Sweet Girl,
I put you to bed tonight. Normally, Daddy is the one who gets that privilege, but tonight the honor was all mine. And tonight, you gave me a sweet gift: you fell asleep in my arms. Now, we have worked hard to get you to learn to fall asleep on your own. Too hard, perhaps, as now we almost never have the pleasure of watching you slumber safely in our arms or feeling the weight of your sleeping frame on our chests. The weight, oh, the weight.
As I stared down at your 10-month-old face, I couldn't help but think back to all the long, late nights of rocking a newborn you, willing sleep to win out. Your tiny little body fit so perfectly in the crook of my arm. Now, when you stretch to your full length, the width of the chair cannot contain you. Yet you are still my baby girl. Your body still curls around mine instinctively as you nurse. And in those rare, sleepy moments, your head finds its way to the curve in my neck and finds its fit and nestles in. The glorious weight of your little body on mine is one I hope I never forget.
I am absolutely undone by you.
As I rock you and watch your sleeping breaths whisper in and out, in and out, I am undone by the weight of my responsibility. The weight of my hopes for you. The weight of my continuous awareness of my shortcomings. The weight, sweet girl, of my love for you. It's all quite crushing.
How in the world have I been entrusted with such a gift? How can I possibly rise to the occasion to be the kind of mama that you need? How will I ever succeed in not royally screwing this all up?
What a weighty, blessed responsibility this is.
5.8.18
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
I Think I'm Ready
The nursery is set up, the tiny clothes are washed, the floors are scrubbed - again - I guess this means we're ready. Right?
It's funny, this is what we've wanted for so long, what we've waited for and prayed for for years. And here we are, staring down the reality of our lives being forever changed by this little one and suddenly I feel woefully... unready? Ill-prepared?
How does one prepare for their entire life to be upended? (in what I've been assured is the best way possible!) Nevertheless, everything is about to change. Everything in the house is ready, and now we just wait. We can hardly know what lies ahead.
**July 10, 2017**
It's funny, this is what we've wanted for so long, what we've waited for and prayed for for years. And here we are, staring down the reality of our lives being forever changed by this little one and suddenly I feel woefully... unready? Ill-prepared?
How does one prepare for their entire life to be upended? (in what I've been assured is the best way possible!) Nevertheless, everything is about to change. Everything in the house is ready, and now we just wait. We can hardly know what lies ahead.
**July 10, 2017**
Monday, October 2, 2017
12 Weeks a Mom
There are so many things that have happened in the last twelve weeks. So many things I wished so badly I could capture forever and never forget. I've taken more pictures in the last twelve weeks than I have, probably, in my whole life. It is clearly a measly attempt to bottle this time up so I'll never, ever forget.
I never want to forget the wet weight of her warm body, seconds after she left mine. Or the blinking way she stared up at me, tongue flicking in and out already ready to eat. Or the first bleary days in the hospital where we were never sure exactly what time it was or if it was day or night. Or the way he bounced her and walked her around the hospital room, tears silently streaming from his eyes. I never, ever want to forget the transformation of watching my husband become a father.
I never want to forget how he walked her proudly into the house and straight to her nursery - a room we so desperately wanted to fill for so many years. He sat in the chair and rocked her and cried. Or that first evening at home and our first family worship time. And then our first night at home when I sat in the rocking chair in the nursery and just cried at the overwhelming task of keeping her alive.
And then all the nights that followed.
I never want to forget my mom's selfless sacrifice in that first week of Lynn's life - all the dishes, meals, cleaning, meals, and reassuring words. What a comfort it was to have my mom here. I never want to forget watching my brother meet his niece for the first time and the way he looked at her.
Those early days were such a blur and I knew they were slipping past and I wanted so badly to grasp onto them knowing I never could.
The cracked nipples, the bad latch, the tears and formula and trips to Portland and the pumping and the tears, the tears. The healing cream and the feed-by-feed improvement. The fight and the fight and the feeding her from my body at long last.
The lifting of the clouds sometime around week 3 or 4. The first smile where I dashed up the stairs at 6am to interrupt his workout so he could see it too, 3.5 weeks old. The way she looked all swaddled up tight, the way her crib completely dwarfed her once we moved her out of the cosleeper. I never want to forget the way she stretched her arms as soon as the swaddle was undone.
I never want to forget the way her lips pucker when the pacifier or the bottle is removed from her mouth or the way she stretches her neck and coos when she's particularly happy. I never want to forget how engaging she finds the ceiling fan or her dad's t-shirt design.
And now it's October. The month of the anniversary of my last period - the last time I felt that kind of devastation. The month of the anniversary of her conception. The month our world shifted on its axis.
And now she's nearly three months old and I can't quite remember life without her and I'm not sure I want to. If only my memory could hold all of these feelings and experiences and the smell of her head and the grasp of her small (but growing so fast) hand. My heart is so full. This mom thing is so deeply challenging and so incredibly wonderful, I can hardly comprehend it. I catch my breath often as I consider the magnitude of this gift and the weight of this responsibility.
This tiny human - one part me, one part Cole - has been entrusted to us. I never want to forget what an amazing gift she is.
I never want to forget the wet weight of her warm body, seconds after she left mine. Or the blinking way she stared up at me, tongue flicking in and out already ready to eat. Or the first bleary days in the hospital where we were never sure exactly what time it was or if it was day or night. Or the way he bounced her and walked her around the hospital room, tears silently streaming from his eyes. I never, ever want to forget the transformation of watching my husband become a father.
I never want to forget how he walked her proudly into the house and straight to her nursery - a room we so desperately wanted to fill for so many years. He sat in the chair and rocked her and cried. Or that first evening at home and our first family worship time. And then our first night at home when I sat in the rocking chair in the nursery and just cried at the overwhelming task of keeping her alive.
And then all the nights that followed.
I never want to forget my mom's selfless sacrifice in that first week of Lynn's life - all the dishes, meals, cleaning, meals, and reassuring words. What a comfort it was to have my mom here. I never want to forget watching my brother meet his niece for the first time and the way he looked at her.
Those early days were such a blur and I knew they were slipping past and I wanted so badly to grasp onto them knowing I never could.
The cracked nipples, the bad latch, the tears and formula and trips to Portland and the pumping and the tears, the tears. The healing cream and the feed-by-feed improvement. The fight and the fight and the feeding her from my body at long last.
The lifting of the clouds sometime around week 3 or 4. The first smile where I dashed up the stairs at 6am to interrupt his workout so he could see it too, 3.5 weeks old. The way she looked all swaddled up tight, the way her crib completely dwarfed her once we moved her out of the cosleeper. I never want to forget the way she stretched her arms as soon as the swaddle was undone.
I never want to forget the way her lips pucker when the pacifier or the bottle is removed from her mouth or the way she stretches her neck and coos when she's particularly happy. I never want to forget how engaging she finds the ceiling fan or her dad's t-shirt design.
And now it's October. The month of the anniversary of my last period - the last time I felt that kind of devastation. The month of the anniversary of her conception. The month our world shifted on its axis.
And now she's nearly three months old and I can't quite remember life without her and I'm not sure I want to. If only my memory could hold all of these feelings and experiences and the smell of her head and the grasp of her small (but growing so fast) hand. My heart is so full. This mom thing is so deeply challenging and so incredibly wonderful, I can hardly comprehend it. I catch my breath often as I consider the magnitude of this gift and the weight of this responsibility.
This tiny human - one part me, one part Cole - has been entrusted to us. I never want to forget what an amazing gift she is.
Monday, July 10, 2017
Joy after Suffering
I haven't written much over the last ten months and I'm not quite sure why. This has easily been some of the sweetest time we've had in our marriage as we've watched my body grow and change under the weight of this new life. We've marveled at the kicks and rolls and punches that we've both been able to feel. This journey has been, thus far, incredibly humbling, absolutely amazing, and undoubtedly surreal.
After all these years of heartache and tears and pleading and wondering why God was withholding this good gift from us, we've been given the very thing for which we desperately prayed. And, all of a sudden, I am not quite sure how to process it all.
You see, I'd developed a sufferer's identity. Eventually, I grew into a place where I could speak freely and easily of the ways in which God is good in our suffering, even in those times that I doubted it myself. I memorized the party line and recited it at every given opportunity. I knew God was, at all times and in all ways, working for our good and for His glory. That became my refrain: sometimes to share with others in encouragement, but most often preached to my own heart in hopes of convincing myself of its truth.
The night we found out we were pregnant, we had already made plans with some friends. We debated cancelling these plans only because we weren't sure that we'd be able to hide the excitement and joy of the news we'd just learned. We kept our plans with them and made it through the evening without revealing our newest secret. In the car on the way home, I mentioned to Cole that it had been surprisingly easy not to spill the beans. He agreed.
The suffering of infertility had become a glove that we easily slipped on and it fit perfectly. It had so become a part of our story that, even though our story had irreversibly changed, it was so normal to fall back on our old storyline.
And now, everything has changed. This little girl is due to make her appearance any day now. And, as we've walked the beautiful journey of this pregnancy, I have been shocked to discover how hard it has been to assume this new identity: the one of answered prayers and joyous news and getting what we wanted. It is almost as if I had wrestled with God and had come to terms with our relationship being one where I suffered, but He was still good. And now, our story has changed. That particular suffering has ended. We got what we wanted. And He is good.
But suddenly it all begins to feel so very prosperity gospel. Like, we put in our time, cried our tears, said all the prayers, and suddenly God relented. While I should be rejoicing with great abandon, I am tempered in my rejoicing as I try to reconcile why God has chosen to give us the desire of our hearts all while withholding it from others we know. Or why God chose to withhold this gift for over three years, only to lavish us with the richness now. What was the purpose of that season of suffering? And how do I live now in the reality of that answered prayer?
I never anticipated joy being a reason for a crisis of faith - yet here I stand, arms absolutely overflowing with earthly blessing, not to mention the riches that are mine in Christ. I certainly don't deserve this. I'm not even quite sure how to receive it all - thanksgiving feels inadequate in the face of all that I've been given. And yet, isn't that just like me and isn't that just like God and how can I pridefully think that I'd ever be able to respond in adequate thanks or praise for all that God has lavished upon me?
May I receive with joy and thanksgiving all that flows from the throne of grace - both joy and sorrow, ease and suffering - knowing that the King that sits upon it is good and just and kind and wise and his ways are so, so much higher than mine. Praise be to God.
After all these years of heartache and tears and pleading and wondering why God was withholding this good gift from us, we've been given the very thing for which we desperately prayed. And, all of a sudden, I am not quite sure how to process it all.
You see, I'd developed a sufferer's identity. Eventually, I grew into a place where I could speak freely and easily of the ways in which God is good in our suffering, even in those times that I doubted it myself. I memorized the party line and recited it at every given opportunity. I knew God was, at all times and in all ways, working for our good and for His glory. That became my refrain: sometimes to share with others in encouragement, but most often preached to my own heart in hopes of convincing myself of its truth.
The night we found out we were pregnant, we had already made plans with some friends. We debated cancelling these plans only because we weren't sure that we'd be able to hide the excitement and joy of the news we'd just learned. We kept our plans with them and made it through the evening without revealing our newest secret. In the car on the way home, I mentioned to Cole that it had been surprisingly easy not to spill the beans. He agreed.
The suffering of infertility had become a glove that we easily slipped on and it fit perfectly. It had so become a part of our story that, even though our story had irreversibly changed, it was so normal to fall back on our old storyline.
And now, everything has changed. This little girl is due to make her appearance any day now. And, as we've walked the beautiful journey of this pregnancy, I have been shocked to discover how hard it has been to assume this new identity: the one of answered prayers and joyous news and getting what we wanted. It is almost as if I had wrestled with God and had come to terms with our relationship being one where I suffered, but He was still good. And now, our story has changed. That particular suffering has ended. We got what we wanted. And He is good.
But suddenly it all begins to feel so very prosperity gospel. Like, we put in our time, cried our tears, said all the prayers, and suddenly God relented. While I should be rejoicing with great abandon, I am tempered in my rejoicing as I try to reconcile why God has chosen to give us the desire of our hearts all while withholding it from others we know. Or why God chose to withhold this gift for over three years, only to lavish us with the richness now. What was the purpose of that season of suffering? And how do I live now in the reality of that answered prayer?
I never anticipated joy being a reason for a crisis of faith - yet here I stand, arms absolutely overflowing with earthly blessing, not to mention the riches that are mine in Christ. I certainly don't deserve this. I'm not even quite sure how to receive it all - thanksgiving feels inadequate in the face of all that I've been given. And yet, isn't that just like me and isn't that just like God and how can I pridefully think that I'd ever be able to respond in adequate thanks or praise for all that God has lavished upon me?
May I receive with joy and thanksgiving all that flows from the throne of grace - both joy and sorrow, ease and suffering - knowing that the King that sits upon it is good and just and kind and wise and his ways are so, so much higher than mine. Praise be to God.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Sharing the News * Boboths & Friends
Once we shared the news with my family, it was painful to have to wait the six days until we celebrated Christmas with the Boboths. We had planned to celebrate Christmas with them on New Year's Eve, and we decided we would tell them then.
We both woke up early that morning, full of excitement. This would be the day that our secret was completely out! Once we told Cole's family, we could go on and tell everyone else. There was a slight tinge of sadness in that this secret would no longer just be ours, but that feeling was quickly overwhelmed by excitement.
We all made breakfast together in the kitchen. Cole kept catching my eye and winking; his eyes danced with excitement. When breakfast was finally cleaned up, we settled in the living room to open gifts. Again, as with the Schlects, round and round and round we went - opening one gift at a time. We loved watching the kids open their gifts and try on their new bike helmets and play with their toys, but inside we were both squirming, willing them to move faster. Finally, the time came - all the gifts had been opened and we, once again, feigned confusion at the fact that there wasn't another gift under the tree. Cole ran back to the room to grab the gift that we most certainly hadn't forgotten.
He handed it to his mom, and she began to open it. It was his dad that realized what the frame, grainy little image was. He immediately stood up with eyes full of tears and - speechless and dazed-looking - came over and hugged us tight. When the realization hit his mom, she was let out a squeal of delight and turned the picture frame around so the rest of the room could see. I have never seen Everett cry so hard. He just clung to Cole as he sobbed - and Carrie screamed and screamed.
I think the kids were pretty alarmed at the spectacle.
We called Cameron to tell him, and then proceeded to FaceTime with GramGram. Our faces hurt from smiling.
We left not long after to get home to prepare for the NYE party we were hosting for our college friends. Instead, we spent the afternoon calling our family. We got to FaceTime with Brian and Stacie and Von, Andy, and Megan - all of whom cried with us. Calls to all of our aunts and uncles were so much fun. Tyler even told us that he was more excited for our news than he was when he found out he was going to be a dad.
That night, Cole used the AppleTV and put up the footage of our first ultrasound to tell our friends the news. More tears and hugs and story retelling.
*****
The next day, we got to tell our church family. What a gift to get to share this with them too. Adam told us on our way out of church that day, "You know what I'm most looking forward to in 2017? Holding your baby."
We both woke up early that morning, full of excitement. This would be the day that our secret was completely out! Once we told Cole's family, we could go on and tell everyone else. There was a slight tinge of sadness in that this secret would no longer just be ours, but that feeling was quickly overwhelmed by excitement.
We all made breakfast together in the kitchen. Cole kept catching my eye and winking; his eyes danced with excitement. When breakfast was finally cleaned up, we settled in the living room to open gifts. Again, as with the Schlects, round and round and round we went - opening one gift at a time. We loved watching the kids open their gifts and try on their new bike helmets and play with their toys, but inside we were both squirming, willing them to move faster. Finally, the time came - all the gifts had been opened and we, once again, feigned confusion at the fact that there wasn't another gift under the tree. Cole ran back to the room to grab the gift that we most certainly hadn't forgotten.
He handed it to his mom, and she began to open it. It was his dad that realized what the frame, grainy little image was. He immediately stood up with eyes full of tears and - speechless and dazed-looking - came over and hugged us tight. When the realization hit his mom, she was let out a squeal of delight and turned the picture frame around so the rest of the room could see. I have never seen Everett cry so hard. He just clung to Cole as he sobbed - and Carrie screamed and screamed.
I think the kids were pretty alarmed at the spectacle.
We called Cameron to tell him, and then proceeded to FaceTime with GramGram. Our faces hurt from smiling.
We left not long after to get home to prepare for the NYE party we were hosting for our college friends. Instead, we spent the afternoon calling our family. We got to FaceTime with Brian and Stacie and Von, Andy, and Megan - all of whom cried with us. Calls to all of our aunts and uncles were so much fun. Tyler even told us that he was more excited for our news than he was when he found out he was going to be a dad.
That night, Cole used the AppleTV and put up the footage of our first ultrasound to tell our friends the news. More tears and hugs and story retelling.
*****
The next day, we got to tell our church family. What a gift to get to share this with them too. Adam told us on our way out of church that day, "You know what I'm most looking forward to in 2017? Holding your baby."
Sharing the News * Schlects
It wasn't a difficult decision, really, to keep the news to ourselves. After all, there were so many points throughout our infertility journey where we felt all too exposed, all too open. For once, it was really nice to have something that was just ours, our secret to harbor, to whisper back and forth to each other under the covers, to share a knowing smile in the midst of oblivious company. It was easy. Funny how you can be simultaneously bursting at the seams with joy, and yet effortlessly keep the news under wraps.
The timing was such that the Christmas holiday coincided with the end of my first trimester, a logical time to share the news. My entire family, grandparents included, would be gathered together on Christmas morning - ideal. After noticing that my parents lacked a baby monitor (and noting their growing need for one), we decided that that would be the perfect Christmas gift for them - and how we would share our news.
Christmas morning came and we were both a bundle of nerves. How we carried on normally all morning is beyond me. Stockings were opened, breakfast was eaten, and round and round the circle we went opening one gift at a time. With a delightful two year old niece and a grandmother with a tendency to gush, the process took a bit longer than normal. My heart beat out of my chest.
Mom and Dad bestowed the final gifts, and I feigned confusion as to why there was not one more gift under the tree. I ran downstairs to retrieve the wrapped baby monitors, and - as luck would have it - it ended up being the final gift of the morning. (Note: we almost lost my brother and niece to a discipline moment, but were somehow able to keep them in the room.)
Mom opened the gift, sitting in a chair on the edge of the dining room. As she pulled off the wrapping, it quickly became evident that she didn't quite make the connection we were hoping to make. She said, "You know, we DO need one of these! Thank you!" Shaking with adrenaline from head to foot, I mentioned, "And you'll need it even more in July."
She froze. *At this point, I have no idea what everyone else was doing. For some reason, I couldn't take my eyes of my mom.*
"What?! Really?!" with her hand over her mouth.
All I could do was smile through my tears and nod.
She fell to her knees, tears filling her eyes, and crawled across the floor to hug me. Behind her, dad wept and came over to hug Cole. I pulled back from her long enough to see my sisters and grandparents in tears too. We cried a lot as we filled them in on the timeline and smiled at their incredulous gasps that we were already 12 weeks along.
All the tears. All the hugs. I don't think I stopped shaking from the adrenaline for hours.
The rest of the day was a blur of tears and awe. (Especially as Pondra arrived and shared the news that Tyson and Laura were expecting - and Dad shared with them the gift we had given them. More tears and hugging and emoting.) We cried through dinner as we marveled at God's generosity to our family.
It was a Christmas we won't soon forget.
The timing was such that the Christmas holiday coincided with the end of my first trimester, a logical time to share the news. My entire family, grandparents included, would be gathered together on Christmas morning - ideal. After noticing that my parents lacked a baby monitor (and noting their growing need for one), we decided that that would be the perfect Christmas gift for them - and how we would share our news.
Christmas morning came and we were both a bundle of nerves. How we carried on normally all morning is beyond me. Stockings were opened, breakfast was eaten, and round and round the circle we went opening one gift at a time. With a delightful two year old niece and a grandmother with a tendency to gush, the process took a bit longer than normal. My heart beat out of my chest.
Mom and Dad bestowed the final gifts, and I feigned confusion as to why there was not one more gift under the tree. I ran downstairs to retrieve the wrapped baby monitors, and - as luck would have it - it ended up being the final gift of the morning. (Note: we almost lost my brother and niece to a discipline moment, but were somehow able to keep them in the room.)
Mom opened the gift, sitting in a chair on the edge of the dining room. As she pulled off the wrapping, it quickly became evident that she didn't quite make the connection we were hoping to make. She said, "You know, we DO need one of these! Thank you!" Shaking with adrenaline from head to foot, I mentioned, "And you'll need it even more in July."
She froze. *At this point, I have no idea what everyone else was doing. For some reason, I couldn't take my eyes of my mom.*
"What?! Really?!" with her hand over her mouth.
All I could do was smile through my tears and nod.
She fell to her knees, tears filling her eyes, and crawled across the floor to hug me. Behind her, dad wept and came over to hug Cole. I pulled back from her long enough to see my sisters and grandparents in tears too. We cried a lot as we filled them in on the timeline and smiled at their incredulous gasps that we were already 12 weeks along.
All the tears. All the hugs. I don't think I stopped shaking from the adrenaline for hours.
The rest of the day was a blur of tears and awe. (Especially as Pondra arrived and shared the news that Tyson and Laura were expecting - and Dad shared with them the gift we had given them. More tears and hugging and emoting.) We cried through dinner as we marveled at God's generosity to our family.
It was a Christmas we won't soon forget.
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
15 Weeks In...
It's
quite funny really - in sorrow - I found a never-ending well of words. I sat
down to write and words just flowed. It has been fascinating to me how -
in such deep joy - I am rendered speechless. And yet, I feel this
compulsion to record this whole thing, to record what God has done.
Perhaps it feels almost too sacred for words sometimes. I don't
know.
•
We
set up the crib in the nursery last night. I am not sure I’ll ever forget that
picture of Cole leaning over the side rail, still dressed in the clothes he’d
worn to church, adjusting the mattress just right. His first fatherly task –
tightening every bolt a little extra so as to ensure the safety of his child to
come. Is crib-assembly just a rite of passage for dads-to-be?
•
We
left the door to that room closed for so long. And now, with no heed for an electric
bill now heating a room that is yet unused, we leave that door wide open and I
pause almost every time I pass it – I can’t help but to smile.
•
My
belly is bigger these days. I find most clothes to be ill-fitting and
uncomfortable. When I roll over in bed, I can clearly feel that there has been
growth. Though I still seem to be in the “did she just let herself go?” phase –
looking more like I ate too much pizza last night, rather than carrying the
baby for which we’ve prayed.
•
This
week, the bones in the baby’s ears have nearly hardened, enabling our child to
now hear. (granted, quite muffled if
anything) On Saturday morning as we lay in bed, Cole took full advantage of
this newfound ability and – with his head fully under the covers – proceeded to
yell at my stomach how much he loves his little one.
•
People
like to tell us all their horror stories – both in pregnancy and birth. There
is nothing that has yet been able to put a damper on our joy and anticipation. The other day, I watched a video montage of babies just minutes fresh into the world. I fought
back tears the whole time thinking about how, Lord willing, we will have one
too.
•
For
so many years, I thought God’s answer to our prayers was “no.” Here we are, 15
weeks into this, and I still can’t believe his answer is, “now.” To God be the glory.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
9 Weeks In...
Thursday, December 8
Hi Little One,
Those three simple words absolutely bring me to my knees. Your daddy and I only dreamed that we'd be here, now, calling you our Little One. And yet, here we are. There is not a day that passes by that we do not marvel that God has seen fit to give you to us. And we pray daily to steward the gift of you well.
I want to record this here - somewhere - so that we never, ever forget. The journey to you has been long and hard and painful (and, expensive!) and lonely and hard. But here you are, wriggling around inside of me even as my insides are wriggling out of control. (I certainly hope you're getting some sustenance out of the bread-based diet that seems to be all I can stomach right now!)
We found out about you on Friday, November 4 - the day before your daddy turned 29. I had a sneaking suspicion for few days, but I really wanted to be sure and I really wanted to surprise your dad on his birthday. As it was, I couldn't even wait that long. A test that morning revealed your presence and bloodwork came back the same. As soon as I got the call, I ran to my closet to retrieve a gift I bought for your daddy two years ago.
I brought it to him and asked if he'd like to open a birthday gift early. As he tore away the paper and opened the box to reveal a figure of a man cradling a baby, his head shot up and his blue eyes pierced me as he said, "Really?!" All I could do was nod and cry.
Little One, I have only seen your daddy cry three times as long as I've known him. Once, as he watched me walk down the aisle toward him to become his wife. The next time was when his grandfather suddenly passed away. And the third time? Well, I have never seen him cry like the way he did when I told him that we was going to be a daddy.
He was the one that first called you Little One. I'd been walking around talking about "the baby" in general terms; he calls you Little One. Capitalized. He prays for our Little One. Every time he speaks to God, he talks about you.
We get to see you tomorrow for the very first time. We are so excited; we've deemed the day, "Baby Day."
I had my first doctor's appointment on Tuesday. As the nice phlebotomist drew my blood and asked me if you were my first, I couldn't hold back the tears as I told her about you. And, she congratulated me.
Hi Little One,
Those three simple words absolutely bring me to my knees. Your daddy and I only dreamed that we'd be here, now, calling you our Little One. And yet, here we are. There is not a day that passes by that we do not marvel that God has seen fit to give you to us. And we pray daily to steward the gift of you well.
I want to record this here - somewhere - so that we never, ever forget. The journey to you has been long and hard and painful (and, expensive!) and lonely and hard. But here you are, wriggling around inside of me even as my insides are wriggling out of control. (I certainly hope you're getting some sustenance out of the bread-based diet that seems to be all I can stomach right now!)
We found out about you on Friday, November 4 - the day before your daddy turned 29. I had a sneaking suspicion for few days, but I really wanted to be sure and I really wanted to surprise your dad on his birthday. As it was, I couldn't even wait that long. A test that morning revealed your presence and bloodwork came back the same. As soon as I got the call, I ran to my closet to retrieve a gift I bought for your daddy two years ago.
I brought it to him and asked if he'd like to open a birthday gift early. As he tore away the paper and opened the box to reveal a figure of a man cradling a baby, his head shot up and his blue eyes pierced me as he said, "Really?!" All I could do was nod and cry.
Little One, I have only seen your daddy cry three times as long as I've known him. Once, as he watched me walk down the aisle toward him to become his wife. The next time was when his grandfather suddenly passed away. And the third time? Well, I have never seen him cry like the way he did when I told him that we was going to be a daddy.
He was the one that first called you Little One. I'd been walking around talking about "the baby" in general terms; he calls you Little One. Capitalized. He prays for our Little One. Every time he speaks to God, he talks about you.
We get to see you tomorrow for the very first time. We are so excited; we've deemed the day, "Baby Day."
I had my first doctor's appointment on Tuesday. As the nice phlebotomist drew my blood and asked me if you were my first, I couldn't hold back the tears as I told her about you. And, she congratulated me.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
The Long Way
I heard a sermon a few weeks ago that stopped me dead in my tracks. Matt Chandler's voice boomed through the kitchen as I quickly tried to prep the appetizers for our Bible study that night. Partway through his series in Exodus, he was preaching on the actual exodus of the Israelites from Egypt, that moment when God finally ended their slavery and delivered them out from under the Egyptians. He read in Exodus 13:17-18, where it said, "When Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near. For God said, 'Lest the people change their minds when they see war and return to Egypt.' But God led the people around by the way of the wilderness toward the Red Sea. And the people of Israel went up out of the land of Egypt equipped for battle."
And it was this commentary that stopped me with my knife frozen in mid-chop: "It was the mercy of God that led them the long way."
God knew that Israel wasn't ready to see the land of the Philistines. For goodness' sake, they were quite the lot of doubters as it was. And so, in his great mercy and wisdom, God took them in a more circuitous, winding path - certainly not the shortest or most direct. He was equipping Israel as he led them the long way. He was building their faith in him and was preparing them to route the enemy and take the Promised Land. And, because of that, his chosen route for his chosen people likely made little sense to them.
And it was this commentary that stopped me with my knife frozen in mid-chop: "It was the mercy of God that led them the long way."
God knew that Israel wasn't ready to see the land of the Philistines. For goodness' sake, they were quite the lot of doubters as it was. And so, in his great mercy and wisdom, God took them in a more circuitous, winding path - certainly not the shortest or most direct. He was equipping Israel as he led them the long way. He was building their faith in him and was preparing them to route the enemy and take the Promised Land. And, because of that, his chosen route for his chosen people likely made little sense to them.
It was the mercy of God that led them the long way.
It was the mercy of God that led us the long way.
Now, I am quite confident that we will never understand God's timing this side of heaven (or perhaps that side, either!), and I am also quite confident that we often seek to find meaning in the midst and the wake of our suffering. Often, we are called to rest in the knowledge that his ways are higher than our ways and we just will never know the why of things sometimes. But, this I know: long or short, it is God's mercy that has led us on this path. It is his wisdom that has laid the bricks and his loving care that has held us every step of the way.
To God be the glory.
It was the mercy of God that led us the long way.
Now, I am quite confident that we will never understand God's timing this side of heaven (or perhaps that side, either!), and I am also quite confident that we often seek to find meaning in the midst and the wake of our suffering. Often, we are called to rest in the knowledge that his ways are higher than our ways and we just will never know the why of things sometimes. But, this I know: long or short, it is God's mercy that has led us on this path. It is his wisdom that has laid the bricks and his loving care that has held us every step of the way.
To God be the glory.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
The Aftermath
There's always one day out of the month - sometimes more, but always at least one - when the dam breaks. All of the longing and the pain and the emptiness come crashing down, most often at the time of the month that exposes our inability to conceive - once again. Every month, this day looks different. Some days, I am able to carry on as normal. Most days there is a handful of tears shed into a pillow when the bedroom is dark and sleep is distant. And some days, well, some days it's a flood that overwhelms and crushes and threatens to drown and leaves a trail of destruction in its wake.
This month, the tidal wave hit in the shower and I could barely stand. I like to think of myself as a strong person, not prone to emotional outbursts and able to keep my feelings relatively under control. This month, I have never felt so weak, so empty. My sobs muffled by the gurgle of the drain, I sat in the shower and let the hot water pour over me. I picked myself up and dried myself off and stumbled my way back to bed to deliver the news that I hated to have to deliver month after month after aching month.
"I have some bad news," was all I could choke out. And he wrapped his knowing arms around me while my tears soaked his shirt. He curled his body around mine and spoke truth over me to combat the lies he knew I'd be thinking.
"Your body is not broken."
"I'd never want to be with anyone else in a million years."
"You are my family."
"It's not your fault."
"I hate hope," I told him. "It's just too hard." And he held me tighter.
I can't see through my puffy eyes. I didn't even bother with mascara today. For the first time in my career, I took a "Metal Health Day," although he will tell everyone in the office that it's a headache. (which is also - always - true.)
Every month, when the cycle restarts, I am undone, turned inside out - literally and figuratively. While my body aches with the tearing away that feels like a certain kind of death, my heart is similarly being rent in two.
Recently, I sat with a friend who was having trouble at work. I explained to her how difficulties like that are opportunities to extend grace. When that was met with a questioning look, I explained further how, in infertility, I have had to begun to view my interactions with other people as opportunities to extend grace. Choosing to extend the benefit of the doubt that her cutting remark was not intended to deliver the harsh blow that it did; choosing to just "take it" when people offer callous advice; choosing to simply smile and nod in feigned agreement when people remind you that you should be thankful or just relax; choosing to extend grace over and over and over again and bottle up the pain that every single well-intended but oh-so-hurtful comment caused.
I know the right answers. I know the right things to say. I know the truth that God is good and his timing is perfect and he is - at all times and in all ways - working for our good and for his glory. I know that if this is the greatest suffering I ever have to endure, then my life is pretty easy. I know that I should be thankful for what I have: a loving husband, a warm house, a good job, salvation. I know the truth. And the truth is supposed to set you free. But sometimes, the truth is suffocating. Sometimes, extending grace costs greatly. Sometimes, it is so weary to bear the burden of extending grace to others so they don't have to bear the burden.
I am tired and I am weary and I feel empty and so very alone. And I just don't know what to do in the aftermath.
Last night, we moved the yet-unassembled crib out of the spare room and into our storage room. How appropriate.
October 3, 2016
This month, the tidal wave hit in the shower and I could barely stand. I like to think of myself as a strong person, not prone to emotional outbursts and able to keep my feelings relatively under control. This month, I have never felt so weak, so empty. My sobs muffled by the gurgle of the drain, I sat in the shower and let the hot water pour over me. I picked myself up and dried myself off and stumbled my way back to bed to deliver the news that I hated to have to deliver month after month after aching month.
"I have some bad news," was all I could choke out. And he wrapped his knowing arms around me while my tears soaked his shirt. He curled his body around mine and spoke truth over me to combat the lies he knew I'd be thinking.
"Your body is not broken."
"I'd never want to be with anyone else in a million years."
"You are my family."
"It's not your fault."
"I hate hope," I told him. "It's just too hard." And he held me tighter.
I can't see through my puffy eyes. I didn't even bother with mascara today. For the first time in my career, I took a "Metal Health Day," although he will tell everyone in the office that it's a headache. (which is also - always - true.)
Every month, when the cycle restarts, I am undone, turned inside out - literally and figuratively. While my body aches with the tearing away that feels like a certain kind of death, my heart is similarly being rent in two.
Recently, I sat with a friend who was having trouble at work. I explained to her how difficulties like that are opportunities to extend grace. When that was met with a questioning look, I explained further how, in infertility, I have had to begun to view my interactions with other people as opportunities to extend grace. Choosing to extend the benefit of the doubt that her cutting remark was not intended to deliver the harsh blow that it did; choosing to just "take it" when people offer callous advice; choosing to simply smile and nod in feigned agreement when people remind you that you should be thankful or just relax; choosing to extend grace over and over and over again and bottle up the pain that every single well-intended but oh-so-hurtful comment caused.
I know the right answers. I know the right things to say. I know the truth that God is good and his timing is perfect and he is - at all times and in all ways - working for our good and for his glory. I know that if this is the greatest suffering I ever have to endure, then my life is pretty easy. I know that I should be thankful for what I have: a loving husband, a warm house, a good job, salvation. I know the truth. And the truth is supposed to set you free. But sometimes, the truth is suffocating. Sometimes, extending grace costs greatly. Sometimes, it is so weary to bear the burden of extending grace to others so they don't have to bear the burden.
I am tired and I am weary and I feel empty and so very alone. And I just don't know what to do in the aftermath.
Last night, we moved the yet-unassembled crib out of the spare room and into our storage room. How appropriate.
October 3, 2016
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
To God Be the Glory
I turned the faucet off quickly. In my ears, I could hear the quiet popping of bubbles from the shampoo still lathered in my hair. I held my razor silently in midair and covered the gurgling of the drain with my foot so I could hear better. Straining, straining....
Quiet.
I turned the shower back on and continued with my sudsy routine. Shampoo, soap, shave...
We had only been watching her for three days. And, not even three full days at that. I suppose it had only been three mornings that we had been on duty while her parents worked at a conference. I was surprised how, in three short mornings, I had already grown accustomed to her noises, her cries, her happy screeches. So accustomed had I grown that I had even begun hearing her when she made no sound at all. Silly phantom noises.
As childless caregivers, we were completely and utterly overattentive. We'd put her down for a nap, only to sneak in her room twenty minutes later to make sure her chest was still rising and falling, rising and falling. We picked her up perhaps a bit too readily, and we rarely put her down. Not that it was just for her sake, however. We commented often to one another how deeply we longed for this to be our everyday-reality.
Watching my husband look after this petite three-month-old wrecked me. This man was made to be a father. He held her close at all the right times and fearlessly changed diapers and outfits and warmed bottles just right. I have never seen a childless man so at ease with caring for an infant. In the late hours before bedtime as I curled my legs up next to his, we breathed the truth that this whole experience was both healing and heartbreaking. Our arms were full of that for which we deeply longed, but then, we gave her back at noon, when her attentive parents returned and greeted her with the same tenacity with which we longed for what they have.
I snapped off the water again, hair full of conditioner. I was sure I heard her crying this time.
He had told me to take a shower. He said he didn't mind watching her. He assured me that they'd be fine. As I turned off the water, I rolled my eyes at myself a bit - he's so capable, and what would I add or how would I even be helpful in my wet, soapy condition? But I paused all the same. As I strained my ear to listen, it was not her crying that I heard.... I heard something else completely.
He was singing to her.
I stopped for a second and just listened. The words washed over me like the shower head I'd just been standing under... and, regardless of my former resolve, the tears just came.
"To God be the glory, great things He has done. So loved He the world that He gave us His Son who yielded His life, an atonement for sin, and opened the floodgates that all may come in."
Her crying had ceased as his singing calmed her, and the words of his song undid me.
"To God be the glory, great things He has done..."
So often, on this infertility pathway, I pray until I'm breathless that God, for His glory and *obviously* for our good, would grant us the desire of our hearts - that He would do a great thing for us - that he would give us a baby. I have imagined a million different scenarios where we announce our long-awaited pregnancy and everyone around us celebrates riotously. Surely that would bring God glory! Surely this would be a great thing that, quite obviously at this point, only He could do! Clearly a baby in the midst of heartbreaking, unexplained, long-term infertility would demonstrate His power and His glory! Why would He ever withhold such a thing?
"So loved He the world that He gave us His Son who yielded His life an atonement for sin..."
And here I am, an empty-handed child, standing at the foot of the cross, asking the GOD OF THE UNIVERSE why He would withhold one.small.thing. I find myself throwing myself against the Rock of Ages asking why it won't budge for my will! The fist that was raised to the heavens in arrogant frustration is being undone, brought low, gently reminded. My good, good Father has done and will do great things. He has parted seas and breathed life into dry bones and opened and closed wombs and brought heaven to earth and suffered and died for His glory.
And all I can see is my empty womb.
"Oh come to the Father through Jesus the Son, and give Him the glory, great things He has done..."
Here was my husband, cradling someone else's child, cradling a reminder of all that he did not have, and the only thing escaping his lips? Praise.
Praise the Lord, indeed.
Quiet.
I turned the shower back on and continued with my sudsy routine. Shampoo, soap, shave...
We had only been watching her for three days. And, not even three full days at that. I suppose it had only been three mornings that we had been on duty while her parents worked at a conference. I was surprised how, in three short mornings, I had already grown accustomed to her noises, her cries, her happy screeches. So accustomed had I grown that I had even begun hearing her when she made no sound at all. Silly phantom noises.
As childless caregivers, we were completely and utterly overattentive. We'd put her down for a nap, only to sneak in her room twenty minutes later to make sure her chest was still rising and falling, rising and falling. We picked her up perhaps a bit too readily, and we rarely put her down. Not that it was just for her sake, however. We commented often to one another how deeply we longed for this to be our everyday-reality.
Watching my husband look after this petite three-month-old wrecked me. This man was made to be a father. He held her close at all the right times and fearlessly changed diapers and outfits and warmed bottles just right. I have never seen a childless man so at ease with caring for an infant. In the late hours before bedtime as I curled my legs up next to his, we breathed the truth that this whole experience was both healing and heartbreaking. Our arms were full of that for which we deeply longed, but then, we gave her back at noon, when her attentive parents returned and greeted her with the same tenacity with which we longed for what they have.
I snapped off the water again, hair full of conditioner. I was sure I heard her crying this time.
He had told me to take a shower. He said he didn't mind watching her. He assured me that they'd be fine. As I turned off the water, I rolled my eyes at myself a bit - he's so capable, and what would I add or how would I even be helpful in my wet, soapy condition? But I paused all the same. As I strained my ear to listen, it was not her crying that I heard.... I heard something else completely.
He was singing to her.
I stopped for a second and just listened. The words washed over me like the shower head I'd just been standing under... and, regardless of my former resolve, the tears just came.
"To God be the glory, great things He has done. So loved He the world that He gave us His Son who yielded His life, an atonement for sin, and opened the floodgates that all may come in."
Her crying had ceased as his singing calmed her, and the words of his song undid me.
"To God be the glory, great things He has done..."
So often, on this infertility pathway, I pray until I'm breathless that God, for His glory and *obviously* for our good, would grant us the desire of our hearts - that He would do a great thing for us - that he would give us a baby. I have imagined a million different scenarios where we announce our long-awaited pregnancy and everyone around us celebrates riotously. Surely that would bring God glory! Surely this would be a great thing that, quite obviously at this point, only He could do! Clearly a baby in the midst of heartbreaking, unexplained, long-term infertility would demonstrate His power and His glory! Why would He ever withhold such a thing?
"So loved He the world that He gave us His Son who yielded His life an atonement for sin..."
And here I am, an empty-handed child, standing at the foot of the cross, asking the GOD OF THE UNIVERSE why He would withhold one.small.thing. I find myself throwing myself against the Rock of Ages asking why it won't budge for my will! The fist that was raised to the heavens in arrogant frustration is being undone, brought low, gently reminded. My good, good Father has done and will do great things. He has parted seas and breathed life into dry bones and opened and closed wombs and brought heaven to earth and suffered and died for His glory.
And all I can see is my empty womb.
"Oh come to the Father through Jesus the Son, and give Him the glory, great things He has done..."
Here was my husband, cradling someone else's child, cradling a reminder of all that he did not have, and the only thing escaping his lips? Praise.
Praise the Lord, indeed.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Flying Standby
I'll never forget that March morning. I woke up before the alarm sounded, ready - so ready - to start our adventure. Over the course of the last six months, we had been talking about this trip. (If I'm honest, we'd probably been talking about and planning for the trip for over four years, since before we were married!) I had checked the calendar multiple times to make sure that we had the right day and time. We had spent the previous weeks meticulously packing our bags to ensure they were under the weight limit and would fit in the overhead compartment. We were so ready. We were so excited.
On our way to the airport, I double-checked and triple-checked that we had our tickets. We had seats reserved and we were ready. We were so excited.
I had been dreaming about a trip like this since I was a little girl. I would often make up stories and worlds and go there in my imagination. On and off throughout my teens and my college years, I dreamed of a trip like this - and somehow, I just knew I would go someday. I had often thought about what it would be like once I was there, how I would feel, what I might encounter. There were days when the mere preparation for the trip felt a bit overwhelming. But I was determined. We were determined. We were ready. We were so excited.
We got to the airport, tickets in hand, and made our way through security. It was no small feat, but we managed it - our excitement buoyed us through the long, winding lines. We were a little early for our flight so we decided to grab a bite to eat at a nearby eatery. But I was too excited to eat. It was finally time. I was so excited. He finished his meal just as I thought I heard the first call to board over the loud speakers. We rushed to pay, grabbed our bags, and headed to the gate.
There were people everywhere. Apparently, everyone our age had decided to take this trip too. Every visible seat in the waiting area was occupied. Laptops and cell phones were charging in all electrical outlets. Man, this must be a popular destination! The flight was sold out. Oversold, in fact. And our names were ringing through the speaker. (I've never been called to the ticketing counter over the loud speaker before.) Alarmed that something could possibly be wrong, we hurried to the counter to get things figured out before we boarded.
"Overbooked," she said. "Bumped to the stand-by list," she informed us.
"How long will we have to wait?" we inquired.
"Hard to say," was the only answer we received.
Hopeful to be rebooked on the afternoon flight, we settled comfortably into a pair of chairs a short distance from our gate. We plugged in our electronics and did our best to make the best of the situation. Undeterred by the delay, we excitedly talked about what we'd do as soon as we landed and made dinner plans. The second call for boarding sounded, and we watched as another large group of people handed over boarding passes and pulled their carry-on bags aboard. Third and final call yielded a small handful of stragglers.
"An overbooked flight?" I thought to myself as I watched the late arrivals board the plane, "I would be a bit more attentive if I were them." And I nestled my head in his shoulder for the rest of the afternoon. I figured if we stayed nearby, we'd be a sure bet to be on the next flight.
The waiting area had completely emptied. We were the only passengers who had not made the flight. I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for ourselves. How is it that we were the ones that got bumped, that wouldn't make it to the destination on time? How is it that, of all of the other passengers - including those slacking, late arrivals - we had been delayed?
"Oh well," I sighed, "At least there's another flight."
Before too long, the waiting area began filling up with other couples, most of whom were looking as excited as we were. The seats filled, the outlets plugged, the line began to form. We walked to the counter, proactively this time, to ensure that we would indeed be on this flight. I watched the woman behind the counter scan the screen for our names...... scanning.... scanning.... "I'm sorry; you're not on this flight. You'll have to wait overnight. We may be able to offer you a voucher."
Defeated, we staggered away from the counter to consider our options. Should we just go home and try again another time? Should we keep waiting on the chance that our names might be on the next list called? What should we do?
We opted to stay and wait.
So, stay and wait we did. And we watched as each successive group of people boarded the plane and left - a plane we were supposed to be on to a destination we were supposed to visit for a trip we had been planning forever to take. Instead, we were merely spectators. We were spectators watching flights fill with excited passengers and take off, watching flights deplane as people returned, some travel-weary, some bright-eyed from the thrill of the adventure - all having had the same experience. We even watched a young girl - who didn't even have a ticket - walk up to the counter and straight onto the plane. No questions asked.
It was time to consider our options. It was beginning to feel as though we may never be placed on a flight. Should we find a bus? Maybe there was a train that could take us? Is there any other route we could take to get to our desired destination?
I felt a trickle of grief set in. Sure, we could take another form of transportation, but it would take so.much.longer. It wouldn't be the same, would it? It seemed simple enough: just hop on a plane and go. Literally everyone else was able to do it. Why couldn't we? Why did we have to be relegated to bus travel, roadtripping, and the like? We had been responsible - we had bought our tickets early, we had arrived to the gate on time. Why were we the ones who didn't make the flight?
In his wisdom he said, "It doesn't matter how we get there, as long as we get there eventually, right?" I tried to agree; I tried to believe him. But, deep down, I longed to take the trip, be a part of the club that everyone else belonged to. Suddenly, in the middle of a bustling airport terminal, I felt so very alone.
******
This, my friends, is infertility.
On our way to the airport, I double-checked and triple-checked that we had our tickets. We had seats reserved and we were ready. We were so excited.
I had been dreaming about a trip like this since I was a little girl. I would often make up stories and worlds and go there in my imagination. On and off throughout my teens and my college years, I dreamed of a trip like this - and somehow, I just knew I would go someday. I had often thought about what it would be like once I was there, how I would feel, what I might encounter. There were days when the mere preparation for the trip felt a bit overwhelming. But I was determined. We were determined. We were ready. We were so excited.
We got to the airport, tickets in hand, and made our way through security. It was no small feat, but we managed it - our excitement buoyed us through the long, winding lines. We were a little early for our flight so we decided to grab a bite to eat at a nearby eatery. But I was too excited to eat. It was finally time. I was so excited. He finished his meal just as I thought I heard the first call to board over the loud speakers. We rushed to pay, grabbed our bags, and headed to the gate.
There were people everywhere. Apparently, everyone our age had decided to take this trip too. Every visible seat in the waiting area was occupied. Laptops and cell phones were charging in all electrical outlets. Man, this must be a popular destination! The flight was sold out. Oversold, in fact. And our names were ringing through the speaker. (I've never been called to the ticketing counter over the loud speaker before.) Alarmed that something could possibly be wrong, we hurried to the counter to get things figured out before we boarded.
"Overbooked," she said. "Bumped to the stand-by list," she informed us.
"How long will we have to wait?" we inquired.
"Hard to say," was the only answer we received.
Hopeful to be rebooked on the afternoon flight, we settled comfortably into a pair of chairs a short distance from our gate. We plugged in our electronics and did our best to make the best of the situation. Undeterred by the delay, we excitedly talked about what we'd do as soon as we landed and made dinner plans. The second call for boarding sounded, and we watched as another large group of people handed over boarding passes and pulled their carry-on bags aboard. Third and final call yielded a small handful of stragglers.
"An overbooked flight?" I thought to myself as I watched the late arrivals board the plane, "I would be a bit more attentive if I were them." And I nestled my head in his shoulder for the rest of the afternoon. I figured if we stayed nearby, we'd be a sure bet to be on the next flight.
The waiting area had completely emptied. We were the only passengers who had not made the flight. I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for ourselves. How is it that we were the ones that got bumped, that wouldn't make it to the destination on time? How is it that, of all of the other passengers - including those slacking, late arrivals - we had been delayed?
"Oh well," I sighed, "At least there's another flight."
Before too long, the waiting area began filling up with other couples, most of whom were looking as excited as we were. The seats filled, the outlets plugged, the line began to form. We walked to the counter, proactively this time, to ensure that we would indeed be on this flight. I watched the woman behind the counter scan the screen for our names...... scanning.... scanning.... "I'm sorry; you're not on this flight. You'll have to wait overnight. We may be able to offer you a voucher."
Defeated, we staggered away from the counter to consider our options. Should we just go home and try again another time? Should we keep waiting on the chance that our names might be on the next list called? What should we do?
We opted to stay and wait.
So, stay and wait we did. And we watched as each successive group of people boarded the plane and left - a plane we were supposed to be on to a destination we were supposed to visit for a trip we had been planning forever to take. Instead, we were merely spectators. We were spectators watching flights fill with excited passengers and take off, watching flights deplane as people returned, some travel-weary, some bright-eyed from the thrill of the adventure - all having had the same experience. We even watched a young girl - who didn't even have a ticket - walk up to the counter and straight onto the plane. No questions asked.
It was time to consider our options. It was beginning to feel as though we may never be placed on a flight. Should we find a bus? Maybe there was a train that could take us? Is there any other route we could take to get to our desired destination?
I felt a trickle of grief set in. Sure, we could take another form of transportation, but it would take so.much.longer. It wouldn't be the same, would it? It seemed simple enough: just hop on a plane and go. Literally everyone else was able to do it. Why couldn't we? Why did we have to be relegated to bus travel, roadtripping, and the like? We had been responsible - we had bought our tickets early, we had arrived to the gate on time. Why were we the ones who didn't make the flight?
In his wisdom he said, "It doesn't matter how we get there, as long as we get there eventually, right?" I tried to agree; I tried to believe him. But, deep down, I longed to take the trip, be a part of the club that everyone else belonged to. Suddenly, in the middle of a bustling airport terminal, I felt so very alone.
******
This, my friends, is infertility.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Tired
I'm tired. Tired of waiting, tired of timing, tired of temperature-taking, tired of scheduling, tired of hoping. This whole thing is exhausting.
I'm tired. Tired of cramping, tired of bleeding, tired of trying, tired of hoping, tired of crying.
I'm tired. Tired of being gracious in the face of probing questions. I'm tired of coming up with socially-acceptable excuses. I'm tired of baby showers and pacifiers. I'm tired of this big house that swallows us whole.
I'm tired. Tired of baby talk, tired of being everyone's infertile friend, tired of always being on the outside.
I'm tired of the longing. I'm tired of the pain. I'm tired of this roller coaster we can't seem to escape.
I'm just so very tired.
I'm tired. Tired of cramping, tired of bleeding, tired of trying, tired of hoping, tired of crying.
I'm tired. Tired of being gracious in the face of probing questions. I'm tired of coming up with socially-acceptable excuses. I'm tired of baby showers and pacifiers. I'm tired of this big house that swallows us whole.
I'm tired. Tired of baby talk, tired of being everyone's infertile friend, tired of always being on the outside.
I'm tired of the longing. I'm tired of the pain. I'm tired of this roller coaster we can't seem to escape.
I'm just so very tired.
Monday, April 25, 2016
When God Says, "No"
But what if God says, "No"? I cried into his shirt. I couldn't hold back the sobs. It was like the realization had suddenly dawned on me and the floodgates that had been so strong for so long just broke. I had just finished scrolling through a litany of pastel-clad family photos on social media, and the ever-present ache was ever-present-er. But this one surprised me. I get Christmas and I totally understand on Mother's Day, but Easter? That's a new one. This Easter did me in.
It's been two years, and I really feel the door closing. I feel like it may be time to accept God's answer that we may have been denying for quite awhile now. We've exhausted the foreseeable options. We've scheduled and tried and prayed and cried. I'm tired, I'm weary, and I'm done trying. And I just don't know where to go from here.
I read this the other day and want to post it here so I never forget it:
It's been two years, and I really feel the door closing. I feel like it may be time to accept God's answer that we may have been denying for quite awhile now. We've exhausted the foreseeable options. We've scheduled and tried and prayed and cried. I'm tired, I'm weary, and I'm done trying. And I just don't know where to go from here.
I read this the other day and want to post it here so I never forget it:
"God often has to pry my fingers off my desired outcome. Though I’ve felt devastated by his “no’s,” as I submit to his will—often with disappointment and tears—he assures me he’s working for my good. I see only part of the picture. He has a purpose in his denials. The Father said “no” to the Son. And that “no” brought about the greatest good in all of history."
There is a very real chance that God is saying, "no" to biological children for us. The grief at that thought is inexplicably overwhelming. And I know that God will have to pry my fingers off this particular desired outcome. I don't want this road, I don't want this burden, I don't want this story. I'm trying to trust that He is working for my good and for His glory, but it's so very hard. I know I only see part of the picture, but I want to see a different part. I want to see the part where my husband is a father and our nursery is full and our house is noisy and my heart doesn't hurt like this.
******
Yesterday, we found out that we won't have a baby in 2016. We will celebrate the holidays childless, again. We will both turn 29 childless. We will ring in 2017 with an empty nursery. Again.
God has said, "No," to a child this year, and today I'm feeling the weight of that.
March 29, 2016
Yesterday, we found out that we won't have a baby in 2016. We will celebrate the holidays childless, again. We will both turn 29 childless. We will ring in 2017 with an empty nursery. Again.
God has said, "No," to a child this year, and today I'm feeling the weight of that.
March 29, 2016
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Missing
I miss someone who's never there
Whose presence I've never known.
Whose absence leaves me emptier still
And makes me feel alone.
I miss someone I've never met
Whose face I've never seen.
I miss his smell and smile and laugh,
All that has never been.
I miss someone I've never met
His room stays ever bare.
It eats away at me inside
With sorrow and despair.
I miss someone who's never been
This weight, my heart can't bear.
I miss what could have, should have been.
I miss the baby that's not there.
Whose presence I've never known.
Whose absence leaves me emptier still
And makes me feel alone.
I miss someone I've never met
Whose face I've never seen.
I miss his smell and smile and laugh,
All that has never been.
I miss someone I've never met
His room stays ever bare.
It eats away at me inside
With sorrow and despair.
I miss someone who's never been
This weight, my heart can't bear.
I miss what could have, should have been.
I miss the baby that's not there.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
The Most Dangerous Side-Effect
She gave me five white pills with specific instructions on when to take them. They were small, these white pills. One morning, I almost forgot to take one; another morning, I almost dropped one down the drain as I wrestled it from its packaging. They were little, these white pills, but they had a big job. They were supposed to right the hormones and balance things out and make my body do what it is supposed to do. They were supposed to slant the odds in our favor.
They came with a list of possible side-effects, these small, white pills. You know the ones: headache, nausea, dry-mouth, dizziness, heart attack and death... Yeah, those kind. I had researched and read about stories of these side-effects, and I hoped I'd be part of the lucky few who escaped unscathed. Well, no such luck.
It was the day that I took the fourth pill that the side-effects started. For thirteen days in a row, I battled headaches from the moment I woke up until the time I could finally go to bed again. The nausea came in waves; I cramped at times when I shouldn't have cramped; I was unrecognizably irritable; I cried at commercials and got unreasonably frustrated at baked-on scum as I did dishes. For over three weeks, I felt like I didn't know myself. The side-effects were strong, I only hoped it was worth it. But perhaps that which was the hardest of all, the most dangerous of all the side-effects, was that tiny sliver of hope that wormed its way into both of us. This month we had a reason to hope. And that was hardest of all.
After over two years of trying, our hope seems to be waning. After all, it does seem a bit ridiculous to continue doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for different results. So, even though every month is full of hope followed by disappointment, our hope is somehow tempered by a bit of reality that says, "You didn't do anything different this month. Don't expect too much." But, this month was different. Those tiny white pills changed everything. And, in an instant, the walls that we'd built around our hope came crashing down allowing hope to soar - that tender, delicate thing - making its crash landing all the more painful.
I can handle the nausea, the cramping, the headaches... but this hope? It's just too much for me.
They came with a list of possible side-effects, these small, white pills. You know the ones: headache, nausea, dry-mouth, dizziness, heart attack and death... Yeah, those kind. I had researched and read about stories of these side-effects, and I hoped I'd be part of the lucky few who escaped unscathed. Well, no such luck.
It was the day that I took the fourth pill that the side-effects started. For thirteen days in a row, I battled headaches from the moment I woke up until the time I could finally go to bed again. The nausea came in waves; I cramped at times when I shouldn't have cramped; I was unrecognizably irritable; I cried at commercials and got unreasonably frustrated at baked-on scum as I did dishes. For over three weeks, I felt like I didn't know myself. The side-effects were strong, I only hoped it was worth it. But perhaps that which was the hardest of all, the most dangerous of all the side-effects, was that tiny sliver of hope that wormed its way into both of us. This month we had a reason to hope. And that was hardest of all.
After over two years of trying, our hope seems to be waning. After all, it does seem a bit ridiculous to continue doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for different results. So, even though every month is full of hope followed by disappointment, our hope is somehow tempered by a bit of reality that says, "You didn't do anything different this month. Don't expect too much." But, this month was different. Those tiny white pills changed everything. And, in an instant, the walls that we'd built around our hope came crashing down allowing hope to soar - that tender, delicate thing - making its crash landing all the more painful.
I can handle the nausea, the cramping, the headaches... but this hope? It's just too much for me.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Unfinished Business
I thought we were pregnant this month. I really did. I know, I know... I say that every month; but this month had all the signs, all the symptoms, everything was adding up. It all made sense. That is, until the cramps started and we were sent spiraling back to square one.
Three or four nights ago, I asked Cole if he thought we had grown at all over the course of the last two years in regards to our infertility. As sure as I was that we were pregnant, I had this moment of panic: What if we finally got that which we had been praying for, hoping for, working towards for the last two years and we were no different than when we started? What if our "situation" gets resolved and we remain unchanged? Would these last two years have been for nothing?
After all, I still feel the same empty longing that I have felt every.single.month. for the last two years. I still feel the same disappointment that I have felt every.single.month. for the last two years. I still vacillate between high hope and apathy. I still try to manage our infertility on my own. My prayers are still so stifled.
There was a point about one year into this journey that I viewed this trial as an opportunity. I had hoped that this would blow my prayer life wide open and suddenly my dependence upon the Lord would be all-consuming and I would spend hours and hours in the Word. And yet, here I am, two years later, still limping along two weeks by two weeks.
And so, God, in His unending grace, has given me more time rather than a baby. He has given me more time to turn to Him, more time to learn to rely on Him. He has given me more time with just the two of us so He can finish His unfinished business in me. What a good, good Father.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Sit in the Pain
In high school, my entire world fell apart. Granted, when
one is in high school, her world is ridiculously small. My two best friends left my school – leaving me
friendless and questioning everything. I
felt empty and sad and lonely and hurt. So much sophomore pain. In an effort to survive, I threw myself into
any and every activity that school provided – both within the classroom and
without. Knowledge Bowl, Golf Team, ASB,
Worship Team – you name it, I was on it. I found a new circle of friends and I
moved on. Though a large part of me still felt lost, I chose to ignore the
pain.
I graduated and headed to college. Somehow, even with this brand
new start, the empty, sad, lonely hurt found me there too. So, I explored the big city, found a job at the library, played the piano for hours - but I could not shake the pain. So I moved home.
I lived with my parents while attending a local university. I was sad, lonely, empty. I was at a new university and felt completely on the outside. So, I threw myself into church activities and Bible studies and game nights. I smiled and laughed and forced my feet into running shoes in the name of cheap therapy. The pain was stuffed away, left to be dealt with another day.
When I look back over my life, I have seen a pattern of running. Running away from the uncomfortable, running away from the pain. If I can distract myself with other things, it is almost as though I can deny the pain exists. Rather than face the pain, I either attempt to fix it or I flee it. A few months ago, in the midst of this crazy, heart-wrenching journey, a phrase came to mind that has stuck with me:
Sit in the pain.
I am a fixer. I am a mover and a shaker. And I get things done. If it's broken, I'll find a way to fix it. If it runs inefficiently, I'll change the process. If it hurts, I run, I distract myself, I numb it away. I don't let pain wash over me. Rather, I jump the waves and pretend like it's not splashing my ankles.
In this season of infertility, I find myself falling into those same tendencies. I could just "fix it" by continuing to run every test known to mankind or by jumping into the adoption process. I could run from it by continuing to immerse myself in work and ministry. But, lately, I've sensed that God is calling me to a third alternative: Rest. Sit. Stay. Feel.
Like gold refined, I want to force my hand to the fire to allow the heat of this trial to incinerate those human parts of me that cling so fiercely. I want the heat of suffering to build in me the character of Jesus for the glory of God. I want this pain to have purpose.
Sit in the pain.
I am a fixer. I am a mover and a shaker. And I get things done. If it's broken, I'll find a way to fix it. If it runs inefficiently, I'll change the process. If it hurts, I run, I distract myself, I numb it away. I don't let pain wash over me. Rather, I jump the waves and pretend like it's not splashing my ankles.
In this season of infertility, I find myself falling into those same tendencies. I could just "fix it" by continuing to run every test known to mankind or by jumping into the adoption process. I could run from it by continuing to immerse myself in work and ministry. But, lately, I've sensed that God is calling me to a third alternative: Rest. Sit. Stay. Feel.
Like gold refined, I want to force my hand to the fire to allow the heat of this trial to incinerate those human parts of me that cling so fiercely. I want the heat of suffering to build in me the character of Jesus for the glory of God. I want this pain to have purpose.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, November 27, 2015
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.
May we never let a lack of an ending keep us from telling the story.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)