I have never been one to shy away from bold posts. When
Osama Bin Laden was captured and killed, for instance, I was one of the first
of my friends to post how much better off the world is without him and how much
Heaven celebrated to finally discard of him. My assertion was met with some
praise and quite a bit of opposition (to my astonishment, actually). When Roe
v Wade recently celebrated a forty-year anniversary, I shamelessly reposted
every anti-abortion, pro-life John Piper-ish article I came across. And when
Canada threatens its pastors with legal action if they speak against same sex
relationships, I’ve got a few thoughts on the trajectory America’s speech and
religious freedoms.
I don’t mind being bold, especially when my confidence is
rooted in biblical truths. But being bold and being vulnerable are entirely
different entities.
Being bold feels a lot like climbing a mountain, reaching
the top, and declaring, “Ah-ha! I see it all very clearly from here.” Being
vulnerable feels more like picking an old scab until it bleeds ever so steadily
and then asking others, “Here. Would you like to take a look?” Being bold is a
statement. Being vulnerable is a question.
I have a hard time being vulnerable.
So, when someone asks me to share my road to conception,
that feels… vulnerable. To share openly and publicly that my husband and I
first began “trying” for children in 2007 and continued trying and trying and
trying for years leaves me feeling somewhat exposed.
How, then, could I possibly share about all the tests, and
surgeries, and unanswered questions? How do I share about the needles, and
pills, and special diets? And what about the tens of thousands of dollars spent
trying to create life— pleading for the Lord to partner with us on the journey—
and then the miscarriage that resulted?
After my miscarriage in the fall of 2010, I was broken, to
say the least. Statistically speaking, losing a baby sometime within the first
8 weeks is not uncommon. But knowing this does not make the loss any less
painful. Rarely do women talk about their loss. Perhaps because it feels too
much like scratching a scab for the world to see. And certainly, no one ever
shares what you’re suppose to do with your loss after he or she is gone. And I
mean that in the most literal sense. What was I suppose to do at 2am? What was
I suppose to do for the next 2 days, months, years?
To say that my son’s conception, healthy pregnancy, and
birth are all miracles is no exaggeration. My son was conceived through years,
tears, prayers, and a lot of money and medicine. That we live in a day and age when this sort of treatment is even an option is in and of itself a miracle.
What is also a miracle about our journey is the way the Lord
used community to carry us. At the time, we lived in Waco, TX, which is a small
and unique community. It’s the sort of place where all of your spheres of
life—work, church, the gym, even—are all interwoven. Over the years, friends
began to inquire. Their inquiries became prayers. And their prayers became
pleas to the Lord on our behalf. Before long, we had a network of people in all
spheres of life carrying us when we didn’t have the strength to walk. Many of
our friends’ lives overlapped, too, which made us feel especially covered but
also very… vulnerable.
To this day, the kindest act any friend has ever done for me
was to write and record a song in which she sang of my grief. In her song, she
implored “why?” with a heartbreak as deep as my own. “Why does it have to be so
hard? Lord, we don’t understand.” She delivered her sweet words to my house
with flowers, and the song was balm to my wound. (Thank you, Sherri.) This, for
me, was the culminating moment of just how carried and loved my husband and I
were by community. (Thank you, Jesus.)
But when doctors told us we had less than a 1% chance of
ever conceiving naturally, I believed them. And there was no room in my heart
to believe otherwise. To pray for a natural conception felt much like praying
to win a large sum of money in a Vegas slot machine. Truth be told, all of that
medical treatment left me feeling a little like my uterus had become a Vegas
slot machine.
Thankfully, I am married to a man who believes statistics
are merely an opportunity for the Lord to laugh in Medicine’s face. My husband faithfully
prayed for six years that one day the Lord would grant us a baby— naturally.
And the Lord did just that.
This baby is a miracle, too!
But I think the biggest miracle of it all is what the Lord
has done in my heart these last six years.
I have learned to count it all as loss for the glory of God
(Philippians 3:8). I have experienced
what it means to pour myself out as a drink offering, even when I had little to
offer (2 Timothy 4:6–8). I have watched the Lord restore,
confirm, strengthen, and establish me in the process (1 Peter 5:10).
My road to conception was battered and
broken and… beautiful. But most importantly, it was transformative because,
when it hurt the most, I pressed in to the Lord rather than pushed away.
And whenever anyone asks my advice on
this topic or pain in general, that is exactly what I lead the conversation
with: lean into the Lord. Inevitably, life will fail you; it will hurt you. The
Lord is the only one who can heal you. He does it in His timing, in His own
way.
And submitted, transformed hearts find
His process more beautiful than their own.
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| 11.2 weeks pregnant (3-10-13) |
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| A special TOMS order for our family of 4! Please pray for a healthy, full term pregnancy. |
