Facebook culture. The world where everything looks perfect
and kids do the funniest things. Babies don food in their hair and pets dress
up in superman costumes. There are likes
and LOL’s for miles. In Facebook world, everything’s
always okay—which is what our personal Facebook world looks like too, by the
way, because no one wants to see a picture of that time Matt and I argued over who
knows what in the driveway, I threw a piece of sidewalk chalk across the yard, and
the neighbors stared at us awkwardly.
What I’ve learned through the lives of my precious clients
as well as through my own heartbreak is that there’s a big problem with looking
so happy on the outside while simultaneously living in secret sorrow. The
problem with posting only our happy outings is that we struggle and suffer
alone. Yes, there are private things we may never share with one another on any
social media outlet, but there are times vulnerability is a relief. There are
times we can no longer pretend we don’t hurt. There are times we desperately need
the body of Christ to surround us in prayer. It is not that vulnerability is easy, because
I certainly am fond of being the strong one- but such a time has arrived for
us. No more pretending we aren’t hurting.
Many of our friends know our story and have been rooting for
us. Matt and I love the Lord with all of our hearts and desire to serve Him
with our lives. We were both foolish in our youth and squandered blessings in
different ways. Each of us survived the shattered dream of a divorce and lived
as single parents for a season. And then, in a beautiful swoop of restoration,
the Lord introduced us to one another. By this time, we had each grown in our faith
and we knew that if we were going to do life together, it was going to be God’s
way. We had a beautiful courtship; one
full of purity and hope. Yes, folks, we did save sex for marriage. Gasp. I
remember one friend who said “Why are you waiting? I mean, you each have a
child already so the cat’s kind of out of the bag!” But we knew the Lord could restore our purity
if we walked in obedience with Him, and again, this whole marriage thing was
going to happen His way if it was going to happen at all. We had a beautiful wedding complete with burlap
and white lights strung from high hopes.
We each had a dream on our heart to grow our family. I
brought a sweet little girl to our marriage. Matt brought an energetic, heart-warming boy. Please don't misunderstand, we love these children dearly and are so grateful for each moment with them...but honestly, I pictured us
having at least 2-3 more children together
as being a mom is the greatest joy of my life. I came from a broken family and
believe I’ve lived most of my life trying to put a family back together—right or
wrong, this was our hope. We were so
excited and began trying from month one! Six months went by with no pregnancy. Each
month I had a reason to think I was pregnant and in this time frame I probably
went through at least a hundred pregnancy tests. I had a growing sense that
something was wrong, but I was calmly insured that these things take time.
After a year of starting each month with the deep hope for
that little pink plus sign to show up and instead ending in a puddle of tears,
we decided to seek medical help. We saw
a primary care physician who ran an analysis. We waited to hear back hoping
that this would give us a clue to what we needed to do next. But the doctor
called me a week later—in the middle of my work day—and spoke very matter-of-factly
“You two will probably not have children together. Have you thought about
adoption?”
…. “what?”
This is not the kind of news you deliver to a woman at 3pm on
a Tuesday afternoon when she’s getting ready to sit down with her next client.
But, he did. I responded in some robotic
way and set the phone down and shut my office door and sobbed harder than I ever
have.
I asked God if this was punishment for being divorced. If
this was because of all the mistakes I’ve made. If He was testing me. I cried
out to Him. He was silent.
I went home to tell Matt the news that the doctor should have called us into his office to
share with both of us. I tried to maintain composure, but it was not a pretty
night. For several months after that I
cried daily and tried to imagine never having a child with my husband. Not a
big deal, right? We both have a child. So what if we don’t have one together.
We share these children with ex-spouses, which wasn’t exactly the original
plan, but they are healthy and we are raising them together. It’s fine.
Except for that it’s not. I can’t let this dream go. My
heart aches to grow a family with my best friend. To experience him holding my hand
in child birth. To see his gentle-giant hands pick up a tiny life that we’ve
created together. To have this bond with one another that is part of God’s
purpose for marriage. We began looking for a second opinion. We met with a fertility
specialist who put us on supplements. We tested again three months later, but
the outlook was even more bleak. I cried some more. I read a 300-page book on
conception and changed each of our diets in drastic ways for six months.
Twenty-one. That’s the number of months we’ve been married--
which isn’t long at all, unless you’ve been hoping and praying and trying and
crying out to God every month for 21 months to please have mercy on you and
bless you with a life you know you don’t deserve. In that case, 21 months feels like an
eternity. We recently went to another specialist who gave a little more hope,
but stated a surgery would be necessary. Thankfully, this specialist found a
problem area that others weren’t able to locate. And here we are. After much
prayer, our surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. Neither of us know the outcome.
Matt has been brave and strong as an oak while I’ve just been an emotional
wreck.
I haven’t been myself
for at least the last year and a half. This is why. Struggling with infertility
was never part of my formula. It took me by surprise and came at a time when I
thought I was leaving the worst of my heartache behind. Matt and I are a
stronger couple for it. In our first two years of marriage, we’ve survived the
dynamics of a blended family along with this monthly roller coaster of emotion.
We hit our knees in prayer each night and take it one day at a time. It’s hard
to count it all as joy, and yet I’m thankful for a new understanding of what it
feels like to face infertility. It gives me another “specialty area” in my counseling
ministry, a compassion that is only birthed from experience—but most of all,
when and if God decides to give us another child, the glory will be all the
more to Him because HE IS ABLE even when doctors say “not possible.” That is the God we serve.
This song couldn’t have come to me at a more perfect time:
