un(expected)

Almost exactly two years ago, our pastor at church was preaching about the story of Hannah.  As part of the service, Hubby and I shared about our own journey through infertility and our experience as we "waited on the Lord."  We shared about the tough stuff, the anger and disappointment and tears.  We shared about the lessons we were learning and the unexpected blessings that had come out of our experience.  And we shared about the peace that was slowly growing in our hearts as we continued to wait.

It is a fascinating thing, the effect this journey has had on me.  From depression, anger and grief to resignation, peace, and eventually contentment and even joy.  I was telling someone recently (finally) that I have slowly come to appreciate the time I have spent wrestling with infertility.  It has been incredibly difficult, this waiting and hoping and longing, the roller coaster of emotions and the disappointment of each seemingly closed door.  But I feel richer and deeper for having gone through the past six and a half years.  Life is hard.  Tough things happen to good people.  God won't always do what you ask him to, but that doesn't mean that he isn't good, that he isn't present, that he loves you any less.

                               He won't say the words you wish that he would
                               Oh, he don't do the deeds you know that He could
                               He won't think the thoughts you think He should
                               But He is good, He is good

                                                                       Kendall Payne - "Aslan"

It has taken me a long time to understand and truly believe that.  And even longer to accept it and find joy in circumstances I wouldn't have chosen for myself.  To be content, trusting that God is at work even though he seems silent.

Two years ago, as we stood up in front of our church family, we were just figuring these things out.  We didn't know what God was doing, and occasionally often wondered if he was doing anything at all.  We didn't know how or when our story would end.  And we still don't.  But, after six long years of waiting and wondering, we now know a little more about what to expect in the (totally UNexpected) next chapter...

**

**

**

**
**
**

**

**

**

**

**

Meet our little peanut.  Due to arrive 5/22/12.  We are incredibly, unbelievably, undeservedly blessed.  Morning any-time-of-day sickness has never felt so good.

 

epiphany

The other week, I had an epiphany (not to be confused with an epiphanie, which would also be cool).

(gratuitous spring shot, in no way related to this post)

I was sitting in church, and our pastor was preaching about...well...frankly, I don't remember what he was preaching about.  But to illustrate a point, he told a story about a man who was gradually going blind from an eye disease.  As he struggled to come to terms with his new reality, he prayed a prayer that went something like this:  "Lord, if it's your will, please take this hardship from me.  But I know that my purpose is to glorify you, and if I can do that best as a blind man, then so be it."  (He is still blind).

And I thought, "YES." 

It was as if things suddenly made a whole lot more sense.

Dealing with infertility is hard.  Really, really hard.  And it is very easy for the infertile woman to feel like God doesn't care.  He may or may not be listening to all the prayers and cries she (sometimes angrily) sends his way, but He doesn't care enough to change her circumstances.  And it is also easy to feel like she isn't good enough.  I thought many times that God might be preventing me from having any more kids because He didn't think I was a good enough parent to handle more than one child.

But as I have grown through my struggle with infertility, I have come to realize that I am not being punished.  God does care.  He does listen.  He has not healed me (physically, anyway), but that doesn't mean that He is gone.  He has allowed me to walk the rough road of infertility, but He is there on that same road with me, sometimes walking alongside me and Hubby, sometimes carrying one or both of us.  And I can choose to wallow in self-pity and rant at Him about how unfair life can be.  Or, I can choose to glorify Him through the unfairness.  I can choose to believe that maybe He does have a plan after all.  That maybe He really can make something beautiful out of something ugly.  I have already been learning this lesson on my own as the raw pain has slowly healed, but this man's prayer puts my vague hunches and nebulous thoughts into concrete words.

There are others who have taken this man's prayer to heart - Steven Curtis and Mary Beth Chapman come to mind.  Through the tragedy of their daughter's death, they are choosing to glorify God through the pain.  The people of Haiti, who danced through the streets, praising God days after they had lost so much in the earthquake.  And many, many others.

So.  I am choosing to believe that I can glorify God more through my infertility than I could have with the four children (spaced two years apart, and they would always get along with each other and be best friends) that we had planned on.  How, exactly, I don't know.  In some ways, I feel there are big parts of our story that are yet to be written.  But it helps, somehow, to have a purpose.  Not the purpose I had chosen for myself, but one that God (who knows a whole lot more than I do) has chosen for me.

P.S.  The blind man is John Hollenbach.

letting go {again}

Kiddo is in bed.  And so is poor Hubby, who was hit with a bad cold yesterday. 

I'm camped out on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, computer in my lap, purring cat nearby, and Jane Austen in the DVD player.  Aaaaaah...

Today I took a load of stuff to the thrift shop.  Included in that load was the bag of maternity clothes that I have had stashed up in the attic for the past seven years.

I haven't been able to let them go until now, hoping that I would have a need to wear them again.  But I've been thinking for a while that I was ready to pass them on to someone else, so today I threw them in the car with the other stuff and drove to the thrift store.  I was fine until I started to climb into the car after dropping them off, and I saw the man grab the bag and carry it into the store.  And then, out of nowhere, the tears came. 

Why is it, do you think, that grief is like that?  You think that you've conquered it, and then, whoops, there it is again.  And why is it, that when you surrender something to God, you find yourself having to surrender it again and again?

I'm fine, really.  I was just surprised by my reaction.  I've shed a few additional tears this afternoon, but all is well. 

Of course, I would be thrilled if I should suddenly find the need to go shopping for replacement maternity clothes...

my turn

Is it just me, or do you also sometimes find that it's easier to see God working in someone else's life than it is to see the ways he is working in yours?

Maybe it's not so much that I don't see God moving in my life, because I do - in so many different ways - but that I don't see him working in one particular area of my life - that of our longing to have more children.

While I have come to terms, in many ways, with my infertility, what is frustrating to me is that we have been on this journey for over five years now, in one form or another, and I feel like God has been largely silent the whole time.  I believe he has been here, traveling this road with us, but he has been a pretty quiet traveling companion.  He hasn't been saying much (or we haven't been hearing much), no matter how many times we have asked him for wisdom and direction.

And what makes it even more frustrating is that I see him speaking so loudly and clearly to friends in similar situations.  I see him blessing friends with successful pregnancies after fertility treatments.  I see him quickly matching friends with birth families in the U.S.  I see him giving friends a heart for orphans in another country and then "moving mountains" to unite them with their adopted child(ren) - providing the finances necessary, shortening expected wait times, healing children of special needs, speaking clearly about whether or not to accept a referral.  Just this week, one friend has given birth to her second child, one friend has given birth to her fourth, I read a blog post from another friend who has been matched with her Chinese daughter (the details of this story are awesome, but too many to share here), and another blog post from a friend who is traveling to Ethiopia two months earlier than expected to bring home her son.

I love hearing those stories.  I am, and have been, excited for these friends, and I want to celebrate with them and praise God with them.  But sometimes I can't help but feel left out.  I find myself crying out, "Okay, Lord, when is it MY turn?  Can't I join in on the fun?  When do I get to tell others about the miracles you've done to bring OUR family together?  We're not getting any younger, you know..."

If you are a friend of mine, please don't take this the wrong way.  Pleasepleaseplease PLEASE keep sharing your stories with me.  I am truly interested in what is going on in your life.  I want to see pictures of your little ones and share in the joys (and challenges) of parenthood.  I may be envious, but that doesn't mean that I don't want to hear it or that I don't want to rejoice with you.  I do!!  For reals.

I just don't understand why God has been silent for so long, has made us wait for so long.  It is hard to continue to have hope when we have been disappointed so many times and when everyone else's prayers seem to be getting answered, but not ours.  Is our answer to just continue to wait?  For how long?  Or, if we are meant to adopt internationally instead of in the U.S. (where we are currently trying to adopt), why haven't we been given some sort of nudge in that direction?  Or are we meant to have just one child?

For now, I will choose to continue to believe that God knows what he is doing.  I will choose to trust that he has our best interests at heart.  I will choose to believe that he hasn't forgotten us, that he is moving, and we just can't see it yet.  Some day, we'll be drinking the lemonade that he squeezes from this lemon.

***

I was sure by now
God, You would have reached down
and wiped our tears away
stepped in and saved the day
but once again, I say "amen," and it's still raining

As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
and as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
and takes away

And I'll praise You in this storm
and I will lift my hands
for you are who You are
no matter where I am
and every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
and though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm

(from "Praise You in this Storm" by Casting Crowns)

***

P.S.  I don't want to ignore the blessing of the child that we do have.  I am so thankful for him, that I was able to experience pregnancy at least once, that I have the opportunity to parent this amazing kid.  Many women are longing for their first child, and my heart just breaks for the pain I know they are suffering.  I am thankful.  And praying for those who have not (yet) been blessed in the same ways that I have been.