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.
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