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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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:

"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