My Ignorance of the Agony of infertility

I don't understand. 

Some women, including myself, may say that they gain weight by just looking at a cookie.  This is how it is with me and pregnancy. The moment I stop taking my pills, all I have to do is think about an orgasm, and BAM! Nine months later a baby pops out. (Incidentally I'm so thankful I didn't give into my wild animal instincts before saying, "I do" or I would definitely have 15 kids by now.) I don't tell you this to brag about my hospitable lady parts and my husband's super-strength sperm;  I tell you this because I want you to know that I know what women struggling with infertility already clearly know:  I have ABSOLUTELY NOT ONE SINGLE CLUE about the pain of infertility.   If I tried to say that I understood or offer some kind of trite encouragement, you would walk away cursing my insensitivity, and I would deserve it. I have 3 children who were conceived and born at the exact time that I planned, without Clomid, shots, countless miscarriages,  months going by with yet another negative test, or calendars that tell me when I need to plan to have sex. 

I don't know why it happened that way for me and it hasn't happened that way for you. There is nothing I've done to deserve it and there is nothing you've done that deserves whatever depth and width of feelings you experience and how your experience impacts your day to day life. There is nothing about your pain and circumstance that I understand and I really want you to know that I know that I don't understand and I don't want to ever pretend that I do. I don't know how you feel. 

Since I don't know how you feel, and I recognize this clearly, I often don't know what to say; therefore, I opt for saying nothing at all.  I don't understand and I don't know how you feel, but I do care.  I care deeply.  I see you and I love you. You literally claim the top spot in my prayer book and there are so many times in so many different settings that I am prompted to offer bold prayers on your behalf, believing and claiming miracles and comfort and hope. 

I can't understand. I've heard and witnessed the journeys of too many of those closest to me, but I just don't know what you are going through.  As one of my most beloved friends was at the peak of her incredibly long and agonizing journey, I found out that I was pregnant with Judah, my second child. I am committed to ensuring that those closest to me find out big life news through a phone call, rather than through Facebook, or even a text message, and so, I said a prayer and dialed her number to tell her the good news.  As expected, she sincerely expressed pure and selfless joy and excitement and celebrated with me with incredible love and grace. I didn't mention how this news must be impacting her. I didn't acknowledge how my happy news would probably magnify her pain; she wouldn't have wanted me to say anything. She is so good and concerned for others that I knew she wanted this to be my moment, and I leaned into that. I didn't say anything, but as soon as I hung up the phone, my face fell into my hands and I cried uncontrollably. I imagine that she may have done the same. I don't understand, but I do see you. I do love you.

I won't say that "God has a plan" or that "You should have a little more faith", because this isn't because God has decided to do this to you or because your faith is stale. I won't tell you that there are lots of children who need to be adopted or that you should just quit thinking about it and it will just happen in God's perfect timing, because these words will not help you. I won't try to relate by telling you about the one miscarriage I had in between the births of my healthy children, because it's just not the same. It's not. 

I don't understand, but I'll listen and I'll love you. I'll weep with you and rejoice with you ; I'll give you some space or I'll give you a shoulder to cry on. When I don't know what to say, I'll remain silent.  And I won't stop praying.

My Shout Out to Friendship

Friendship used to come with a bit more ease. Lifelong friendships that began with giggles about our crushes and the code names we (I) gave them like chicken sandwich and strawberry. (Why my secret names always revolved around food I have no idea. Oh wait, yes I do.  Food, glorious food.) Bonds formed through intense shared experiences like weeks at camp, a traveling choir, and trips across the country for conferences with thousands of other teenagers. Later there was laughter and tears in college dorm rooms, late nights in greasy local restaurants drinking cheap coffee, and weekly dinners followed by long nights studying with the occasional dance party break. (An obligatory shout out to 50 Cent needs to be inserted here.) There are a few friendships that were formed during high school, college and grad school that provide strength and familiarity and remind me who I am and I have no doubt will continue to carry me through life. These are the friends who have seen me at my best and my worst, stood up with me when I said, "I do," and who my husband tells me to call when he no longer knows what to do with the crazy spewing out from my life. 

The older I have gotten, the more I have struggled with the ease of friendship. More lonely tears have been shed in my adult life than I care to recall.  I am beyond thankful for the life long companion, partner and best friend I have found in my husband; I would fight anyone who says they have better sisters or parents than I do.  I would choose them as my closest friends over and over again.  And yet, I am wired to live in deep, overwhelming, life-giving community. For my soul to be refreshed and full, I want loud parties and gatherings where I can be exactly who I am and I also need to sit across the table from a person I trust over a cup of coffee or a basket (or three) of tortilla chips and be encouraged, challenged, and loved. To be known.  Where I am. Right now. 

My life long friends are a phone call away, and they can't be replaced. Ever. But I long for face to face, week to week contact with people; friendship in which we mutually, physically, literally walk the present journey together.  This is the space where I have experienced the lack of ease in friendship past the age of twenty-two.  New friendships at this stage of life are hard work. Or are they?

It's been over a year now since a face that had become familiar to me showed up at my office with a book in her hand, inviting me to enter the world of bold prayers that this book had invited her into and, more importantly, she humbly asked me to be her friend. I had wrongfully assumed that she already had plenty of friends, as I am sure she had of me. The truth is, no matter how much it appears that we have it all together, we all need a friend or two or ten. The start to this friendship was different than any others. She boldly gave the invitation for friendship and I gratefully checked the yes box and we just decided to make an effort to become friends. Her courage inspired me to quit sitting on the fence and waiting, but instead to put myself out there and claim the community and friendship that I was made for. 

This means that I now regularly sit across the table from someone I trust and we mutually pour out our souls; I chose to let my guard down and now I enjoy ridiculous group text discussions that make me laugh until I cry, football parties with screaming kids and good conversation, early morning "oatmeal crew" breakfasts where the laughter is spiritual and the endless cups of cheap coffee forge trust between us, and it means I can call out for prayer and help and on the days when I need it most and I get to experience the joy of offering the same to another. 

Life is for living and sharing and giving.  I need you, my friends, because I can't do this life thing on my own. 

I am living and it is good.