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Pregnancy. Infertility. Faith.

Jan 17, 2013 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

The Ending:
One day, out of the blue, unexpected, unanticipated, unbelievable, I was pregnant. And again, 15 months later. Emma is now 16, Abby 14. They are miracles.

The Beginning:
I was 31 years old when I got married. Behind the power curve (in my insular opinion) where such a significant life-marker was concerned. Children were up next (and fast) on my make-up-for-lost-time agenda. There would be no leisurely year of nuptial bliss before we began the process of trying to get pregnant. The clock was ticking. There was no time to waste – or for which to wait. I was in hot pursuit.

The Middle:
After a year of trying with no success, the fertility consultations and moderate treatments began. By year two, we’d moved to more intensive, invasive testing. And with still no success or answers that satisfied, in-vitro was the next-recommended attempt. Once. Twice. Nothing. And then I couldn’t bear any more. I was tired of waiting. I was tired of trying. I was tired of hoping. So I stopped. No more treatment. No more planning. Little-to-no conversation. Time for life to move on.

It did, of course. And it didn’t.

In the nearly-three years that followed, no matter how I tried to ignore my longings, those emotions would not be aborted. No matter how I tried to put on a spiritual happy face and quote Romans 8:28 (And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love
God…), I raged inside. No matter how I tried to tell myself that God had other plans for me, that my life would have other “births,” that my world would be rich in unimaginable ways, I was miserable.

But not for lack of trying to summon up any other emotion, any other perspective, any other experience. I tried to pray. I tried to be patient. I tried to let go. I tried to trust. I tried to have faith, thinking that would make sense of things, but every effort was impotent and infertile.

Oh, how I wish I could say that my (im)patient waiting, hoping, and tenacious trust resulted in a profoundly dynamic spiritual life; a seismic and never-to-be-questioned-again faith. Even more, how I wish that I could say to others who struggle with such intolerable heartache that “just having faith” will, indeed and ultimately, engender and enable a hope in God that comforts and sustains.

I cannot. I will not.

I grew up believing that faith was something I needed to (and could, with enough work) attain. It was a developed skill, a worthy goal, a near-requirement for the believer in God. I also grew up believing in some kind of Divine barter system: if only I could have what I wanted, what I desired, what I fervently prayed for, then I would have faith. I ask. God comes through. My faith exponentially grows.

I am still growing, but here is what I believe now: Faith is not ours to work toward, aspire to, or command at will. It will not appear at our beck-and-call.

Faith grows in chasms of doubt. It is nurtured in the darkness of pain. It slowly, silently, almost imperceptibly multiplies in long, wide, and deep spaces of waiting, of questioning, of aching, of asking.

Faith is not a sense-making activity, quality, or attribute. It is a crazy, defiant, and nearly certifiable choice – made an infinite number of times within one day, one life, one heart. It does not come in miracles and breakthroughs, but in the pregnant spaces of life that are more-often filled with desolation than hope. Still, an occasional tinge of awareness that something is growing and will be birthed, but a complete and helpless inability to will it to arrive any sooner. It is a mysterious, un-navigable, impossible-to-(pre)determine journey.

Faith is much like pregnancy: experience more than event. And faith is much like infertility: despairing, but waiting-hoping-trusting anyway.

Faith is living one day after the next. One foot in front of the other. One wish-and-a-prayer that is too-often dashed, but whispered yet again. One broken heart that somehow mends and loves again. One longing for success that decries a dwindling bank account. One more blog post when creativity wanes. One more load of laundry. One more commute. One more prayer. One more push.

Faith is not the ending of the story, nor is it the beginning. It is the way in which we be; the way in which we live in the middle.

Naturally, the gift of my two daughters – then and now – nearly takes my breath away. Naturally, I am deeply grateful to God for their presence in my life. But I have learned that faith that spikes in such places rarely sticks. The faith that stays – and sustains – is that which is nurtured in the well-worn path of worry, the sleepless nights, the inconsolable heartache, the insatiable desires. In between the lines. In
the middle.

I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me–that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns. ― Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith 

Life with Popcorn

Jan 29, 2008 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

Life is tough. It’s filled with disappointments, unmet expectations, hurt, grief, frustration, on and on the list goes. I’m not saying it’s not also filled with amazing beauty, celebration, life, and love. I’m all for that and know much of it. But as I’ve been in conversations over the past few days, I’ve been increasingly touched by the levels of difficulty and struggle that pervade.

Did we somehow expect something else? Is that what makes life feel so unjustly hard? Or is it that life really is unfair?

Here’s where I’m landing this Tuesday evening:

Of course life is bizarre; the more bizarre it gets, the more interesting it is. The only way to approach it is to make yourself some popcorn and enjoy the show. (Unknown)

Emma, Abby, and I made and then consumed popcorn tonight as we watched another round of American Idol auditions. Perhaps not the highest quality choice, but in the midst of so many stories that are painful, I was grateful for an hour of dissociation, popcorn, laughter, and an occasional surprising moment of amazing beauty.

‘Might be a good metaphor for life: in the midst of our own and others’ painful stories may we know some gracious moments that help us gain perspective, laugh even for a bit, and find beauty in unexpected places – all accompanied by more popcorn.

Happy 47th Birthday to Me!

Nov 30, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

After writing posts for both of my daughters on their birthdays, I thought it only fitting that I do the same for myself!

Happy Birthday to me!

This has been a full, rich, painful, beautiful, long, amazing, surprising, miraculous, arduous, labor-filled year. I have known many tears, much frustration, and deep anguish. I have also known more laughter and life than ever before. I have been struck again and again by how amazing it is that both can coexist and frankly, be enhanced when juxtaposed to one another.

I’ve had many conversations with Emma and Abby this past year about what it means to let more than one thing be true at the same time: disappointment and hope, sadness and joy, frustration and desire. And this has been a year of that being enfleshed within me – on their behalf, certainly, but powerfully, on my own.

I have found much strength within me these past twelve months; strength that has enabled me to make difficult decisions and then live with the ramifications of such, strength that has allowed me to survive – and even thrive – in places I’d feared (and avoided) for many years. And that strength has, amazingly, not made me tougher, harder, or colder; rather, its enabled me to feel more tender, compassionate, and “present” to my own heart and the heart’s of others. I’m grateful.

Last year at this time I could have never been convinced of or prepared for the twelve months that were about to commence. Note to self: be glad you don’t know the future! Out of curiosity, I went back to the past – to my blog posts from about a year ago to see what I was writing. I came across some October, 2006 reflections on the women of Proverbs 1 and 31 that were amazingly prophetic for the year that was to come:

These women – metaphorical and real – are who I want to be: wise, listening to and living with those on the margins, gaining strength through perseverance and struggle, dignified and fearless, forever laughing with the abandon of a child. God knows and loves this woman. I am becoming this woman.

Indeed, I am. I feel more wise, more able to listen to those who are unseen, forgotten, or harmed, strengthened through perseverance and certainly struggle, more dignified, more fearless, and often laughing both with the abandon of a child – and with my own children.

I am this woman. Amazing.

That’s a year worth celebrating in the midst of acknowledging and grieving its losses and pains.

Another year older. Another year of being the grateful recipient of consistent, unpredictable, mysterious, and precious life.

Cruising – literally…

Nov 28, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, Mothers and Daughters

Is there a place that one can go to get away from all thought of stolen cars or even the graciousness of given ones?

I found it.

Emma, Abby, and I just returned from 7 days on a cruise ship to the Mexican Riviera (along with my parents, my
sister, her husband and two boys, and my brother and his girlfriend). None of us thought about cars. In fact, we didn’t think about much at all. We did, however, thoroughly enjoy every second of our trip.

I’ve now been officially bitten by the cruise-bug. I loved it! No thought of schedules. No thought of work. No thought of cooking or cleaning. No thought of dieting. No thought of too much sun. No thought of rain. I told you: we didn’t think much at all!

I’m torn as I think back on our ventures: I loved getting off the ship and seeing Cabo, Mazatlan, and Puerto Vallarta – sitting on the beaches, buying cheap silver jewelry from the vendors, watching the girls play in the surf and the sand; but I also loved the days at sea – watching the water stretch to the horizon, feeling the rocking of the ship, knowing that every detail and necessity would be taken care of on my behalf. How can you go wrong when faced with these options?

More than anything (yes, even more than not needing to think) I enjoyed the time away – together – with my daughters. It was lovely to see them relaxed, spontaneous, uncensored, full of laughter and life. It was lovely to be the same in their presence.

And it was hard to return – to realities that don’t always imbue relaxation, spontaneity, or easy truth-telling. We’ve been back for 5 days and our land-legs are returning – as are our guard, our tension, our roles.

I think for me, more than the desire to cruise again, I have the desire to live in a way that enables the kind of freedom and joy we knew while gone. I know it’s not completely possible in the contexts and realities of everyday responsibilities and stresses; but I also know it can happen.

That’s the memory to which I’ll return – again and again – and seek to recreate, both in imagination and in reality.

In the midst of stolen cars, given cars, and even returned cars (yes…mine was found, finally, quite a bit worse for wear, but now in front of my house again), I’m grateful I can go to a place that is warm – yes, in the memory of the beaches and 90+-degree temps; but even more, in my heart as I picture the three of us together laughing, living, loving.

Happy 11th Birthday, Emma Joy!

Oct 31, 2007 | Mothers and Daughters

It is hard for me to remember anymore what life was like without you.

I remember deeply longing for you; well, for a child. I remember the grief, the darkness, the sadness, the numbing reality of infertility. I remember the disbelief at the pink line on each of the 7 or 8 home pregnancy tests I took. I remember the slow and cautious hope that grew within me as you did. I remember your birth. I remember holding you for the first time and weeping with joy. Indeed, you have lived into your name already: Emma Joy.

Now that I see even this paragraph I’m tempted to go back and edit my beginning sentence. There is much that I remember about life without you – all of which I’d go through again if I knew that the transition point of that past into the eleven years since would be you.

Eleven years. Amazing. So much has happened. You have grown into a girl who is nearly a teen, who shows glimmers of the woman she will become. You have brought me and many much joy.

In these past twelve months I’ve been struck by so many things about you. Time, space, and my exhaustion level at the end of this day will keep me from listing them all; but I can spend a few minutes and a few paragraphs typing down what I reflect on most – all of which fill me with such joy.

You are amazingly smart – not just academically, but in common sense, and also in humor. I am stunned by how funny you are and not just in a goofy way (though that is delightful to see when it emerges) – in a sophisticated, cunning, witty way. That is not to say I’m not also stunned by your intellect. Seeing you learn in a realm that appreciates, affirms, and accelerates your gifted brain is a joyful experience every day. I can only imagine what you will do, who you will impact, the worlds you will change, who you will be. What a joy you are – and offer.

As we’ve walked through this past season of much change I’ve watched you balance your own heartache with levels of awareness, sensitivity, compassion, and candidness that belie your age. I’ve watched you care for me and your sister. You’ve listened deeply and well. You’ve assimilated new information and emotions into your heart and mind, sifting and sorting through your own experiences and feelings, holding much and bravely, honestly expressing much. Though that process has and continues to be painful in many ways, it is also such a beautiful and profound picture of who you truly are: a young girl, soon-to-be-teen, nearly young woman who knows herself well, can stand her own ground, and still both experience and bring joy.

You are something, Emma. The amazement I felt at knowing you were even a flicker of possibility in my wildest dreams has not lessened for a moment. You continue to exceed my loftiest dreams and move me into realms of hope – and joy – I’ve never known before.

My deepest prayer for you is that you will come to know how much you offer and that others in your life will have the capacity to offer you the same; that relationships will not be one way but that the very strength, presence, and joy you offer will be returned to you. You deserve that, Emma. I will do all I can to give that to you – with the same level of care and nurture I offered before you ever emerged on the scene. It’s the least I can do. You are joy for me. And I know even more of such in being, offering and showing joy to you.

It is not hard for me to remember what life was like without you. Though I knew much joy it wasn’t you. I love you, sweet girl: Emma Joy.

Happy Birthday.

Fog

Oct 23, 2007 | Mothers and Daughters

It’s not quite 7:30 in the morning and I’m on the train – heading into another day of work. Though it’s still pretty dark, I can see the fog that is hanging over the fields, wisping through trees, and obscuring the mountain ranges.

‘Feels like an important image for what this day has already offered – and obscured.

As a mother, I expect there to be difficult mornings. I expect there to be times when my daughters are less than pleased with me. I even expect that there will be many times in which they are just downright mad at me.

Further, I expect that there will be many times in which I am all of the same with them. Today was one of those days.

As I drove them to their drop-off point for the morning’s activities prior to school I told them that even though we were pretty mad at each other that it couldn’t change how much I loved them and that by the time I saw them this afternoon they wouldn’t feel any residual from what we experienced in the previous hour.

Sort of like the fog. It will be gone by this afternoon, as well.

What I’m aware of though, this particular morning, is that time and warmth and light are needed to burn that away. I didn’t have that time with Emma or Abby today. And so we part feeling like we’re in a fog – not sure where we’re going or quite how to proceed. We have to walk sort-of blindly into our day, wishing we could feel the heaviness lift and the sun shine. We won’t have the chance to see each other clearly until later this afternoon. That makes me sad and I’m confident that just as the day’s light will break through this fog, they will know, deep inside, that they are loved by me.

Normally I love fog – when I can look at it from a distance (like while I ride the morning train through the countryside and numerous towns, cities, and suburbs). Today I’m not so crazy about it. It’s not just outside my window. It’s inside my heart. I need the sun. I need to hug my girls. I need more time. I need to see them clearly and make sure they can see me – and my love for them.

A prayer: Lift the fog or at least be the one that links us to one another over this distance, these wounded hearts, these sad places we live this morning. Warm our hearts. Clear our minds. Bind us together in this blind space of the next seven hours until we see each others’ smiles, look in one anothers’ eyes, feel each others’ hugs and know that all is well – at least for a while. Please?