How to Care for the Barren

Where Is the Line?

Question Submitted: I realize we have all been given different gifts, but the gift of children (or not) is such a sensitive issue. I am blessed to have mine. How much of my joy in my children am I able to share with my barren friends without hurting them? I don’t feel I should necessarily hide my joy in my own children…but there is perhaps a line somewhere to consider.

The line is in God’s commandment to serve our neighbor. Here’s what it looks like:

I have a friend whose mother died of cancer several years ago. I know that every time I speak of my mother, go out in public with my mother, write something about my mother, or even post a status on Facebook about my mother, I am treading on sensitive ground. With my words and actions, I am calling to mind that which she has lost and possibly causing her to suffer. Because of this, I try to speak, write, and act in such a way that has her best in mind.

This does not mean I cease celebrating the gift of my mother. It just means that I know my mother is a precious gift I neither merit nor deserve, so I try not to boast of her in front of my neighbor. Instead, I thank God for my mother, try to honor her, and strive to live out my vocation as daughter in service to her.

Children are another gift from God, and they should be received with all thankfulness, joy, and celebration. Yet, God’s commandment still holds true: everything we say and do should be in service to our neighbor. So, my best advice would be to thank God for your children, delight in their accomplishments, and celebrate their milestones as they come and go, but do so in public with your neighbor’s best in mind.

(A quick note for my barren sisters: Children truly are a gift given from God, even when they are not given to us. It is a good thing when another baby is born into this world. I know it is hard not to covet the children of your neighbors, but I think you will find it easier to join in on the celebration of your neighbors’ children when you take an active role in their lives. Suddenly, their celebrations are your celebrations, their joys your joys. It can be hard to celebrate when you are always on the sidelines. Vocation makes all the difference. Just some food for thought…)

You’re So Lucky!

Another honest, empathic moment from our dear Joanna…

I wrote this a few years ago when a long-time friend and mother told me how lucky I was not to have any children. A product of the anguish of the moment, it came out like I was vomiting it onto the paper. It’s strange; when I read this now, I know that’s what I was feeling at the time, but I don’t find myself reliving those feelings. You would think that rereading it would open it all up again, but, at least today, it doesn’t. It’s strange how that works. I guess it’s kind of like my hysterectomy scar. The surgery happened, the scar is there, but the remembrance of the pain and the jaggedness of the scar have faded. Jesus has walked with me through it to the other side.
 
How Lucky I Am
 
“You’re so lucky!
You have free time
To go wherever you want,
And do whatever you want,
And you never have to clean up after kids!
I wish I were in your shoes!”
 
“You never get awakened in the middle of the night by a screaming child,
And you never spend time chasing toddlers,
Or changing diapers,
Or dealing with teenagers.
You have no idea how lucky you are!”
 
Maybe you’re right…I guess I’ve never thought about how lucky I am.
 
How lucky for me never to have felt life growing inside,
Or given birth,
Or chosen a name,
Or to hear “I love you, Mommy” from the lips of a child.
 
How lucky I am to have prayed each month for a miracle,
Only to have endless cycles come and go,
And hope forever deferred.
 
I’m lucky to have been poked and prodded,
To have had my private life put under a microscope.
And to endure endless expensive tests and surgeries,
In the hopes of a joy that never was.
 
How lucky I am to be told once and again to “Relax” or “Adopt,”
Or try this or that remedy;
And to be gracious to the people telling me,
Because, “People are just trying to help.”
 
How lucky I am to have had my only child die,
Its tiny life slipping away.
Knowing that I would give anything to stop it
But couldn’t.
 
I’m lucky to have never seen my husband’s kind eyes
Reflected in the eyes of our child,
To have never given him the child
That he, too, longed for and wanted to hold;
Or my dear parents the grandchild
That they secretly longed to see.
 
How lucky I am to walk through this life
Alone among women.
Never really fitting in.
First with the mothers, then the grandmothers —
Forever standing on the outside…looking in.
 
I’m lucky to have no children to nurture,
To teach all the things that I’ve learned,
Or to joyfully watch as they grow.
Learning a little bit more about life,
By seeing the world anew through their eyes.
 
How lucky it is that the days never change,
They go endlessly on the same 
Each day until death.
No first steps, graduations, weddings, or grandchildren
Will ever fill my empty days.
 
I’m lucky to face all the questions,
Like, “Why did this happen?”
And “Will it ever be our turn?”
And “Was it something we did?”
…Or maybe something we didn’t do.
Oh, and “How long, and how much, and how hard should we try?”
“And what about adoption?”
These are lucky questions, indeed.
 
How lucky I am to watch the years roll by never changing,
Endlessly the same.
And to watch others taking for granted
The joys that I longed to know.
 
How lucky I am to face old age on this earth,
With only my husband, should God allow us long life;
And to wonder who God will send to care for us,
If something happens to one — 
Or when we simply can no longer care for ourselves.
 
How lucky I am to have no one to remember who I was or how I lived
When I have passed from this earth.
To know that my possessions will be auctioned away to strangers,
And there will be no obituary to tell of my life — 
Because obituaries are written by the children.
 
You’re so right…I am lucky —
If that’s what you mean by “luck.”
I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.
But I don’t think that’s what you’d want.
 
Through all of this pain, God’s love has never failed,
And I rest in His loving hands.
But every once in awhile I get tired
Of parents glibly telling me
Just how lucky I am.
 

False Hope vs. Loving Truths

Here’s what the world tells me:

1. IVF is the answer.

2. You’ve got years to get pregnant.

3. Your adoption is close;  I’m sure of it.

4. You’ll be perfect parents.

5. Pray harder.

The world screams that I can control my fertility by following some simple steps.  Try harder.  Eat the right foods.  Take specific vitamins.  The list goes on and on.

False hope.  That’s what those things are.  They’re lies that make you feel better, not me.  They’re empty promises that get my hope up.

I need the truth.  How about this instead?

1.  You are God’s child.  He loves you as you are.

2. Children are gifts from the Lord.

3. God knows what you need, and you need His Son Jesus.

4. You are special to me.

5. I love you!

Loving truths.  That’s what I need to hear.  Tell me about Jesus, my Savior.  Remind me that all good gifts come from the Lord.  Share with me the good news that I am God’s child.  I need to hear that my worthiness is not tied to my womb, but to Jesus, who was born for me and saved me from sin, death, and the power of the devil.  It’s the truth.  I can handle that.

What do I say this Mother’s Day?

Question Submitted: My friend and her husband were pregnant with their first child this year, but she miscarried.  I would like to know how to approach Mother’s Day for her.  I want to acknowledge the child that God created in her, but I also want to offer her sympathy in her loss. What words of encouragement would you suggest?

First, thank you for loving your friend enough to recognize that this may be a difficult day for her and for wanting to be there for her. She will treasure your thoughtfulness no matter what you say. I’m not terribly verbose myself, so I prefer the straightforward approach. What you wrote in your question was very sincere and completely appropriate. What if you said something like, “I know today may be tough for you. I’ve been thinking of you and how, even though it was for such a short time, God chose to make you a mother this past year. I’m sorry it was so brief. I just wanted you to know how much I care about you and pray for you, especially today. Can I (take you out for some dessert, come over for some tea, fill in the blank) to commemorate today?”

Maybe you were looking for something more encouraging or Scriptural, I don’t know. But speaking from personal experience, when people have come up to me to express sympathy and they give me a speech telling me things I already know, sharing with me some intellectual or spiritual knowledge, I don’t necessarily feel encouraged. I have the head knowledge, it’s just my heart that’s aching. When someone acknowledges the pain I’m in and tries to put themselves in my shoes in order to best reach out to me, followed by a kind action (or at least an offer) I see a sincere concern and I am comforted. I don’t feel alone then. This is, of course, assuming that your friend is regularly hearing God’s promises to her each week in church. If not, then it is absolutely appropriate to include these in your talk with her.

I’m sure that whatever you say she will be grateful.

Dear Pastor

Question Submitted: How can I use gift language in the church?

There are many opportunities for pastors to start using gift language in the church. One pastor in Illinois recently suggested to me that he could begin talking with catechumens about how the presence of Sin in the world can affect their First Article gifts, including the gift of children. I think this is a wonderful idea, not to instill a fear of barrenness in our youth, but to anchor them in a theology of the cross which helps them better understand suffering when it comes to them, as well as how to understand the suffering of others.

Premarital counseling is another opportunity for a pastor to practice using gift language. A pastor can talk openly with couples about the fact that children are a gift to receive with thankfulness from the Lord, and he can also discuss with them what to do if God in His wisdom chooses not to grant them children. Rebecca suggested to me a couple of months ago that pastors could teach couples at this time how to make use of the catechism, hymnal, and Scripture in their home, so that they will continually be reminded of God’s promises for them in this life, whether parents or not. She also suggested that pastors use this time to teach couples how to pray, not just for a child, but for the contentment to live a life of service to Him on whatever path He may choose.

Whatever is in store for these couples, conversations like these will establish a relationship with the pastor which opens the door for them to come talk to him about all of the private and potentially embarrassing challenges that can arise in the struggle with barrenness. In preparation for such conversations, it is important that the pastor stay up-to-date on infertility medicine. He needs to be prepared to advise barren married couples on ethical issues surrounding certain procedures that break commandments of our Lord, as these couples may never hear such information from their doctors. Thankfully, resources like Lutherans for Life and LCMS World Relief and Human Care make this an easier task for all of us.

Mother’s Day, a secular holiday that has worked its way into our Sunday services, is another prime opportunity for using gift language. Pastors can remind their congregations every second Sunday in May to celebrate all of the women who serve as mothers in the church: godmothers, aunts, school teachers, babysitters, sewing circles, LWML, secretaries, altar guild, VBS bakers, and every woman who faithfully lives out her vocation in service to others. We don’t want to minimize or dismiss the love we have for the mothers who bore and raised us, but Mother’s Day is the perfect time to properly recognize that motherhood is a vocation given by God, not an achievement rewarded by men.

When I ask myself, a barren woman, what would be the best arena in which a pastor could teach his congregation to use gift language, I immediately think of a weekly Bible class. Maybe in between teaching classes on Romans and Ezekiel it would be helpful to include a study on the barren women of the Bible. Here’s why: I am an ignorant sheep. I need a pastor to tell me what the Bible says. When I look at the stories of Sarai, Rebekah, Rachel, Hannah, and Elizabeth in the Bible, I can’t help but read into their stories some kind of theology of glory. Maybe if I pray as hard as Hannah did, maybe if I had more faith, God would reward me with a child? Praise be to God a pastor told me the good news that none of those women in the Bible conceived because they deserved it but because they are all a part of the story of Jesus coming into the world. In their stories, we find more than just the comfort of a God who gives barren women the gift of children. We find the comfort of a God who gives a barren, sinful world the gift of a Savior, Christ Jesus our Lord!

The Cross of Barrenness

What is the cross of barrenness? Surely it is one of loss and death and grief, but many in the church don’t realize that the cross of barrenness is also one of warring against the world’s religion of control. The world expects us to manage and control our fertility, so, naturally, that same world also expects us to manage and control our infertility – never mind whether or not we really can.

It is not uncommon for friends, even strangers, to school me in this art of control, this “sure science” of making a baby. A woman standing behind a school lunch counter once told me, “Be sure to keep your cervix lifted for at least thirty minutes after intercourse.” A lady at a party said to me in front of a circle of friends, “Your husband could be shooting blanks. Get his sperm’s motility checked out.” A stranger sitting to my left at a women’s luncheon leaned over and announced during the main course, “My daughter was infertile, but she finally had a baby last spring through In Vitro Fertilization. You should go to her doctor.” A woman at a local farmer’s market stopped me to tell me that taking her suggested brand of vitamin supplements would even out my hormone levels and result in a pregnancy.

I don’t know what to say in return to those who publicly offer advice on sexual techniques or medically misdiagnose my husband’s fertility or tell me to engage in medical procedures that break the First and Fifth Commandments of my Lord. Giving a verbal response to those comments feels like I am somehow validating the very existence of them. If I share with the woman at the market that my hormone levels are already stable, then I am engaging her in conversation about something that is so personal and painful. I am inviting her to continue making suggestions and diagnoses and comments about my barrenness. I am giving her permission to continue trying to find a fix for my problem. I am handing her the salt well and telling her to rub it in my open wound. So, instead of telling her the truth, I simply thank her for her advice, and I keep walking. Then, I go home, and I cry.

I cry, because every time a well-meaning person tells me how to make a baby, I am tempted to believe that I can control my barrenness, that my present childlessness is my own doing, my own fault. I must be doing something wrong. I must be missing a key nutrient in my diet; I must be exercising too much or too little; I must have high levels of prolactin or low levels of progesterone; I must not be producing enough Type E mucus to sustain the lives of the sperm in my uterus; I must not be going to the right doctor. I must, I must, I must. When a well-meaning person makes suggestions to me in my pain and grief, I feel the weight, the burden, the law of my barrenness fully on my own shoulders.

Yet, I cannot control my barrenness. I know this, because God tells me in His Word that children are a heritage from Him – a gift – and that good gift is received, not manufactured or made. God is the Giver, and I am the receiver. And, at the end of the day, my faith must believe what God tells me in His Word, not what the woman tells me at the market.

Baby Blankets

One of the things I look forward to most at baby showers is the unveiling of a homemade, quilted baby blanket that was lovingly made by a devoted friend or family member. I like to finger the soft material and admire the creative patterns and tiny stitches. In that awe-filled moment, I honestly feel more jealous of the quilter’s talent than the expectant mother’s blanket. Maybe that is because I never expect to be on the receiving end of a baby quilt of my own.

I think that is why I was so undone last week when I opened a package that came in the mail. My hand reached in and pulled out a quilted, green-and-pink (Two of my favorite colors!) table runner. It could have been a baby blanket for all of the excitement I felt.

A corresponding note read, “This runner reminds me of spring and the joy of Easter. I hope it will brighten a corner of your home.”

Do you know of what else it reminds me? It reminds me that I am remembered and “showered” with love by my friends, even without a baby. Thank you!

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is almost here.

I have such mixed feelings every second Sunday in May. I enjoy celebrating my mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, godmother, sisters, friends, and all of the other women in my life who make sacrifices to care for me, yet…you know.

There’s that whole I’m-not-a-mother thing.

The awkwardness is unavoidable. I am now too old to remain an inconspicuous, innocent daughter of the church who simply joins in on the celebration of the matriarchs around me. I am a childless, married woman – one of those alien non-mothers – and everyone has to suffer through the uneasy, painful, blushing, frozen, horrible moments of trying to figure out what to say to me on Mother’s Day.

I feel it most for the poor ushers delegated to hand out carnations. I know they want to give me a flower – I can see the chivalrous struggle in their eyes! –  but I have “childless” stamped across my forehead. So, they hand me a service bulletin, instead. “I’m sorry,” one of them inevitably whispers during the exchange, and I am left in the inelegant position of comforting others for my own childlessness.

How did things get to be this way? When did we decide that it was good, right, and salutary in church to give out discriminatory gifts as a coda to Christ’s gifts of Word and Sacrament?

I am going to be blunt. Mother’s Day is a secular holiday that has worked its way into our Sunday services. I am not of the opinion that we should stop celebrating mothers. Quite the opposite, I think we should celebrate mothers every day of the week and with more than just flowers and praise. We should be offering them our time and talents to help them in their God-given vocation of caring for others as well as praying that God would sustain them as they daily die to self in order to serve our youngest church members.

I don’t even think we should stop commemorating Mother’s Day in church. At this point, it would be culturally rude to withdraw from the church the tradition of honoring women whom God has gifted with children, but we need to be mindful of the pain this secular, gift-card-selling holiday inflicts on those from whom God has withheld the gift of children. Sometimes, pastors (often unknowingly) drag this secular holiday’s pain into their sermons, their children’s sermons, their preservice announcement anecdotes, and their prayers. In an effort to be culturally relevant, they slay the barren in the pews and grieve the hearts of mothers who have lost or are estranged from their children.

Perhaps, instead, pastors could use Mother’s Day as an opportunity to use gift language and remind their congregations to celebrate all of the women who serve as mothers in the church: godmothers, aunts, school teachers, deaconesses, babysitters, sewing circles, LWML, secretaries, altar guild, VBS bakers, and every woman who faithfully lives out her vocation in service to others. Perhaps, we could give these women carnations, too – not to dismiss the love we have for the mothers who bore and raised us, but to properly recognize that motherhood is a vocation given by God, not an achievement rewarded by men.

True Comfort

I recently sat with my mother at a kitchen table on vacation, weeping in my grief at having no children. “I may never be a mother,” I confessed.

All my mother said was, “I know.” And I was comforted.

I was comforted, because my mother did not try to change me or my situation; she did not try to minimize my suffering by labeling it or explaining it away; she did not offer empty suggestions for how to fix my barrenness; she made no false promises that God would someday give me a child, for, outside of giving me the Child Jesus to save me from my Sin, God has made no such promise to me in His Word. My mother simply acknowledged my burden and then sat with me to share the weight of it.

This is when a barren woman will be comforted: in the safety of someone’s watch who believes and confesses that we are okay in Jesus, even when we suffer. A barren woman finds comfort in being reminded that there is no need to fix that which Christ has already made whole. I feel most loved when my friends and family let me be barren and remind me that the death in my womb cannot snuff out the true Life given to me at the font.

Keeping Watch

I had let my guard down too soon.  I cried.  I grieved for that which was not given to me.

Thanks be to God for you, my dear sisters, who kept watch with me.  You listened and didn’t try to offer a rosy outcome.  You hugged me and cried with me.  You gave me space to let it all out.  You reminded me that I am God’s child, and you prayed for me.  You sent me a baby elephant.  Thank you.