanted, a label I never thought I'd have.

I've hesitated to write much of the depth of my grief and the difficulty of this season for so many reasons. Perhaps the greatest is that I fear there will come a day when our present situation has changed and these days of waiting and longing are a distant memory and I happen upon this space and reread the aching of my heart and roll my eyes at the dramatics of it all.  Living in fear of the opinion of my future self. Solid logic.

***********
Right now, it just feels all consuming. It is so scary and embarrassing and lonely and painful and exhausting and oh, so very painful. I cried in Target today.  I stood there, right in the middle of the baby aisle, shopping for a baby gift for a friend.  To my left, there stood a new mom with a fuzzy tuft of white hair peeking out of the baby carrier she wore. To my right stood a heavily pregnant teen who was flippantly registering for every.single.thing on the shelves. And there stood I, aching at that very moment with the monthly reminder of our failure, of my empty womb.

I decided that I'd just order something on Amazon.

***********
It's been a year now, and this year has looked nothing like I thought it would.  I thought we'd have a three-month-old by now. I remember the naivete of the earlier days, joking about timing and whether we should attempt to "slant the odds" in favor of having a boy or a girl.  It didn't take long before all we wanted was two pink lines.

We've been in our house for almost a year now, and it's still just the two of us. The door to what is supposed to be our nursery stays closed most of the time. We say it's to save heat, but I know that it's more to save our hearts.

***********
"Infertility," she said. "There are options," she told me. And my head just swam.

I don't want options. I just want the old-fashioned, you-and-me-between-the-sheets and a surprise "positive" two weeks later. I don't want interventions, I want "us" incarnated. The numb begins in my toes and spreads throughout my body until it reaches my eyes and spills over into tears.

I cry a lot now.

***********
I struggle to keep a good attitude.  A friend recently posted about how waiting to find out her baby's gender was "killing her," and all I could think about was how she knows nothing of waiting.  I'm afraid that the longer our waiting stretches into years the more the hope in my heart shrinks. And yet, somehow, every month on the 29th day, my hopes climb more rapidly than logic should allow.

And then the roller coaster hits its peak and comes speeding, fast, towards the ground.  Failed again.

Appointment

I did it. I just made the call.  I have the appointment on April 9, at 3:10pm. And I just don't know what to think.

We've been over it time and again. Should we, or shouldn't we? How long do we continue in this journey before we attempt a detour or a bridge or, heck, a map? If this is successful, will it still be considered 'natural'? My confidence just flew out the window as intervention looms imminent. All of a sudden, I feel like we're adding in a benchmark in this nebulous journey. A time we may look back on as the decision that changed it all. Maybe.

It's not a big deal. It's just a little pill full of natural stuff that makes your body do what it is naturally supposed to do.  So why do I feel all weird inside? It feels like another death, I suppose. A death of the idea of spontaneity and free-spirited-ness. A death of the element of surprise. A death of the way it should be. A death to my idea of how I wanted it to be.

I never wanted it to be like this. I never wanted interventions. I never wanted the grief. I never wanted the hurt. I never wanted the temperature-taking and the calendar-timing. I wanted the "I'm a week late and almost didn't realize it!" I wanted the easy. I wanted the freely given and received intimacy without an awareness of the calendar. I wanted to stop buying tampons. I wanted it to be natural.

I've grieved so much on this journey already. I never thought it'd be like this.

The wind chimes tinkle outside in the spring breeze. It's a season for new life, new beginnings. Not death.

Alone

One thing I never anticipated through this journey (other than, of course, the journey itself) was how utterly alone I would feel. Even around people who have walked this road, I feel lonely. Either because they have been successful and are now buried in diapers or Drivers' Ed, or because they are ten years further along on the journey and I hope I never, ever reach that point.

It's lonely, because how long is it appropriate to continue talking about it with your *extremely* fertile friends?  It's lonely, because when does it become a case of beating a dead horse when your prayer request never changes?  It's lonely because even though his heart is breaking too, we are each grieving different, but the same, things.  It's lonely because our nursery is still empty.