Infertility

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.

A Love Letter to Mothers

Dear Mothers,

There are so many things I like about you.

I like it that you give birth to and adopt children, no matter how painful or gross or inconvenient or time-consuming or expensive or politically incorrect it may be.

I like it that you bring your children to the waters of Holy Baptism so they can be reborn into God’s family. One of the greatest joys in my life is witnessing those baptisms and shouting out, “Amen!” Thank you for that opportunity.

I like it that you bring your children to church every Sunday. Seriously. Don’t worry when they scream or cry or bang their heads on the pews. Kids are noisy, but as baptized children of God they need to hear the Word and grow up in the church.

I like it that you hand your babies to me to hold and snuggle and console and put to sleep when you can’t. It is a huge confidence booster.

I like it that you know how to make homemade yogurt.

I like it that you talk straight to me about your life as a mother. I may not be able to fully understand it, but I learn so much through your experiences (and feel special that you confide in me).

I like it that you ask me questions about my life and celebrate the things that make me different from you.

I like it that you invite me into your home on feast days, so that I can experience the gift of family even when it is not my own.

I like it that you teach your children to call me “Mrs.” or “Miss” or “Aunt” Katie, because every time they speak my name they are reminded that I am worthy of respect.

I like it that you let me be barren and remind me of the good gifts God gives to me every day.

I like it that you selflessly (willingly!) die to self every day and then get up the next morning to do it all over again.

I thank God for you, and I pray for you. A blessed Mother’s Day to all of you!

Love, Katie

Do You Know a Good Guy?

Rebecca and I were talking the other day.

We have this friend. She is the bee’s knees, the cat’s meow.

She is the catch of the century, and we want nothing more than to see her married and settled and loved and taken care of by a superstar husband. We want her dreams of being a housewife and mother fulfilled. We want the comfort of knowing that she has a man there to provide for her and protect her day and night. We want the open-ended question of her marriage status to be answered, closed, sealed, stamped, and delivered so that we can hear the swell of romantic music and feel those Anne-and-Gilbert warm fuzzies whenever we think of her.

Basically, we want her to have what we have, and it is hard not to flip through the little black books in our minds and try to set her up with Mr. Right.

Yet, God has not given our friend the gift of a husband today, and spending all of our time, energy, love, and attention trying to fix her marriage status is no different than others trying to fix our barrenness.

Lord, forgive us! Save our friend from our own wants and help her to rejoice in the good gifts You have given her today. Amen.

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.

The Marathon

This is a marathon not a sprint.

We learn the hard way not to push too fast at the start. We pace ourselves. We don’t want our hamstring to cramp at mile seven when the pregnancy test reads negative. We don’t want to stop short with a side stitch at mile fourteen when the birth mother changes her mind. We don’t want to hit the wall at mile twenty when the agency falls behind in our paperwork.

No, we want to finish this race, so we numb ourselves to the pain. We settle into our stride and ignore the mile markers as they pass.

Sure, we might stumble; we might chafe and bleed from all of the friction; we might even have to hitch a ride on the medic cart for a spell. Whatever happens on the course, though, we know to trust our miles ahead to Him who promises to bring us safely across the finish line.

So, chins up, ladies. You are in this race to win it. Keep your shoulders down. Suck your belly button to your spine. Keep hydrated with Word and Sacrament, and put one foot in front of the other.

Do you hear that? That’s all of your brothers and sisters in Christ cheering you on from the sidelines!

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!

A Change of Heart – Part 2

A continuation of A Change of Heart – Part 1…

“I think we should call her,” Ben said as we stood in the kitchen that evening, going over the unbelievable events of the day. I had fumbled through the rest of the phone call with Keisha, eventually encouraging her to contact the agency we were already working with. I knew that they could provide her with some resources she might need, as well as be a facilitator between us if she was really serious about wanting to pursue adoption.

Ben continued, “If we are really open to this then we need to find out more about her and the birthfather and her situation so we can know all the facts. What if she decides not to contact the agency for some reason? We might never hear from her again.”

His sentiments both surprised and touched me. He was suggesting a much more aggressive approach than I would have considered and it reminded me that although he did not often express  his frustrations with this long wait for a second child, his desire to have a baby was just as strong as my own.

So I called Keisha. She was excited to hear from me again and heartily agreed to come over that very evening to meet Ben and continue our discussion. When she arrived she seemed a bit more timid in Ben’s presence, but still willingly answered the countless number of questions we threw at her.

During the conversation that evening and over the course of the next few months we obtained a picture of this woman and her life, both past and present, that brought to light the realities of what life is like for so many girls who grow up in a culture of poverty. Her father was never in the picture. Her mother was verbally abusive and their relationship now was strained and sporadic. The birthfather–her first and only boyfriend–was repeatedly unfaithful but yet the connection to his family provided her with a place to live, a family support system, and a father to the other three children they had had together. She felt trapped, without any real options in front of her for making a better life.

As she and I visited with each other during this time I couldn’t help but look at my own past and all the privileges I had had: married parents who loved me, moral guidance, boundaries, pastors, a Christian education, a selfless and faithful spouse…too many to count. And I looked at Keisha’s life and felt again a sense of injustice, but this time it wasn’t for me, it was for her.

We eventually had the opportunity to meet Keisha’s other children, whom she obviously loved dearly. Despite the fact that she had experienced very few healthy relationships in her own life, she was a gentle and attentive mother to these little ones who seemed to adore her. These children showered her with the love and affection that she had not received from anyone else in her life. Could it be that perhaps, despite her poor choices, these children were God’s gifts to her  to fill a need that no else had even tried to fill? She loved these children, but she felt that a fourth one would be more than she could handle  in her current living situation. Family members suggested abortion but this was not an option for her.

For four months we spoke with Keisha and the boyfriend, encouraging them to work with our adoption agency. While both of them seemed adamant that they could not raise this child and that we were the right family to do so, they were reluctant to follow through with visits to and from the agency social workers. “Why?” we kept wondering. “What was preventing them from making that next step?” This was not the only red flag that had emerged. There were others as well. Ben and I knew we needed to proceed with great caution. We prayed, we asked for advice, and we waited, all the while wondering if it was realistic to think that this baby would really be our own someday.

To be continued (and concluded)…

Puzzled

Our household does not have a dual income.  My husband is the provider.  I stay home, making our home a safe and pleasant place.  I enjoy preparing meals and tending my garden.  I don’t find quite so much joy in dusting and ironing (which I rarely do).

There are moments, too, when I have some free time.  I can read or sew.  Recently, I’ve started doing puzzles.  The current one has 500 pieces.  I’m frustrated by this puzzle because its colors are only various shades of brown.  I sit down to put some pieces together and walk away without finding a single match.  I get tense. I think, “I can’t even put together a puzzle.  How could I be expected to have a baby?”  During those moments, I wonder if I should go back into the work force.  Maybe I’d feel better about myself if I was “contributing to society” instead of “tending the hearth.”

Therein lies my sin.  I’ve started listening to the voices of society.  They say, “Get out there and do something.”  That’s when it’s time to redirect my attention. It’s time to listen to the voice of Jesus, the Good Shepherd.  What does He tell me in Scripture?  I need to confess my sin of idolatry.  The Lord will provide for the needs of my family.  He has already given me His Word and Holy Sacraments.  I am forgiven; I am His child.

I have no idea what God’s plan is for me regarding family life.  I don’t know if my family size will grow or remain the same.  I don’t know if there will ever be grandchildren.  Who will care for me and my husband in our golden years?

The Lord knows.  He is the One who formed me.  He knew me in my mother’s womb.  He knows my life’s steps.  He has given me the vocations of wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend.  I don’t have to worry about how to make everything fit into its proper place.  God has it covered; He’s taking care of everything.  No need for me to be puzzled about that.

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.