On Pregnancy, Infant and Child Loss Remembrance Day.

When Russ and I found out we were pregnant in 2002 we told the world as best we could, before social media gave us a microphone. We've never been super shy about what's going on in our lives so our community knew we'd been struggling with infertility. I'd venture to say word of our pregnancy spread quicker than it would have since so many were praying for us.

And then we miscarried.

I remember where I was standing when a friend stopped and said, "I have some babies in heaven, too" and then walked away.

I remember getting a card in the mail from an acquaintance that only said, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28."

I remember these two instances because they caused more pain than comfort.

I wanted the first friend to stop and talk. To share with me what it was like to move forward, missing her babies and celebrating her other children. I didn't want to get over it. I wanted to wallow in it a bit, honoring what had been lost. I wanted the second person to offer a relationship, to help walk me through the fog while pointing to truth. Not just throw a verse on a card and send it. I needed support. I needed a rich meal and all that was offered was a saltine cracker.



In 2011 an acquaintance who decided to place her newborn for adoption asked us to consider it and we said yes. This time using our social media microphone, we told the world our great news.

And then that ended.

I remember dear friends letting me live at their house for days while I fell apart. (Russ was in China on business at the time)

I remember a dear friend writing a note with a lot of profanity attached to a bag of thin mints and leaving it on my door, calling later to chat.

I remember a friend taking me to lunch to talk through it.

I remember emails from dear friends full of scripture and their stories and their hearts.

I remember being carried through that deep grief.


In both losses, I remember specific moments of being carried and other moments of feeling alone; moments of knowing I couldn't get through that day without that person's help and days when I felt isolated in my pain.

It is because of this that I'm excited for the world to know about a new ministry I've been humbled to be apart of creating.

Over the last (at least) 6 months four of us have been praying, texting, google hanging, planning, laughing and crying over this ministry.

Need to be carried? Need to know how to carry another? This is the place for you.

Check out our website.

Check out our Facebook page here.

Check out our Instagram here.

Check out our Twitter.

7 things you shouldn't say to people struggling with infertility. (as told by my memory) (and also my friends)

See this cute couple snuggling on the Goonies beach? They were only 2 years into their 7+ years of infertility. They had quite the road ahead of them and couldn't have made it out to the other side without their community. But it also wasn't without the deflecting of hearing the wrong things on the regular. Here's a cheat sheet for those of you with friends on that same journey. Hope it helps.


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1. "Oh my gosh, this pregnancy was a total surprise! Can you believe it? We totally weren't even trying!" (other variations include: "every time he looks at me we get pregnant!")

This might be the worst one. I know that I know that I know that you're trying to say "I didn't do it on purpose, I didn't get your dream before you on purpose" but that's not what we hear. We hear "Why is this so hard for you? it's really not that hard."

What to say instead: "Yep, we're pregnant! Due in ____. How are you guys doing?" Move along. Nothing to see here, folks.

2. "Please come to my baby shower?"

For the majority of women I know who struggle with infertility, other people's baby showers are the worst. The worst. It's not that we're not happy for you, it's the extreme isolation that comes from those events. It's impossible to compartmentalize our trauma. Even though we're no longer in the thick of it, I still try to avoid them. That may seem harsh but it's one of the worst triggers. Even after we adopted Eliot, I thought "I'm a mom now, I can handle baby showers!" but no. So uncomfortable with all the conversations about birthing plans and breastfeeding and how pregnancy affects your body. I just kinda check out.

What to say instead: "Ball is totally in your court on this one. If you want to come, please do, we'd love to have you but we understand if you wanna skip this one. If you don't come, let's go out to lunch this week instead."

3. "Sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I was scared you'd be mad."

Finding out someone (that you're somewhat close to) is pregnant in a big group announcement is rough. We can't hide our reaction. There were times I was legitimately happy for a friend but that happened to be the day we found out we *weren't* pregnant. There's no way to hide that. I never wanted to take away from their joy of that moment. We're never mad at you for getting pregnant. We're suffering and struggling with our own pain.

What to do instead: Opinions vary on this but I always told friends that an email was the best way to tell me. An email before the public announcement. That gives me space to receive the news and compose myself in private so I can join in the joy when the public moment happens. You rarely know where the friend is in their fertility steps and springing the news on them can often fall during a rough patch.

4. "It'll happen. Hang in there."

Um…no. That's 100% not true. You don't know what you're talking about. You probably don't know what else to say so you're just trying to make it better. A bandaid to make the bleeding stop even though the wound calls for something so much stronger.

What to say instead: "That sweater looks great on you!" Just kidding, but maybe don't worry about what to say as much as just listen. We're often nervous that people are weary of hearing our same ol' sob story. Especially after years of it. The wounds get deeper as the months pass and we just want to be listened to sometimes. A good ol' fashioned "That really sucks, I'm sorry you're going through this. What do you need right now? A night out for drinks? A hard run? A ridiculous chick flick? Say the word and I'm there."

5. "Want my kids? Jeez, they're getting on my nerves."

That's really not comforting. I know you're frustrated with your kids, that's the nature of them. Maybe vent to another mom about that, not someone spending all their money, time, emotions and strength desperately trying to even just get one. Downplaying the joys of motherhood for you doesn't take away the extreme desire to experience it for us.

What to say instead: "You look so tiny! Have you lost weight?"

6. "You should totally adopt."

Again, no. Not everyone should adopt. NOT EVERYONE SHOULD ADOPT. That's another post for a different day, just know it's not the answer to everyone's infertility problems. Adoption is complex and too many couples get into it as the solution to their problems. It makes the adoption about them, not about the child. The years of hard work trying to get pregnant can create a sense of entitlement once the adoption process starts. It's not healthy for anyone involved. We struggled with it and seen so many other couples struggle with it.

What to say instead: "I'm so sorry this is all happening. What can I do for you?" Stop solving. Start listening.

7. "You're still young, you have plenty of time!"

Every doctor visit, every month charted, every shot given, pill taken, our soul gets more deeply invested in becoming pregnant. Every month it doesn't happen feels hopeless. It is a constant roller coaster of deep feelings. This comment seems comforting, seems to offer perspective but really it's just dismissive of the legitimate pain we're experiencing. If we buy into that? Guess what happens every birthday that passes?

What to say instead: "I'm so sorry. Do you want to talk about it more?"


Some people don't get it, don't get social cues, etc. But most of these honestly came from people who truly care for us and just want to help. I don't fault them for their intent. No one ever intended to cause pain. Hence, the reason for the post. Hopefully educating and preventing further use of these common responses.

I hope you're noticing a theme. Stop defaulting to phrases that try to solve or dismiss or take away our pain. We can be hard to love, I get that. My needs from you changed daily, sometimes hourly. You're always safest to just say "That sucks, I'm sorry it's happening to you guys, what can I do? Here's some ice cream, you've gotten too skinny."

Two kids later and I'm still infertile. (National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day post)

Most days I forget that I've never given birth. Most days I forget that my children didn't come from my genetics. Most days I forget that if I hadn't miscarried, we'd have an 11 year old. Most days I'm so busy being a mom that I forget how I became (and didn't become) a mom.

Other than an excuse for a new wardrobe, being pregnant was never my desire. It's beautiful and no one knows more than me how miraculous it is but my desire was to have biological children and I would tolerate being pregnant to get them. But that never happened. Slowly over time we've grieved this and have settled into our amazing story quite happily.

Grieving didn't happen easily, even with our arms full of the greatest children on the planet. That certainly helped but sorrow sneaks up on me. There's still triggers. I still stifle a urge to punch women in the face who joke about getting pregnant on accident. (Not really...but maybe a little?) I still get sad sometimes seeing little girls with brunette hair and green eyes (what I'd always pictured our little girl to look like). I went ahead and unfriended an acquiantance on Facebook who was pregnant the same time I was. There was no reason to see a constant stream of pics of her son playing baseball or what he made her for Mother's Day. That was just a weird form of infertility torture. Congrats but no thank you.

To be honest? I'm not sure I've said this on here or not, but overall I'm thankful for this part of our story. Not just because the timing led us to our boys but because I can now offer what I so longed for back then. When we were in the thick of shots, ultrasounds, etc the only people that could relate ended up having biological children. Some people were compassionate and gracious but there were still lots of "Hang in there! It'll happen!"s and the like. I had no one to look at and ask, "But what if it doesn't?" And now I can be that for others.

We hosted an event at our church right before Mother's Day this year for couples struggling with infertility, a place to come and ask questions, to be reminded of God's promises not being tied to a positive pregnancy test. A woman asked to speak to me after. She asked if I was okay being infertile still. When I said yes she asked when that happened, going from pursuing something so diligently with every resource you have to feeling peace that it didn't happen, essentially asking when is it okay to say stop.

My answer? You'll know. That's not a cop out. You'll know. When you've opened doors, walked through them and felt unsettled, you'll know. When you're heart has changed to other things, you'll know. When you are "late" and it causes more fear than excitement, you'll really know. And it's okay if you're not ready to stop. It's okay if you're not being called to adoption yet (or ever). It's okay to switch doctors. It's okay to try different treatments. This road is different for everyone. And once you've moved on, it's still okay to get sad about it.

And it's okay. It's okay to move on once you're ready. I struggled with this, thinking it was a sign that I lacked faith that God could still do this. But I misread that. Moving on is another part of grieving, letting the dream be transformed by The Storyteller.

Someone sent this quote to me once and I've held onto it's truth:

"The only way to dispossess the heart of an old affection is through the expulsive power of a new one." Thomas Chalmers. (19th century Scottish dude.)

And by expulsive power I mean->

Unless God pulls a "Sarai", I will always be infertile. It doesn't define me but I've allowed it to help shape me. I won't fight the grief when it sneaks up on me but it no longer makes me angry. If anything, it makes me squeeze my boys harder and love on them a little bit more.

One week overview.

In the last week:

I made dinner. A few times.
I volunteered at E's school.
I tamed the fro.
I helped loosen a tooth.
I yelled.
I read chapter books.
I read board books.
I took pictures.
I made cookies.
I explained to Eliot that the 80s were not about dressing like clowns, it was a style.
I held slugs, rollie pollies, ants and worms.
I broke up fights.
I dreamed of escaping. All by myself.
I grocery shopped.
I wiped noses with my bare hands.

I forced myself to stay in the 'parent section' of the baseball field as I watched my first grader fight back tears after getting out at first.
I watched Cars for the 900th time.
I bought organic food. And also Cheetos.
I argued about homework.
I spent too much time on my phone.
I administered antibiotics.
I wondered about biological children.
I paid a babysitter instead of buying a new top.
I planned two birthday events.
I didn't sew anything. Or do any craft projects.
I packed lunch.
I lost my patience.
I protected.
I made appointments for annual check-ups.
I prayed for birth moms as we approach mothers day and both boys birthdays.
I made both boys cry. A few times. For not giving in to what they want vs. what they need. But also because I was mean.
I hid in the bathroom.
I hid in my car.
I hid in the basement.
I made Eliot try asparagus.
I overreacted. A few times.
I dreamed of adding more children.
I was consistent. Until I was inconsistent.
I cleaned ears and flossed teeth.
I grieved our miscarriage.
I did laundry, dishes and sweeping.
I didn't vacuum.
I cursed the day PowerRangers decided to make a television show.
I dated my husband.
I prayed over them, with them and for them.
I sang to them. And then stopped when Eliot asked me not to.
I took a lot of deep breaths.
I dreaded the day they each realize their loss of their birth families.
I cried.
I tickled.
I laughed.
I hugged.
I consoled.
I thanked God for letting me be their mom. A few times.

The Seven Habits of Highly Infertile People

I've spent a lot of time in waiting rooms. Not real ones with magazines and the standard greenish-blue carpet and matching chairs. Not the one with the mall or Jimmy Johns on the other side of the glass.

I've spent my time in the proverbial ones. Ones with a calendar or clock constantly in your face. One with timelines that never get respected. One with my future on the other side of the glass.

As I mentioned a few posts ago, my inbox is increasing with questions about infertility. One of the main questions is "how did you get through the wait month to month?"

Having paid my dues in both the fertility and adoption waiting rooms, there's some differences. This post is focusing on the waiting room with fallopian tube posters on the wall. I also pulled up a panel of attractive other ladies who've sat in this same place and the patterns were pretty evident. That leads me to numero uno:

1. Have people on your team. Besides your hubs. There's a gazillion online communities you can join for support. Find at least one friend who's either going through it at the same time or has gone through it. God was gracious enough to give me Lisa. We even went to the same doctor. She was honest and vulnerable with me and I with her. We also found mutual hobbies to distract us. Which leads me to...

2. Get a life. Fertility stuff can be so absolutely consuming, you have to have something to distract you. As Lisa says, "I am not my uterus." Lisa and I took up running, even trained for a half marathon. Which was a total win/win since we were distracting ourselves as well as getting supa hot healthy. For me, distraction was key. Unlike adoption, there's a limited number of days you have to be distracted until you know the conclusion. Find an addictive tv show (Friday Night Lights, LOST, One Tree Hill, whatevs.) Read silly memoirs or great fiction. Start a new workout program. Lisa took classes toward her masters. Clean out your basement. Take up photography. Get involved volunteering somewhere. Something, anything that has NOTHING to do with children/pregnancy/parenting. What is that hobby you always wanted to try? Go start it.

3. Hide. The general rule for anyone going through infertility treatments is that YOU WILL BE SURROUNDED by the most fertile people ever. It will be a constant stream of "I can't believe I'm pregnant AGAIN! We weren't even trying!" and "Don't drink the water at that church!" And honestly, people don't mean to punch you in the ovaries with their lack of understanding. But all of that means a constant stream of baby showers. Buying cute little soft things for friends can accentuate the lack of it in your world. My advice? Hide when you need to. Pull back and recluse when it's just simply too much to handle. Don't stay there though, you need community but IT IS OKAY TO SKIP STUFF. I didn't do this enough. I was too worried about hurting people's feelings and wasn't protecting my own.

4. Date your husband. Fertility is so hard. It can either strengthen your marriage or it can drain it. Sometimes both. Make sure that you're not only creating hobbies for yourself but that you and the hubs have things going on TOGETHER that have nothing to do with hormone levels and sperm counts. And speaking of? Make sure you're having sex just for fun and not just during "the homework" 3 days. For reals.


**Knowing this a monthly roller coaster and you're getting pumped with horomones, some months or days you want to do the opposite, to lean into it. In that case:


5. Journal. For obvious reasons, it's just a great outlet.

6. Meet with mentors. Especially if you don't know anyone currently going through it, find someone who has experience that can meet when you need/want to talk to someone other than your hubs.

7. Be honest. First of all, with God. If you're angry or confused, He can handle it. He's not so happy about infertility either. Question Him, His sovereignty, His goodness. Push back on His promises. They will prove themselves.

Secondly, be honest with family and close friends. You need people in your court. You need community. I'm not saying you should post details of your treatments as your facebook status (PLEASE DON'T) but we've always been blessed, not burdened, by people knowing our story. Be honest with them about how to love you, which sometimes means leaving you alone and other times means girls night. I'm reminded of this scene:

You need friends, fertile or infertile, that won't run from your honesty.

Thirdly, be honest with yourself. If you're angry, be angry. If you're pretending you have control and have mental timelines, quit it. If you're putting on a happy face but dying inside, stop it. If you want to cry, do it. If you want to take a month off because your body is all jacked up on hormones and your emotions are out of whack, do it. You're not going to miss THE ONE MONTH GOD WAS GOING TO BLESS YOU because you needed a break. I'm pretty sure God doesn't work like that.

No matter if you've been TTC for 3 months or 5 years, it sucks. It is a hard road unlike many others. Please feel comfortable emailing me with questions or just to vent.

Mitt (not Romney) Redeemed.

One day roughly ten years ago I wasn't feeling quite right. I called in to work and headed to the doc. The doc announced that much to everyone's surprise, I was pregnant. However, it was super high risk and ordered me to take the rest of the week off and stay off my feet until my next appointment a week later. Except this was the biggest news in our married life so I made a quick detour to Target and bought the smallest baseball glove I could find and shoved it in a gift bag. Russ had no idea what would be welcoming him at the door that afternoon. For the rest of the day while watching mindless TV while chillin' on the couch, I kept staring at the bag and listening to every sound from outside, beyond anxious for that slam of the car door.

Like every day, Russ came in the front door after work. I tried not to make eye contact, convinced I would give it away, but told him to open his surprise. I'll never forget his face as he connected the dots. The hugs, the tears, the phone calls...it was a really great day.

A week later there were more hugs, tears and phone calls but it was a really bad day. After the doc confirmed my miscarriage, Russ took the baseball mitt to a box in the basement, far out of sight. We've moved twice since then and it's come along, safely hidden in a box. At some point it ended up in Eliot's sports basket.

This spring was Eliot's first year in T-ball. At one point getting ready for practice he asked Russ who bought him that glove. Russ quietly told him that I bought it years ago, knowing we'd need it for him, the best T-ball player ever.

For me, this tiny seemingly insignificant detail of our fertility struggle was finally redeemed. It took ten years and the biggest fight of my life, but that mitt, dirty from actual time on the field, signified arriving at our dream.

Our family is not what I could have ever pictured but it's perfect beyond anything I could have imagined. I don't know what yours will look like, friends, but I have to, have to, have to believe that it will be perfect. Perfect for you.

(If this post seems out of left field {ha! left field...}, sorry. There's been quite a rise in fertility questions in my inbox lately so I thought I'd just put this out there.) (There might be more on this general topic soon) (Or maybe not) (just keeping you guessing...)

Mr. Miyagi meets cheesy The Bachelor analogy. You're welcome.

If you saw our last 12 in 12 in '12 date, you know we are now professional rock climbers. (maybe "professional" is a bit strong) When I signed up for this back in December I asked lots of questions, wondering what we would have to do in order to climb. Would we need classes, etc. They casually mentioned "auto belaying" and said that's all we'd need, that we could indeed climb without a great deal of instruction. Because when I'm risking my life, climbing 35 feet in the air, I want the least amount of instruction possible. Straight wisdom, people.

When we arrived, the friendly worker showed us the auto belay system, explained how it worked, and set us free in less than 5 minutes. Signing the waiver actually took longer.

See the red wire in front of both of us in these pics? That's the auto-belay. At the bottom, it's attached at two places to our harness. The other end of it goes all the way to the ceiling, attached to a pulley with quite a bit of tension. So much tension that the first time I carabinered in (I just made that word up, I think! Feel free to use it) my feet lifted off the floor and I had to grab the wall.

My first attempt wasn't very successful and I immediately regretted the whole idea. I didn't know how to get back down and I had no intention of going any higher. Then I saw the lady next to me finish her climb and gracefully glide back to the ground, pushing off the wall.

I tried it since she made it look so easy. I hit the wall. Cuz I'm awesome like that.

I climbed again to the same height and tried falling again. This time smoother, sparing the wall from by body slam. I felt like I got the hang of it. (get it? My dad will be proud of that one.)

My next turn was more successful and I was able to reach the very top.

{Put that story off to the side for a minute}
{and stop checkin' out my booty}

Our church is studying James right now and the last two weeks have addressed the first section of chapter 1. The whole "consider it pure joy when you face trials" thing. The question was raised, "how do you handle trials? what's your reaction?" A few months ago our church filmed us sharing our story. In talking through what we wanted to say, I realized something.

During infertility trials, I went through a lot of anger at God. During Eliot's adoption trials, I yelled at God a lot (and other people...). When Russ and I have struggled with trials in our marriage, I question "Why God?!"

However, when the adoption fell through last spring, there was no anger at God, no questioning His ways, His plan. There was devastation and deep grieving, but nothing directed AT God.

{Aaaaaand tying them together...}

I think we've learned how to fall. We've certainly not "arrived" but looking back, I think we're getting better at it, even if we hit the wall every so often.

And the take away? Learning how to fall means climbing isn't as scary, taking risks isn't as intimidating.

5 years.

5 years ago:

I only did half as much laundry.
I only picked up after one male.
I had books and books on running your own business.
I only cooked for/fed one male.
I never checked the floor to watch for matchbox cars just to get from one room to the next.
I slept more. A lot more.
I'd only been to Guatemala once.
I'd never considered the foster program here or there.
Being naive about adding to our family was my M.O.
My house was actually decorated and my furniture kinda nice.
I carried a great purse.


But...

I now have 3 males who make me laugh.
I now know Sharon, Melissa, Alaska, Nikki, Emily, Virginia, Jackie and Tina.
I have a house full of baseballs and swords and cars and baby gear.
Petunia Picklebottom is now on ebay.
I have a little guy who makes sure my hands are warm if I forgot my gloves.
I have an even littler guy who smiles the biggest toothless grin the minute he sees me.
I have a better, deeper definition of who I am.
I have a much fuller couch...

Fun with Fertility

No, this isn't a post where I share the secrets of how to spice up your fertility "homework." Dirty people. This weekend we met a new couple at church and they asked why we adopted, if there were issues. I started to answer that we did 'infertility treatments' for years but changed it and said 'fertility treatments'. Somewhere along the way I was encouraged to talk about my fertility not infertility, focusing on the positive, not negative. Kinda (but not really) like in high school when my youth pastor asked that we refer to our friends as pre-Christians. (It's amazing I still have high school friends, frankly.)

I do hate the label. I do hate walking into a building largely labeled "INFERTILITY clinic." It is rather ominous. Some disguise it as "Women's healthcare" but the specialists (my peeps!) all carry the infertile card. Ugh.

Let's revolutionize the industry. Join me.

One day I would like to see a pamphlet from one of these establishments with some sort of perky subtitle:

Eggcelent care in your journey.

Making your lady parts whole again.

At your cervix!

Can't get your lady pregnant? Let us try!

Our patients are s ovary happy! (so very)

If my youth pastor changed professions, perhaps he'd call it a Pre-fertility Clinic.

If this were located in the south perhaps they could use:

Bring your U ter us. (bring your U to us…)



I don't know. Maybe I should stop eating the leftover Easter eggs, they may have gone bad by now and have started to take an effect on my decision making. Like posting this blog. Feel free to pray for me and all your pre-Christian friends.

Psalm of lament

Once a week Eliot and I head off to "school". We're actually going to our church's women's teaching ministry where I have real adult conversations and Eliot goes to play with his friends and learn about Bible stories. It's been a great fit for us. This semester we're studying the Psalms of the Bible. Each week has focused on a certain theme throughout that book of the Bible and some history behind it. It's been educational to say the least. We're blessed to have such a ministry available to us.

One theme is titled 'The Psalms of Lament' and these are focused on the particular chapters that deal with David (or whatever author) being discontent with God's response to a plea, feeling deserted or ignored or punished by God but through the process of honesty, coming to a stronger trust than ever in God's plan.

A couple weeks before that lesson, one of the leaders called to ask if I (along with a few others) would be willing to write a psalm of lament in my own words about our adoption journey, knowing it was such a beast. I agreed but as I thought about it, the infertility was fresh and painful. If I was truly going to be honest with this commitment, my direction needed to focus on where I'm at right now. My heart was raw over this and I could think of LOTS of things to write about my disappointment on this issue. The adoption journey seems happy now since there's a little Mayan squeezing my neck. So, I sat down one afternoon and started typing. I feel a little exposed putting it out there, but for what it's worth, here's what came out:



How long, O Lord, How long?
Hear my heart’s cry, acknowledge my constant stream of tears even though I am too weary to cry
How long will you keep me on this road, in this valley?
Lord, my arms are full but my couch is empty.
Do you plant a desire in the depths of my heart only to dangle it just out of reach?
With a simple decision between two, a life is created
for those surrounding me.
ALL around me, All the time
Yet we’ve prayed, wept, clung, wrestled, bled,
wondered, trusted, mourned, dreamt, pleaded, failed, offered, paid, grieved, encouraged, hoped and praised.

I thought by now you would have reached down and brought glory to your kingdom through our fertility, that you would have stepped in and answered the prayers of so many over so many years, but our couch is still empty.
Do you hear Hannah’s cry in me?
Do you feel Jacob’s wrestling from me?
Do you see Sarah’s doubt in my laughter?
I am armed for a fight but unsure of who my opponent is since You are the Giver of Life.
How do you choose when to bless and when to ask us for patience?
How do I find your unfailing love in this? It’s bigger and deeper but I can’t find it.
Can I humble myself and praise you in the mire or give in to the confusion and disappointment?
My broken heart is failing me and I feel as though I need to remind you that You don’t know what you’re doing with my life.
I want you to see this my way, not yours.
Lord, I am so tired, so weary, so thirsty.
The pain is real, it is never distant,
But... you aren’t either.
You are holding me tightly though I push against you.
Though there is no physical sign to hope in, yet my hope is in You.
Day and night I am surrounded by your blessings.
Your mercies are new every morning, your promises and your ways always on my heart.
No matter what the journey brings, You are my prize
You are my reward.
You are forever gracious and good.
You are good, Lord, you are good.
You weep when I weep.
You hold me together when I feel broken.
You pour your living water over my cracked and peeling dreams,
dreams that are as close to your heart as mine.
You remind me that even in a fallen world, you will be praised.
When my lips fail me, your spirit holds up my arms in worship.
Even though I can’t find it, I trust in your unfailing love.
I will wait for you Lord.
In this valley, I will trust.

Can o' worms

I posted about this topic a couple times before which makes me hesitant to post on it again. However, I've been learning a bit about myself through this process. While my journey falls under "fertility challenged" yours might be "adoption challenged" or "job challenged" or "soulmate challenged". So, instead of assuming that I'm not INSANELY GRATEFUL for the wonderful husband and amazing son I already have, try to apply your unfulfilled desire to my thoughts.

This struggle for me is equal to the psoriasis on my right hand. Sometimes it flares up, is raw and unbearable and other times it's just part of life. A few times in the last couple months, our desire to expand our family has flared up like a hot pair of jeans from the seventies that can not be ignored.

Back in the fall, a simple picture explained a little bit for me. I'd recently had a conversation w/ an old friend about her infertility. She explained that her arms sometimes physically ache for a child to fill them. While mine sometimes ache because of my child and I loved her description, it didn't apply to our current situation. Then I saw it. A picture of a family of 6 (4 kids) was all huddled/cuddled on a couch with bowls of popcorn watching a movie. Aha. My arms are full but my couch is empty. That's my longing. A full couch. It finally had a name.

Now, let's stop for a minute. Please don't hear greed in that. I'm not your local Angelina or Octo-mom. If the Lord stops our blessings at just the 3 of us, that's what He decided is best and I'll be the happiest that way. However, I strongly believe that HE is the one who put the desire in our hearts to have a bigger family. Just like I believe that if you long to be married, that God placed that desire in your heart. Are we on the same page now? Same book at least?

People ask us all the time if we're 'ready' for #2, if we'll adopt again, if we'll try to have biological ever again, etc. Our answer is yes. To all of the above. Our timeline? Hmmmmm. We gave those up long ago. Along with flare-leg jeans.

I'm okay posting my honest thoughts because one day they will just be memories. One day I might even have to use birth control again and say "we can't this time" when offered a baby that needs a home. Just like posting things I want to remember about toddler-Eliot, I want to remember this journey. I trust that it won't always be this way and the times of celebration will be (and have been) that much richer if I can glean from all aspects, even the ugly times.

All this leads me to my post for tomorrow. I wrote something a while back and have gone back and forth on whether or not to post it. I think I'm supposed to put it out there for whatever reason.