Secondary Infertility

A Grandma’s Hope

by Kristi Leckband

Dear Reader, I have been hesitant to share this post with you because I know the suffering so many of you have endured. I know that what I write here will make you sad for what the Lord has not given to you. You will likely mourn a heavy absence in your heart. I write these things, though, because you are loved, and I want you to see that there is still joy in the Lord, whether in suffering or in celebration.

There were days and months when I wasn’t sure I’d get to open my home to children, even grandchildren. I prayed and hoped for both for a really long time. I knew there was nothing in me that was deserving of children or grandchildren. I was, and still am, a poor, miserable sinner, which means nothing was owed to me.

Like you, I prayed for YEARS to be given children. I know the tears that have soaked your pillow at night, for my pillow was just as wet. I recall the quietness of a dinner table rather than the noisiness of children’s conversations. I remember well the empty bedrooms. You have also been gracious to share in my suffering. You waited with me as we prayed to grow our family. You mourned with me as year after year passed without adding another child in my home. I was comforted, knowing that you were praying with me.

And now I invite you to share in celebration with me. I love you, dear sister in Christ, and I want you to know that there is great joy in my life as well. The Lord has been merciful to me. He has given me children. He has also been gracious and granted my daughter a husband. Together, they have been blessed with a child. I have a grandchild! Believe me when I say that I am humbled to be called Grandma. That vocation is not one I take lightly. It is a great honor, and I pray that I’ll be called that for many years by many little voices.

When my daughter went into labor, it was my son-in-law who called and said, “Come.” He didn’t have to say that. However, this young couple wanted me to share in their joy. I packed up my vehicle in less than two hours and started driving. It was the shortest 11-hour drive of my life.

It was thrilling to spend the next ten days with this newly formed family of three. I went into full mom-mode and cooked up a storm of food. I did laundry. I went grocery shopping for the new parents. I took the 6:00am baby shift every morning and held the little guy while I took picture upon picture of him. I was blessed to spend hours talking with my daughter and son-in-law, uninterrupted. I loved my time with all three of them.

Family members came to visit. My parents drove a full day to meet their first great-grandchild. Generational pictures were snapped. More grandparents arrived to meet the newest addition. My husband and two younger children came for baptism day. Talk about rejoicing! This infant sinner was now cleansed of all sins and washed clean in the blood of Jesus Christ! Could we have asked for any greater gift?

I look forward to making more memories with my family. Our family now includes a grandchild. The Lord has blessed us richly. My family members are baptized children of God, and they belong to Him. I love every one of them and am so thankful they are given into our care as well. I treasure the memories that they are giving me.

I don’t know what my grandchildren will remember about me. I hope they will remember that my home was one in which Christ was the center. I hope my grandchildren will hear me confess my confidence in the promises of the Lord. I hope my grandchildren will recall the hymns that were sung during morning and evening prayers. I hope my grandchildren will remember that I love them and that they are gifts to me from the Lord.

And even if the Lord hadn’t made me a grandma, I would hope that all who enter my home would know that it was one in which Christ was the center. I hope that my guests would hear me confess my confidence in the promises of the Lord. I hope my friends would recall the hymns that were sung during morning and evening prayers. I hope my family would remember that I love them and that they are gifts to me from the Lord.

That is this grandma’s hope.

Compassion + Courage

by Katie Schuermann

We sometimes behave in the church as if these two virtues are opposed to each other, but we see in Scripture that they always are meant to go together.

“Finally, all of you, have unity of mind, sympathy, brotherly love, a tender heart, and a humble mind. Do not repay evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary, bless, for to this you were called, that you may obtain a blessing … Now who is there to harm you if you are zealous for what is good? But even if you should suffer for righteousness’ sake, you will be blessed. Have no fear of them, nor be troubled, but in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy, always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and respect, having a good conscience, so that, when you are slandered, those who revile your good behavior in Christ may be put to shame. For it is better to suffer for doing good, if that should be God’s will, than for doing evil” (1 Peter 3:8-9, 13-17).

Church, I see your compassion toward the barren. I do, and it is beautiful to behold. I witness your sympathy, your “brotherly love,” toward me and others from whom God is withholding the gift of children, and I thank you for your tender heart.

But may I humbly point out the danger in letting your compassion sour to pity?

For example, I often hear condolences spoken aloud in the pews such as, “Of course Laura and James are using IVF. I can’t imagine going through life without my own children,” or, “I can’t tell them not to use IVF. Who am I to say such a thing, when I have so many children — so many grandchildren — and they have none?”

This is compassion, yes, but it is compassion absent of courage. For in your gratitude for your own children, you are growing blind to the fact that the barren need your strength, not your pity, to bear the heavy cross laid upon their shoulders. They need shored up to resist temptations to manufacture children for themselves, lest they begin harvesting their gametes and enter into procedures that lead to the harming of the very children they desire. They need you to protect them with the truth lest, in their sorrow, they bury themselves deep in ethical conundrums that would bind their consciences to things temporal rather than eternal.

The barren need you to encourage them.

What does this look like? What are the qualities inherent to compassion plus courage?

A Christian exhibiting compassion + courage is tender-hearted toward the barren but also willing to suffer for the sake of doing good. This is a parental posture, one that heartens yet protects, sympathizes yet discerns, cheers yet endures wounds for the sake of another’s well-being.

Compassion + courage sounds something like this.

“Laura, I am so sorry. This is awful. I don’t know why God hasn’t given you the gift of children today. I am talking to the Lord about it, and I am waiting with you on Him. You are not alone in your prayers. But I need to be honest with you about something — something difficult. IVF is dangerous. It is not healing medicine. It is harmful medicine, and I don’t want you, James, or any of your children harmed. How about we talk to pastor about some of the ethical concerns surrounding IVF? I also can clear my calendar and drive you to your next doctor’s appointment if you want. We can ask the doctor about possible healing medicines available to you. Or I can sit in the waiting room and pray. Just know that you are not alone in this.”

Will Laura spurn you for your compassion + courage? Quite possibly.

But if that’s the case, then it is my turn to encourage you.

Or rather, let’s have Saint Peter encourage both of us.

“If you should suffer for righteousness’ sake, you will be blessed. For it is better to suffer for doing good, if that should be God’s will, than for doing evil. Those who revile your good behavior in Christ will be put to shame.”

Podcast Series on Barrenness

by Katie Schuermann

Fifteen years ago, Issues, Etc. invited me onto their program to talk about barrenness.

Since then, the kind men who produce, engineer, and host the show — Jeff Schwarz, Craig Feichtinger, and the Rev. Todd Wilken — have facilitated conversation after conversation with me and other guests about all of the things that concern us on this blog: infertility ethics, miscarriage, stillbirth, assisted reproductive technology, adoption, foster care, suffering, grief, IVF, embryo donation and adoption, the theology of the cross, and so much more.

This past month, they interviewed me again, this time about the content we’ve been posting in commemoration of He Remember the Barren‘s 15th anniversary. You can listen to those interviews here:

Barrenness, Part 1 — Issues, Etc.

Barrenness, Part 2 — Issues, Etc.

Barrenness, Part 3 — Issues, Etc.

Holding On and Letting Go

by Kristi Leckband

For so many years, I held onto the hope that God would grow our family of two into a family of many. In His time, He did. We waited four years into our marriage for Joanna to arrive. We then waited seven LONG years for the Lord to add Maria. Two months later, Josiah joined the family. I held onto each of those three children as tightly as I could. I knew that I was not entitled to have them. I did not deserve children. Rather, each of them was a gift from the Lord, and that knowledge was not lost on me.

Fast forward a number of years. Our firstborn goes to college eleven hours away. She marries a wonderful young man. This marriage, though, means she is moving away from me permanently. That’s a really good thing that God has given her — a husband. That last hug, as we parted ways, was one of the hardest times of my life. For so long, I had prayed for this child. She was my firstborn. She was going home with someone else, someone whom God brought into her life. I would no longer be the one she’d come to when she needed comfort. That honor now went to her husband. I held onto my little girl for a really long time.

After twenty-three years in one place, our lives took a slight turn. We packed up and moved to become part of a young classical Lutheran school. The younger two children were now enrolled in our classical school. They were away from me for about eight hours, five days a week. That meant I had to let them go. I had been homeschooling for over twenty years. Again, that was really hard.

And yet, I still get to hold each of them. They are a part of me. They have given me some of the most special memories of my life. I hold onto those days. I also need to let my children go. For you see, Joanna, Maria, and Josiah were never really mine. They were on loan to me from the Lord. They were His children first. In His mercy, He gave these three children to me. They are gifts. Gifts.

I count it pure joy to take care of these precious gifts of God. They need a mom and dad to love them, care for them, and teach them the ways of the Lord. I do hold on to them because they are important to me. They were given into my family by God. While I will not have the privilege of holding their hands throughout their entire lives, I can still let them go. I can do this because God will reunite us again on the Last Day. I hold onto that hope and promise of our loving Lord.

The Sisterhood of Suffering

by Kristi Leckband

The apostle Paul writes these words in 1 Corinthians 12:26 — “And if one member suffers, all the members suffer with it; or if one member is honored, all the members rejoice with it.”

There is so much suffering in this world. We, the members of the body of Christ have suffered much. We have not suffered all, for Christ took that upon Himself for us. We should have suffered death, eternal death. God, in His mercy, sacrificed His own beloved Son, so that we might not suffer eternal death. God is gracious!

And now, dear friends, we can help carry the burden of suffering with our sisters in the faith. It’s sad to hear that a friend’s pregnancy has failed. Your sister in Christ tries to be strong, but it hurts so much. The birth mother chose to care for her child rather than place the little one in your dear friend’s arms. Your friend’s arms are heavy with sorrow but empty of children. Your friend’s children despise her as a parent. She questions where she went wrong.

What, as the Body of Christ, can we do? What can happen within the sisterhood of suffering? I have some ideas.

The sisterhood of suffering is one where you can…

NOT offer her false promises.
NOT tell her to simply “get over it.”
NOT dismiss her pain.
NOT ignore her tears.
NOT judge her sorrow.
NOT look the other way.
NOT leave her to drown in her despair.

The sisterhood of suffering is one where you can…

spend time with her.
hug her.
sit quietly beside her.
cry with her.
acknowledge her pain.
speak truthfully to her.
pray for her.
share God’s Word with her.

We are called to care for one another, and I’ve listed only a handful of ways we can do this. When one sister suffers, many suffer. We can only help bear the burden when we KNOW one another. Thus, we spend time together. We ask questions. We listen to one another. By the grace of God, He will help us share the suffering of a hurting sister. Can we take the hurt away? No, but perhaps we can be the hand of God to hug her. Perhaps we can be the voice who reminds her that God loves her and does not forsake her. Perhaps we can hand that pens a note of encouragement to her.

St. Paul exhorts us with these words from Romans 12:15 — “Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep.”

Dear sisters, let us love one another in the sisterhood of suffering.

My Only Son with Type 1

By Melissa DeGroot

June 9, 2023, is a date seared into my soul.

My one and only son, Knox, had lost fifteen pounds in a span of two weeks. He was frail. He was going to the bathroom constantly. Then, he started telling me his eyesight was blurry and that he thought he needed new glasses—even though we had just been to the optometrist a few months earlier. He was sleepy and sluggish. His eyes looked glossy.

Something was clearly wrong. But I had no idea what.

Was he anemic? Was he going through a growth spurt? Was there some vitamin deficiency? Like any concerned mother with access to Google, I was running through every possibility I could think of.

Finally, and thanks be to God, my husband and I had enough sense to take him to urgent care.

The doctor took one look at the situation and immediately sent us to the emergency room. Then, he was taken by ambulance to the Pediatric ICU.

Knox was in full-blown diabetic ketoacidosis.

He was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes.

The New Normal

I knew almost nothing about Type 1 diabetes. I had heard of it, of course, but I didn’t understand what it actually meant to live with it. No one in my immediate family had it. There was one relative on Adam’s side of the family who had it (and died from its complications more than 40 years ago), but Type 1 had never been something on our radar.

Suddenly, it was something we would think about every. single. day.

To say the diagnosis was traumatic is an understatement.

Knox spent a week in the hospital. I slept and held vigil on the little uncomfortable couch beside his bed while he was poked and prodded, hooked up to IVs, subjected to constant glucose checks, and given insulin as the doctors worked to stabilize his body.

And then we were sent home to begin what everyone calls a “new normal.”

Except it wasn’t.

Those of you who live with Type 1—or have a child who does—know the deal. From the moment of diagnosis, everything changes.

Food changes.

Sleep changes.

Sports. School. Travel changes.

Even the simple act of sending your child to bed changes.

For months, Adam and I woke up at 3:00am to check Knox’s blood sugar. Even now, more than three years later, a glucose monitor alarm in the middle of the night can still send one of us scrambling out of bed. A dangerous low isn’t something you can just ignore.

Current technology has given people with Type 1 diabetes exceptional tools to manage the disease and live incredibly full lives. I am profoundly grateful for them.

But the disease is still there.

And for a mother, that reality has been difficult to accept.

Unexpected Grief

After Knox’s diagnosis, all three of us grieved.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Eventually, some measure of acceptance.

Watching my son go through those emotions, too, broke my heart. I couldn’t take the injections for him. I couldn’t make his pancreas begin producing insulin again. I couldn’t guarantee that he would never experience a dangerous low.

I couldn’t fix it.

That helplessness nudged another wound I had carried for years.

Knox is my one and only child—not because we planned it that way. I spent years carrying the sadness and inadequacy that can accompany secondary infertility.

My body didn’t give me another child. And now I couldn’t fix the body of the only child I had.

We parents spend so much time trying to protect our children that we can almost convince ourselves that it is actually within our absolute power to do so. Then something happens that reminds us how little control we really have.

I could count carbohydrates, calculate insulin, advocate at school, educate coaches, pack emergency supplies, stay awake at night, pray, worry, research, prepare and watch.

But I could not heal my son.

Why Him?

Knox and I have talked about this. Why did God allow this? Why Type 1? Why him?

I don’t know.

And while it hits my pride at times, I have become more comfortable saying those three words.

I don’t know.

I don’t want to give my son some tidy, rose-colored answer God hasn’t given us. I don’t want to tell him that God gave him diabetes because He knew Knox was strong enough to handle it.

Because there have been days when Knox wasn’t strong enough. Neither was I.

And perhaps that is precisely where the faith we confess becomes all the more comforting.

God never promised we would be strong enough for everything that happens to us.

He has promised us Christ, who is the strongest.

In this fallen creation, bodies fail. Pancreases stop working. Women experience infertility. Children get sick. Parents discover there are things they simply cannot fix.

The one true faith doesn’t say that suffering itself is good.

Death is still an enemy. Disease is still part of a creation groaning under the consequences of sin.

And though suffering carries meaning of epic, spiritual proportions, it does not get the final word.

Jesus, who took it on the cross, died, and rose for us, does.

Not Mine to Save

This is the lesson I keep learning as a mother.

Knox was never ultimately mine to save.

God revealed that truth to me when I was young, even if I wasn’t fully prepared to accept it in every stage or context of my life.

On January 15, 2011, when Knox was just days old, God gave me something to cling to that would become infinitely more precious twelve years later.

Knox was baptized.

Water and God’s Word were poured over my tiny son, and the Lord placed His name upon him: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Long before I knew the words continuous glucose monitor, insulin-to-carb ratio, ketones, or diabetic ketoacidosis, God knew Knox.

Before I ever heard an alarm warning me that my son’s blood sugar was falling, God had already made a promise to him.

Before I discovered how helpless I was to keep my child safe, Christ had already done what I could never do.

He had died for him.

He had risen for him.

And in Baptism, He had claimed him.

My job was never to be Knox’s savior.

He already has One.

Now

Today, Knox manages much of his Type 1 himself. His teachers understand. His coaches understand. His teammates know. Whether he’s sitting in class or playing hockey, there are people around him who know what is happening and how to help.

God has provided people. He has provided medicine and technology.

He has provided other parents of children with Type 1 who understand the strange world we entered that June day.

And He has slowly given our family something resembling normalcy again.

Not the old normal. A different one.

I still wish I could take Type 1 diabetes away. I still wish I could have given him brothers and sisters.

But God is teaching me that motherhood was never about my ability to control the outcome. It was always about stewardship.

This child was entrusted to Adam and me for a time. We love him, feed him, teach him, protect him, advocate for him, laugh with him, worry about him, watch him play hockey, wake up when the glucose monitor screams, and do every ordinary thing parents do.

But ultimately, we entrust him to the One who loves him more than we ever could.

June 9, 2023, taught me how little control I have over my son’s life.

January 15, 2011, reminds me who does.

My one and only son belongs to Christ.

And when I cannot fix what is broken, when I cannot control what happens next, and when I cannot protect him from every suffering this fallen world may bring, our Lord returns me to that promise.

Knox is baptized.

Christ has claimed him.

I often parody-sing Stevie Wonder’s line, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered… He’s YOURS!” as a humorous, yet true reminder.

And that is a comfort no diagnosis can take away.

Our Blended Family

by Kristi Leckband

Our family of two grew to three with the birth of Joanna. She is our only biological child. God added two more children to our family through His gift of adoption. Maria came to us at 18 months old, and Josiah came to us as a newborn two quick months later. It’s not traditional, but it’s not a rarity either.

When we started the adoption process, we told Joanna what we were doing. At the time, she was four years old, so we really didn’t say too much to her. The plan was that she would stay with grandparents while Jerome and I flew to bring Maria home. God had other plans. Joanna was almost ten years old when Maria joined our family. Joanna flew to China with us and was an eyewitness to God’s miracle of adoption. When Josiah joined us from the hospital two months later, Joanna was one of the first to hold him. She had a front row seat to all that was happening. At her age, she could truly comprehend what God was doing in our family.

Jerome and I have always talked openly about adoption. We talked about children as gifts for that is what they are. When Maria and Josiah were quite young, we made a picture book for each of them about their birth, their baptism, their adoption, and family. They looked at the pictures and heard their stories read to them repeatedly. We gave them the language to use when talking about these things. My children saw adoption as a wonderful thing. I know this to be a fact because I can still clearly recall this story…

I was driving Maria and Josiah to the library. They were seated in the second row, chatting about life as four and five year olds do. All of a sudden, one of them said, “Mom, we feel sorry for Joanna.” Surprised, I asked, “Why is that?” A sweet little voice replied, “Because she’s not adopted.” Oh, my heart. They saw adoption as a blessing!

Even today, Maria and Josiah can have fun with adoption. Recently, some of our scholars tested their blood types. It caused a bit of excitement in school. Siblings were tested so as to determine their parents’ blood type. Maria and Josiah laughed to think that their blood types would have nothing to do with big sister Joanna or their parents. They could smile and laugh, confident that they were loved for who they were, not for how they joined our family.

Jerome and I could not have prayed for a better understanding for those two. Adoption is not something to be hidden away in our family. We are adopted into God’s family. He makes us His own and gives to us all good things. We are now blessed to share those good things with others. Our three children are recipients of God’s good gifts. Jerome and I are the vessels through which those blessings flow.

Yes, there is a significant age gap between Joanna and the “littles.” She was an only child for a long time. She did have friends closer to her age, and we made sure she had time with those people. Life changed when she gained a sister and a brother in a short span of time. She relished her role as big sister and took such good care of them. I could see her learning to be a mother at that young age. Joanna, still to this day, is a wonderful big sister. While she lives hours away, she still connects with them and inquires about them. She invites them to be part of her life.

Maria and Josiah have their own trials to bear. Their life history has some gaps, and we’ll never be able to fill in all of them. It makes me sad that they won’t have a complete picture. However, it doesn’t lessen the blessings that they are to our family. I do think it is helpful they have each other to share that burden. It may seem “normal” to them that there are gaps because they both have those holes in their lives. They are best friends, and I thank God for that.

Whether your family grows biologically or through adoption or not at all, you are still blessed. God has given you life. He encourages you to live in His grace. He gives you life and salvation. He gives you His Holy Word and Sacraments, that you might be forgiven of all your sins and be refreshed in His promises of love to you. In the Church, we are one huge, blended family. We love one another and rejoice in being adopted in the family of God.

Fearfully and Wonderfully…Hormonal

By Melissa DeGroot

When I turned 41, my body entered the Twilight Zone.

Up until then, things had been clicking along pretty well. I was eating low-carb, going to the gym, feeling pretty good, and generally thought I had figured out what worked.

And then, seemingly overnight, my body said . . .Nope.

My thyroid tanked. My metabolism, pshh, what metabolism? seemed to pack its bags and leave. Things that had worked for years suddenly stopped. I gained 50 pounds despite continuing to exercise and trying to adjust my diet. I felt anxious, depressed, angry. . . and let’s not even get into libido. As far as east is from the west did I even want to think about that. I remember feeling so disconnected from my body, yet thinking, What in the world is happening to me?

Welcome to perimenopause.

Thankfully, I eventually found a doctor who helped me sort through some of what was going on. With medical care, supplements, hormone replacement therapy, and a few other things, I slowly began feeling more like myself again. The weight eventually came off—slowly, but surely—and over the last few years, I’ve managed to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

And I use the word normalcy loosely.

Because, apparently, perimenopause also means if you “do the supplemental things,” you may discover hair growing in places where hair has absolutely no business growing. Sorry. Just the truth! Then PMS sometimes decides to become PMDD—and other months, nothing at all. Thankfully, I haven’t struggled with hot flashes yet. Sleep, however, occasionally goes off the rails, though certain supplements have helped tremendously with that.

And by the way, if you are low in testosterone and do take a supplemental version of it, both you and your husband will thank you. Wink. You’re welcome.

Story time: One of the more surprising episodes happened last year shortly after I began a new vocation as a deaconess. I was settling into this new job and a completely new season of life post-homeschooling when suddenly my period was two weeks late.

I thought:

Oh. My. Gosh.

What if I’m pregnant?

After years of secondary infertility, there I was in my mid-forties, beginning a new chapter of life and wondering whether God had decided to throw the ultimate plot twist into the story.

Breaking news: I was not pregnant.

Just perimenopausal.

And honestly, that story pretty well sums up this season of life. It is a wild ride of hormonal shifts, strange symptoms, unpredictable cycles, and occasionally wondering, What in the new, fresh H-E-Double hockey sticks is going to happen next?

Thankfully, my husband has been wonderfully supportive and loving through all of it. (Again. Thank you, testosterone.) We understand a little better now what may be happening when I suddenly don’t quite feel like myself.

Sometimes.

Because beneath all the unpredictabilities that is this body of mine, something much deeper is happening.

My body is moving toward menopause. And menopause means that the possibility of conceiving another child will finally and permanently be off the table.

For a woman who has lived through secondary infertility, that realization could have been devastating at another point in my life.

But strangely, now, I think I’m okay.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to let go.

Not because the longing and hurt didn’t matter, but because life has continued unfolding around it. God continued providing. He gave me people to love, work to do, neighbors to serve, a husband and son to cherish, and fulfillment in vocations I never could have imagined. And healthcare to help me feel a little bit better!

There has been purpose, meaning, and even flourishing in places I wasn’t looking. Thanks be to God.

But perimenopause is another reminder that my body is changing. I’m getting older.

That can stir up other fears and questions. What will aging look like? What will happen to my health? What will life look like twenty or thirty years from now? Who will be there? What losses will come?

Some of those questions require practical and faithful wisdom since, ultimately, planning and healthcare can’t answer the deepest problem.

Our bodies are headed toward dying.

Perhaps dramatic for a blog post that began with chin hairs. But there it is.

Our bodies bear the effects of a fallen world.

And yet these bodies are also fearfully and wonderfully made. So much so, they are redeemed.

Christ did not come merely to rescue some spiritual part of us from our troublesome meat suits. He took on a body Himself. He suffered in that body. He died in that body. And He rose bodily from the grave.

Which means my hope isn’t that I can keep this body looking 35 forever.

Thank God, since that ship’s sailed.

My hope is the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.

So for now, I can laugh (if my estrogen or testosterone haven’t dipped) at some of the unpredictabilities of perimenopause. I can seek good medical care. I can exercise, eat reasonably well, take the things that help me sleep, and occasionally pluck the mysterious hairs that seem determined to spring forth.

But I can also receive this strange season for what it is: another reminder that I am a creature whose life and body belong to God.

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

Currently somewhat hormonal.

And waiting, with all creation, for the day when Christ returns, raises, and restores our bodies.

HRTB Reflections: An Ides of Marching Forward

By Melissa DeGroot

I can hardly believe fifteen years have passed since the beginning of He Remembers the Barren. When Katie contacted Kristi, Rebecca and me a couple months ago to commemorate this blog, it gave me pause to reflect on so many things. Looking back to where this all started, I remember how new, exciting, and nerve-wracking it all felt—the blogging world itself, wondering how people would receive what we were writing, and hoping that ultimately in the midst of it all there would be real talk, real comfort and faithful theological grounding for people who were suffering.

I can also look back at myself and cringe a little. Okay, maybe a lot.

I’m sure most writers (a title I hold very loosely) feel that way when they look at their early work. I was in my early thirties then. I was definitely more immature than I realized. I had professional, diaconal and mental health training and, if I’m being fair to my younger self, some good theology. But I was also a little zealous. Overconfident, even. Ego and pride were mixed in there, too.

Seemingly an Old Eve disease that I am still getting medicine for each Lord’s Day.

The chronology is a little muddled in my head (thank you, perimenopause!) – though I recall talking to Katie about this topic well before the blog took shape and before my son was born. After a miscarriage early in my marriage, I recall having the fear that I was going to be barren, too. Like it was somehow contagious? There was this superstitious, self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts in my head that if I kept talking about barrenness, it was going to be my “fate.”

So much for good theology.

Then, right around the time this blog started, my husband and I had been blessed with a son. Parts of me thought this conversation wasn’t really for me at that point, even though I knew it was still good to spiritually comfort those who were suffering with it.

However, not too long after that, my husband, Adam, and I began walking through secondary infertility. It was a decades-long trek of fear, prayer and wondering whether we would have more children. I spent so many years worrying about it. I put so much pressure on myself.

HRTB hit me from a different angle, and it was one that I needed.

You see, I had high hopes of being a large, Lutheran family. I came from a larger family myself. Bring on the multi-passenger van transporting a gaggle of homeschooled, slightly-nerdy-but-athletic DeGroots!

It was the dream.

It never became a reality.

And here is what made the conversations surrounding He Remembers the Barren so important to me.

During the fretting and faithful reckoning throughout my thirties, I felt this was a conversation our church body needed to have more openly anyway. Within the Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod, I was seeing a renewed appreciation for our confessional and liturgical heritage. There was much good in that. Along with it came a strong and thoroughly biblical affirmation of marriage, children, and family.

Thanks be to God for that.

But I felt pressure, too. It was compelling at times – yet not always in the best way: like there existed a stress to have “all the kids” to not only grow the church but have more joy in your life. I had pious people say some well-meaning yet off-putting things to me (“Just stop working and go have kids,” “Relax, and it will happen”) that simply didn’t fully align with what God says and our good understanding of the doctrine of vocation. I don’t begrudge them or hold any resentments. I certainly held some of those beliefs, too. It just didn’t happen for us that way.

Singleness. Barrenness. Miscarraige. Secondary Infertilty. Adoption. Families that don’t look the way we imagined they would. Our doctrine of vocation is beautifully spacious precisely because the Lord is the One who gives and takes away our callings.

Those were some of the conversations Katie and I began having all those years ago. I was (and still am) grateful to be a cheerleader and small contributor in the arena—to encourage the conversation, to have seen this blog created, and the book published.

And then there were Kristi and Rebecca, whose experiences helped fill in still more of the picture. Different women. Different stories. Different kinds of suffering connected to barrenness and their own way of articulating it. Yet the same need for substance.

Fifteen years later, I think that is what I appreciate most.

Barrenness has a way of confronting us with just how little control any of us actually have. We can enjoy the intimacy of marriage. Make appointments. Try treatments. Change diets. Track, plan, pray and de-stress! Those things can be good and worthwhile. But eventually, we run into the limits of our own ability to make life happen according to our plans.

Which can be terrifying, but also expose some of the false gods we didn’t realize we were carrying.

For me, one of them was the idea that my family needed to look or be a certain way for me to feel that I had somehow measured up. “Image Manager” was a false calling that I created to feel valuable and worthy. I put pressure on myself that God simply had not put on me. Perhaps I even put that pressure on others, too.

And suffering has a way of bringing those things into the light.

I’m 47 years old now. My perspective has definitely changed over the past fifteen years. Marriage, motherhood, ministry, friendships, disappointments, and simply getting older have shaped and refined how I think, speak and serve. As a result, I have let go of so many things. But acceptance of what is doesn’t require me to pretend that all my thoughts, hopes and feelings weren’t somehow real, unholy or unwarranted.

The longing for a child is real. The disappointment is real.

Yet Christ is just as real yesterday, today and forever.

That is where I hope this conversation continues to lead.

Christ does not meet us merely as an idea or a theological explanation for why suffering exists. He comes to us in the flesh. He comes every time His Word is preached and His Sacraments are administered. He surrounds us with sisters and brothers in Christ, with pastors, deaconesses, pious friends, and the whole family of God. Because we still need forgiveness and the Church, no matter what stage of life we’re in.

And sometimes, through those people, He even gives us the gift of feeling some (or a lot) of the comfort He has already promised to us.

What a gift it is when a sister in Christ sits beside me and says, “I know this hurts.” What a gift when a pastor speaks Christ’s promises into suffering. What a gift when another woman’s story reminds me that I’m not alone.

Though, whether we feel it or not, assurance is based on the truth of God’s Word. We are redeemed, precious, and loved. Christ’s death and resurrection has power, even now, to bring us faith to trust that no matter the trial, He is still with us.

So fifteen years later, I’m grateful to contribute to this conversation again. I’m grateful for Katie, Kristi, and Rebecca, and the many women and men who have been willing to speak honestly about barrenness, infertility, miscarriage, adoption and a host of other life issues. I’m grateful that He Remembers the Barren became a place where these conversations could happen.

And I’m curious about where it goes from here.

Maybe fifteen years have given us a little more perspective. Maybe we can speak about these things with greater spiritual maturity—without minimizing suffering, but also without allowing suffering to have the final word.

Because while it’s real, Christ is more real still.

And He has not forgotten us.

Looking back and moving forward, God is always remembering us, even when our memories fail and fade.

God continue to bless and strengthen us as we seek to share our unique experiences, strength, and hope in Him now in our midlife years. Perhaps this blog commemoration is a connection point to a new generation who are walking through these hardships, a generation who may be seeking a sisterly, motherly (gosh, some might even say, grandmotherly), ear to listen, receive love and care with greater understanding and grace. I hope so.

Because while striving to serve each other well, to care for and raise faithful children, God reminds us Christ crucified and risen for us is the only Way, Truth and Life certain in this world.

Ides years later, God continue to bless these conversations and this blog as He sees fit.

15 years

by Katie Schuermann

It has been 15 years since this blog was born. Can you believe it?

Our lives have changed much since Rebecca, Kristi, Melissa and I first started blogging about barrenness. Some of our crosses remain, others have been lifted, and still others have been exchanged.

We first ceased blogging all of those years ago, not because barrenness and secondary infertility no longer affect us, but because we thought it wise for our readers to start engaging more with their pastors face-to-face about their suffering, especially on matters of the conscience.

But we would like to honor the 15th anniversary of the first edition of He Remembers the Barren’s publication as well as this blog’s birth by announcing that we plan to blog every day in the coming month of October.

Because we are older and, we pray, wiser.

And because miscarriages, adoption, IVF, endometriosis, secondary infertility, grief, and all the things still affect us.

And because we would like to re-engage in that centuries-old Christian tradition of comforting you with the comfort with which we ourselves have been comforted (2 Cor. 1:3-4).

May the God of all mercies be glorified.

Lord willing, see you in October.