Surrender

"Childhood scenes rushed back at me out of the night, strangely close and urgent. Today, I know that such memories are the key not to the past, but to the future. I know that the experiences of our lives, when we let God use them, become the mysterious and perfect preparation for the work He will give us to do." - Corrie Ten Boom

After returning home from a family wedding and reunion, I broke down. I cried endlessly one night into the next morning and all the way to work. I'd just spent wonderful quality time with my great-nephews, all of whom are charming, loving and well-behaved. I absorbed them and loved each and every minute of it. I met my new great-niece, Iley, who is and will become a great beauty, inside and out, because of her parents, grandparents, and family. So what was this breakdown? Why the grief? (And it was that deep, penetrating, pulsating-through-and-down-into-the-toes sort of grief.)

I was mourning again for the children I don't have.

(But I thought I had gotten to "the other side" of that. I thought I had "come to terms.")

Ha.

As if it's something you ever get past. Despite that knowledge I am surprised at this involuntary emotional meltdown. I'm rethinking adoption. Foster adoption. I go back and forth. How does one ever really know?

And then, while amidst all the brothers, again, always feeling alone and separate, I know that they are men, plain and simple. They're not ignoring me. It, in fact, has nothing to do with me. Yet as I look around and find myself in the company of males, continually being the only girl, I am baffled by God's plan; the timing, the dynamics, the choices. And while sitting there amongst my siblings...

"Childhood scenes rushed back at me out of the night, strangely close and urgent."

And my life back home seemed far away and chaotic. Though I'd recently come to terms about my future and had been elated with my new decisions, my enthusiasm fell flat here, where I grew up. Because I know God, I know that He has a plan, and every time I think I've figured it out, I find myself in a cocktail of my past and my future, shaken—as well as stirred.

"Today I know that such memories are the key not to the past, but to the future."

So I surrender again, give it all to Him and realize for the umpteenth time that I need to stop running around doing all the things that keep me stressed and tired and which, ironically, keep me from spending my time in His presence and just breathing in His spirit. I find my excuses in dustbunnies under the table and in computer software that keeps breaking down. Lunches, exercise, classes, meetings, shopping, repairs, decisions.

"I know that the experiences of our lives, when we let God use them, become the mysterious and perfect preparation for the work He will give us to do."

He keeps pushing me toward the white flag.

The Childless Woman

I wrote this some time ago. My feelings have softened, but I'm leaving it here for the women who still hurt, especially at Mother's Day.

I became the kind of woman I never saw myself becoming. I never imagined I would grow up and not have children. I never imagined myself standing in a grocery store staring at the belly of a pregnant woman; I never saw myself overhearing a conversation about new babies and cute announcements, sex and diapers and showers and presents until I'm literally choking. I became that woman. The one who couldn't have kids. I’ve met those women. I had a cousin who couldn't conceive. My family always made her sound rather manic about the whole thing. She had a hard time being in the same room with my pregnant sister-in-law and I remember them all complaining about it, as if she should get over it.
As if she could.

If you ask me if I have kids and I say no, please don't say, "Oh honey, you can have mine!" You’re saying this to someone who longs to experience pregnancy and birth and raising a child.  I know you're kidding, but this isn't a joke and that is not funny. I know you're just trying to say something helpful but it feels false, like you didn't hear me. A simple, “I’m sorry. Did you want children?” And if I say "yes," you can just acknowlege it, with a little sympathy. That's all. You don't have to fix my pain, make light of it, or ignore it.

Here are some ideas you can do for someone who wants or wanted children and for whatever reason, didn't have them:

Send unexpected flowers.

Send a friendship card on Mother’s Day.

Get a group of friends together and have a night of support. Give her ra safe place to lament.

Even if you can’t relate to her emptiness, engage her. Pain is universal. Let her know that in spite of the fact you can’t completely understand, you can listen. Care enough to listen. Don’t avoid her or whisper around her, or say that "someday it won’t hurt as much." That's just not true.

I am happy to see my friends have kids, and I want to see pregnancies and rejoice. I want to go to baby showers and enjoy them, not burst into tears in the bathroom, so I don't go to showers. Not because I'm resentful, but because I want you to enjoy your party.

Adoption is an amazing thing, but it's not always an answer. It’s a calling. It’s not something you do just because you’re unable to conceive. Few understand that. Even I didn’t understand that before I experienced this; before I became the recipient of hundreds of suggestions that I adopt. It's not that simple. It's complicated.

Infertility is not something you get past. Living in a world of families and showers and birth announcements can be isolating, and there's really nothing to be done about that. All I can do is protect myself, look for other joys in life (there are plenty), and rather than criticize you, I can let you know how you can respond to women like me.