As the sorrow of infertility turned to the nervous hope of a positive pregnancy test, followed by the agony of miscarriage, I knew it was right to rail against the intruder Death and his terrible assistant Sickness. These aliens who don’t knock but intrude right into the breakfast table of life and take away good things. Things like unborn babies and joy. It meant I might never know what it is like to have a little person with little feet to kiss. It meant I might never know the faces of the tiny ones who disappeared too soon.
Coping with infertility draws on deep emotional resources and at times the well has been bone dry. As our fears were realised and hopes dashed in a single ultrasound, the Lord reminded me of the way he had sustained me in the past and that I could trust him to make good on his promise to be near me. It occurred to me that it wasn’t a matter of being strong enough to ‘get through it’ but submitting to the Lord, that his everything would be magnified in my nothing. Even in my tears and my anger, he is sufficient. (Phil. 4:19) It’s not denial, because I still cry and it’s not avoidance because I still have a cloud about my shoulders but it’s a searching for grace and an expectation of the Lord’s kindness.
In sorrow, my thoughtful words and clear head vanish. Sometimes my prayers have consisted of little more than a desperate “help me trust you!” and I think that’s OK, for a season, especially considering the Spirit helps us in our weakness (Rom. 8:26). Further, I have found it helpful to not pray specifically “Lord, please give me a child.” I have left that prayer to others and even as kind friends have prayed that God might grant me “my deepest desires,” meaning, a child, I know that actually, my deepest desires are for the glory of Jesus, that his name be magnified in abundance or the wilderness. So, it has helped me to pray “Lord, let me trust you,” because he loves to give good gifts to His children (Matt. 7:11) and he won’t deny that kind of request (1 John 5:14-15).
This journey has been a good reminder that there are lots of people on long, hard roads, particularly those who grieve absence. I do hope these trials have made me gentler. It reminds me that it’s worth using language really carefully. It’s terribly easy to complain about one’s spouse or child or to speak as though there is nothing else in the world. If anything, this probably betrays an unhelpful preoccupation with those blessings! Knowing that these things are unmerited, undeserved gifts should rein our tongues and provide us with some temporal perspective.
For far too long, I had impossibly high expectations of those around me to support me in the flood. And it took me too long to realise that no one really could truly help me, save my heavenly Father. In fact, the Lord is my best friend and I need to use him, lean on him, expect on him and he’s the one who never fails. That helped me to cope with the short-comings of others, as inevitably, friends did fail, through disinterest or silence or careless words. However, it occurred to me that there might be a thing about planks and specks. Maybe this journey had cultivated some planks that meant I couldn’t see what was going on for others. Leaning on Christ as my brother and friend (John 15:15), meant that when others reached out even a tiny bit, I could see grace in that gesture.
Know that infertility is a hard road. So much of it is unseen. And it’s really good when you can walk the road with those going through it. Have courage to ask about the markers, junctions, speed bumps and mountains. For some couples, like those waiting for adoption, there are no markers. It is one long, seemingly endless road with no change of scenery to speak of. Not only is there the frustrating failure of bodies; there is also (certainly in the Australian context) the added burden of bureaucratic ineptitude, absence of information and red tape that seems designed to prevent any adoptions taking place at all. When these folk retreat, move toward them. Be in their lives. Let them know they’re not alone.
The process of dealing with infertility and miscarriage is physically invasive, financially challenging and emotionally exhausting. Doctors ask about things you’d really rather keep private. Things get tested that you’d rather not think about. Some folk go on to navigate the ethical minefield of IVF. Others just wait and wait and wait. While others press on to the no-man’s-land of foster-care or adoption. There are myriad pregnancy complications and hardships. Women (particularly) are sometimes operating under very difficult circumstances. It’s big and it’s hard work. A reminder for us to be very, very gentle with each other.
I don’t know what the ending will be. Well, I don’t know what the earthly ending will be. Surprising, probably, because the Lord always surprises me! I don’t know if my hope for another child will be realised. But I know what the “other” ending will be. I know that my hope is found in the Man of Sorrows, despised and crushed. There will be a time when moth and rust don’t destroy (Matt. 6:20, Isa. 65:20). I know one day I will be whole and that the maker of the universe will wipe my tears, even as they flow today.
Image: Sarah Hopkins (flickr)
