Cinematic Revelations

7364769258_0dac362d0e_bThe following reflection was written by Tiger Lily.

There’s a film currently in theaters called The Light Between Oceans, based on a novel of the same name. I highly recommend any couple who has struggled with infertility to see this film. Even though your situation may not be exactly the same as the characters in the film, there is still much to be gleaned from this breathtaking piece of cinema. Be wary, I have a point to make here that will involve spoilers if you haven’t seen the film.

The Light Between Oceans reveals the desperation behind infertility. It centers around one couple, Tom (Michael Fassbender) and Isabel (Alicia Vikander). They have a love story that is simple and ideal–at least at first. They are quickly swept away by love and marry. They live on a remote island where Tom mans a lighthouse for passing ships off the coast of Australia. The isolation does not seem to bother them much; they have eyes only for each other.

After two horrific miscarriages, any hope they had for having their own family is darkened by loss. It is then that a baby literally drifts onto their shores and into their lives carried by a small boat. The child’s father is with her, though he is dead when they find them. Tom is responsible for reporting everything that happens on the island in regard to incoming ships and the business of the lighthouse. At Isabel’s urging, they keep the child that is not rightfully theirs, bury her father, and do not report the incident.

Perhaps it’s the isolation in conjunction with the pain of loss, but Isabel’s grief and desperation takes root deeply and grows into selfishness. She doesn’t fully consider the possibility that this baby could have a family elsewhere waiting for her, and that by keeping her she could be destroying someone else’s life. (Essentially, she is.) Being truthful and following the law does not seem to cross her mind either. I don’t blame her for her feelings, they are completely understandable in regard to her situation, but I don’t agree with them either.

Tom is more grounded, and what they have done kills him every day. Though he is in love with the child, and she becomes his daughter in all ways except biologically, he is still tremendously haunted by the truth.

At first, I was concerned for where this story was going. At times, it seemed as though the promise of having children was the only thing that was going to keep this couple together. In many ways, that is something that happens in a lot of marriages. It’s easy for marriages to be overridden by the roles of motherhood and fatherhood. Our society definitely elevates parental roles as being more important or significant than the role of husband and wife. This is sad to me, as they are both equally important for different reasons.

Their daughter, named Lucy, does indeed become their whole world. So much so that when Tom finally cannot stand the deception anymore and reveals the truth to Lucy’s true mother, Isabel develops nothing but hate for him. She cannot forgive him for breaking apart their family.

I was taken aback. I sat wriggling in my seat thinking, This better not end like this!

Thankfully, it doesn’t.

I firmly believe, based on what I’ve seen and experienced, that the best thing you can do through your fertility journey is put your marriage first. After all, how can you raise a family when your foundation is weak? Only when your foundation is solid can more be built upon it, and marriage should not be built on the promise or expectation of having more. Those expectations will cause cracks and brokenness faster than you can blink. Marriage is an entity unto itself and must be mutually poured into and nurtured deeply. Even if children never come, you must stay true and hold fast to each other.

This is something that Isabel learns almost too late. She is presented with a choice. In her anger, she has withheld the truth about her involvement in the situation from the authorities. She is hurt, and in that pain she is willing to make a scapegoat out of her husband and send him to prison to punish him for his “crimes.” Her mother reminds her that he is still her husband, and Isabel’s facial expression in that moment reveals she has completely forgotten what that even means.

When Isabel reads Tom’s last letter to her, she remembers what it was that brought them together in the first place. They began their relationship writing letters, and their relationship is saved by one too. It comes full circle. She realizes they cannot lose each other after having lost so much already. She goes after him and, in the nick of time, she confesses to the authorities her involvement in hiding the truth and keeping the child.

Whew! I let out a deep exhale then. It was such a beautiful moment. Isabel returns to her husband, and he is returned to her. The end of the film implies they never have any other children, but you get a sense that they had a good life together regardless.

My friends: whoever and wherever you may be, you can have a good life too. In a previous post, I told my infertility story. My husband and I may never have children of our own, but we can still have a good life together, and we do. We’re not perfect, and our marriage will always need effort and support, but we have love and good foundation, and in that, there is always hope.

Gratitude and thanksgiving are breakers of the chains of bitterness. Loss and sorrow are painful emotions we must allow ourselves to feel in order to heal and move on. Yet, when we shift our eyes from what was taken and we don’t have, and instead focus on what we do have, we can find freedom. If you are in pain right now, and your losses and broken dreams are leaving you empty, seek abundance as a couple. Pour into your marriage together. May that cup overflow!

The Comfort of Poetry

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The following reflection was written by Willow.

“For poems are not words after all, but fires for the cold, rope let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”
—   Mary Oliver

Early in my journey with infertility, I discovered poetry. My grief was so consuming that I often had no words to describe how I was feeling. Poetry became the voice for my sorrow. I found Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Rumi. They, too, had experienced deep and painful loss. The words were raw and real, a healing balm for my heavy heart. In that season, I was drawn to the saddest of poems because I desperately wanted to know that I wasn’t alone. Through poems, I heard the simple and quiet encouragement of “me too.”

Poetry is still part of my life and continues to be a source of inspiration and comfort for me in all seasons of life. Here are a few of my favorite tidbits:

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more
joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds the wine the very cup that was
burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood
that was hollowed with knives?”
—   Kahlil Gibran

 The way of love is not
a subtle argument.
The door there
is devastation.
Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling,
they’re given wings.”
—   Rumi

“In Heaven the starry saints will wipe away
The tears forever from our eyes, but they
Must not erase the memory of our grief.
In bliss, even there can be no relief.”
 —   Wendell Berry

The Lost Sheep

sunflower-02The following reflection was written by Sunflower. 

The following thoughts have been stirring over and over lately in my head, my heart, and in my talks with my husband. Many of my conversations with him are about the community of believers, how they have or have not handled our particular journey well, and what we will or will not do if we are faced with a couple going through something that reflects our path.

Honestly, as I stare at the computer screen, I am still not sure how to say what is deep in my heart, causing me so much pain and frustration. I do know that I have been extremely hurt by the “audience” of believers that God has placed in my life. I use the term audience because that is what they are: they look, watch, judge, and predict. They cheer and clap when they think I have done something good, and boo and yell when they think I have made a wrong move. They are an audience because their involvement in my healing has been minimal.

They feel safer from a distance. They wait for me to enter their territory so that they can really “meet me where I am” and offer “healing words, and spiritual food.” They stand at the door, yelling for their lost sheep (me), and if yelling doesn’t work they try a whistle, or maybe a bell, or maybe silence, or maybe a treat…when nothing proves to work, they drop their head in disappointment that their lost sheep has wondered off the wrong path, close the door, and continue on. They may stop and think about me for a moment, but the thought is brief because they have too many sheep they are trying to keep track of and they are responsive while I am the sheep that is not, so it is best just to “move on” to those who will respond.

I do hear their calls, the whistle, the bell, and actually think the treat sounds quite good, but I am caught in a bush, its thistles and vines wrapped so tightly around my legs and I cannot move. I try yelling, but they are too distracted or impatient to hear my weak and quiet voice; I try responding, but it is not the response they expected so they miss it. I am tired. I am tired of trying, of fighting, and so I lie down and wait.

Christ comes. He slowly and precisely cuts each branch, vine, and thistle that has wrapped around my aching body and broken heart. He knows I am disappointed, that I have been left alone, and he keeps telling me how sorry he is. He gently lifts my broken body from the bush and starts to tend to my wounds, only the way a healer and a maker can. He sings gentle songs in my ears and whispers his love and promises to my heart. As I continue to heal, as he continues the healing, our hearts start beating as one. He stands me up and places his hands on my shoulder and looks into my eyes.

“Daughter, you have been disappointed; I know, I am disappointed too. I will never leave you and I will always come and find you, but now you have to make a choice. Are you going to be one of the many people in the audience of others’ lives, or are you going to be a participant? I don’t need another person to fill a seat and watch; I need someone who will be in the play. I know you are hurt, and it is your choice…but I will always come and find you.”

 

The Waters Between Us

Lavender-Picture-15The following reflection was written by Lavender. 

The isolating effects of infertility can be far-reaching. While I have not experienced infertility myself, a few of my closest friends have been walking down its lonely road for many years. Over these years situations, conversations, and interactions have occurred that have threatened to dig deep gulfs between us that would erode the foundations of our friendships. The fathomless waters of grief, hurt feelings, and loss would try to rise, putting us on separate islands. I am so grateful that my friends and I saw the value in continually and intentionally building bridges to keep us connected.

The first time I realized that infertility had the potential of separating us happened when my friends started going for tests and procedures, and I was not yet trying to get pregnant. Their worlds seemed full of appointments, anticipation, and disappointment. It was so hard to watch them go through all these things, not having any medical knowledge or life experience to draw from. In addition, I wasn’t in their same mindset about eagerly seeking pregnancy. Looking back, I see their patience with me when I must have seemed immature and unhelpful in their emotional struggles. Cookouts, coffee shop dates, game nights, and other mundane social gatherings served as bridges for us to stay connected, to keep “normal life” afloat as we entered this new era in our relationships.

A few years into this journey, my husband and I felt we were prepared to start a family, and I became pregnant before my friends with infertility. This appeared to everyone to be in the wrong order, and it was deeply felt on all sides. I felt guilty about this, and my “good news” seemed like bad news to the friends with whom I had most wanted to celebrate. I had no idea how to share it and when I did, I dealt a huge blow. In response, I perceived feelings of anger, frustration, apathy, and resentment. There were attempts at joy swallowed by sadness. I think this for many people would have been a tipping point. It would have been easy for us to go our separate ways, to avoid further injury. In actuality, I was in more of a place to feel sympathy for them than ever before. I had a new understanding of the pregnancy-seeking world, having entered it myself. I listened more intently and tried to give more of my support. More bittersweet times lay ahead, when I felt that I could not share some aspects of my pregnancy (discomfort, tiredness, sweet baby movements inside of me, etc.) for fear of appearing ungrateful or boastful. I must say my friends gave heroic efforts in supporting me with kind words, tips on sales on baby gear, and questions about my pregnancy. While we kept our friendships together, I just can’t help feeling even today that we missed out on the bond that comes from everyone eagerly anticipating something together.

The third opportunity for isolation came when my baby was born. I felt so loved by family and friends who supported us generously when we came home. I remember desperately wanting to share the joy of my baby’s birth with my sisters-by-heart and thinking that they were very likely in a place not to feel it. Crushing. They bravely came soon after we arrived home, and I have rarely felt so emotionally vulnerable. This was heightened by my physical and emotional exhaustion. My friends with infertility reached out their hands and built another bridge just by having the gumption to show up and support me in my early days of motherhood. It may not always have been with the happiness I craved, but they found it within themselves to put aside their pain to be with me anyway.

As time passed, I tried to support my friends as they struggled with their infertility. There were times when I felt like the outsider, being the only mom as others discussed their most recent infertility test or procedure, or decision to adopt. On the flip side, I knew they felt like outsiders when I talked about what I was going through as a new mom. There were social gatherings at which children were encouraged to stay with a babysitter, which was bittersweet. On one hand, I was happy to have an evening or a day with only adults. I was lucky to have a support system that I could count on to take care of my baby if my husband and I wanted to attend these events. However, I didn’t like the feeling that if I didn’t get a babysitter, I would have to stay isolated at home because I was a mom. I understood that my friends wanted to have gatherings without having to be reminded of their infertility by having children around, but it still hurt. The important thing is, we just kept talking. When we hurt each other, we eventually apologized. We kept praying, reaching out, and connecting. We just kept trying, hoping it would be enough.

I have seen the waters that threatened to separate us recede time and again. It was with the deepest elation and relief that I have seen my friends become mothers. Years of my prayers, anxiety, and anticipation seemed to wash away as I welcomed their babies into this world. What if they had never become mothers? I actually believe we would have found a way to remain friends. I felt that it was imperative not to let infertility define who we were as people. Infertility was one part of their identity, but these lovely ladies were so much more than that. I decided a long time ago that if they would have me as their friend, I wouldn’t let them go for anything.

A Balm to the Lonely Heart

forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia.

Infertility is an isolating thing.

I have spent hours upon hours this week trying to flesh out that statement. I have written countless drafts of this narrative attempting to explain where this isolation comes from, what it looks and feels like, how to prevent it. It has eluded me again and again. It is extremely complicated, nuanced, personal, and hard to express.

But here goes nothing.

My isolation in infertility was caused by being left out and left behind; by thoughtless, insensitive, well-meaning but often asinine comments; by cultural and religious expectations I couldn’t fulfill; and plenty other external forces. I could describe each one in painfully perfect detail.

But there’s another side of the story, too. Inadequacy, shame, guilt, fear, and despair constantly came between me and community from a strong, internal source:

I found myself believing, truly believing, terrible lies: I was too fat and ugly to be pregnant. I was not a real woman unless I was a mom. My life mattered less than those who were parents. My infertility was a punishment. These things filled me with guilt and shame. I was deathly afraid that they might actually be true, as ridiculous as they sound. But, I was too embarrassed to share these fears and my inability to be open about them kept me locked inside myself.

I was constantly comparing my life to those around me, creating a false hierarchy that separated me from others. In addition to isolation, comparison caused me to feel shame and self-pity when I didn’t measure up and pride and self-righteousness when I determined myself superior. My heart was soaked through with bitterness, and I could not see the beauty of my own story for lusting after everyone else’s.

The relationship between joy and grief in my life was basically impossible to explain. I almost never experienced one without the other for years and years. When my siblings were becoming pregnant with their first, second, third; when I watched my parents love on their grandkids; when friends were enjoying their newborns and telling birth stories–I felt happiness, joy, excitement, interest. But if I were my authentic self, not just the socially-acceptable version with a smile and the right words, I would have to admit that these feelings were always tempered by pain and grief. I was embarrassed to feel this way. I constantly berated myself for not being able to be purely happy for those I loved. I told myself that I was selfishly making everything about me. Nevertheless, the feelings didn’t change. It was a part of my process through loss and, as a friend recently reminded me, “there are no shortcuts through grief.” This struggle was a huge part of my day-to-day life, and fear of judgment or rejection kept me from being honest about it.

These kinds of thoughts, feelings, experiences are corrosive if handled completely alone. Because isolation is so easy to slip into, and is cultivated by both outward and inward forces, I know no other remedy but the constant pursuit of friendship—even with just one person. This is a two way street: it is a meeting together of two hearts both willing to be absolutely honest, and committed to sticking around despite the messiness. It’s hard to be alone when someone is consistently pursuing the heart of you, demanding openness and authenticity even when you don’t feel like giving it to them.

Such friendship must be earned through lots of listening, sacrifice, patience, reciprocal vulnerability, and consistency. It’s hard work, but even one such relationship is a balm to the lonely heart—indeed, a spring of water to a person dying of thirst.

August Focus: Isolation

Though the statistic of couples struggling to get or stay pregnant is a staggering 1 in 8, infertility is still accompanied by acute isolation and a deep sense of loneliness.

The infertile voice longs to be heard, but is often silenced by embarrassment, shame, or fear.

The infertile experience is bursting with uncomfortable emotions that have no easy solution: longing, sadness, anger, bitterness, grief.

The infertile journey can be long and uncertain, requiring prolonged patience and enduring empathy.

For these reasons and more, isolation is a common part of the infertile story. As is true for all kinds of suffering, community is integral for surviving infertility. With it comes empathy, insight, understanding, perspective. Yet, many people are unable or unwilling to reach out from within and without the infertile experience to make that healing connection.

Communication can be a hindrance to this connection, and isolation can cut both ways.

There are many realities in infertility that are difficult to express—it involves very personal, physical aspects, as well as heightened emotions that make the typical blundering of human relationships difficult to manage. It is an ever-present grief, its pain easily triggered by a endless number of things.

On the other hand, it can be frustrating and futile to walk alongside a person going through infertility. They need truth and encouragement; challenge and sympathy; closeness and distance; words and silence–it is a constant challenge to know when to employ which aspect of friendship.

The goal of this month’s focus is to offer narratives from both sides of the spectrum in order to foster understanding and connection between those experiencing infertility and those trying to walk alongside them. Wherever you’re coming from, we hope that these personal stories offer insight that leads to a strengthening of the community in your own life.

Safe to Dream

forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia. 

April 2013: My husband and I had been through a plethora of tests and doctor-visits that hadn’t brought us any closer to answering the question that burned in our hearts: can we have children? 

At last, we were on the brink of something that was going to give us definitive information–it would, it must, how could it not? We were going in for a biopsy. On the one hand, we were eager for the procedure and the answers it would give. On the other, we knew that it could be bad news as much as good news.

As the date approached, I felt I must prepare for the worst. We had so many dreams about our children–what they would look like, who they would take after, what we would name them. These dreams felt dangerous to hold onto. I decided that I would do something symbolic and purposeful to help myself let them go–something I’d been thinking about for a while. The idea was “better to let go of my own volition than have these desires ripped from me in our doctor’s office.”

I planned it all out. I would walk a local prayer labyrinth, giving myself time to meditate and grieve as I walked slowly to the center. Once there, I would light candles to represent those dreams that were hanging by a thread: the names of our wished-for children; the vision of us as parents…And when I was ready, I would snuff them out, walking the labyrinth out with my heart prepared for “come what may.”

The story of what took place that night can be found on my blog Leavingteaching.wordpress.com. In vague language–I was not open about our infertility at the time it was written–the voice of my 2013 self shares about wild hope. It does my heart good to revisit that narrative, to be reminded of the unexpected gift I was given in a moment of great need.

My purpose for the labyrinth that night was reversed on me. I felt clearly in my spirit that I was not meant to snuff out my dreams–that it was not my job to determine which desires for my life would come to fruition or when or how they would happen. Instead of blowing out candles as I let dreams go, I found myself lighting candles as I dreamed. Each time I blew the flames out, it was to light more. I dreamed and dreamed on into the night, with exuberance and gratitude. I lit a candle for each of the children we wanted, and those we never imagined; for the places we would live and things we would do; for our marriage.

It became clear to me that cool April night that it was safe for me to dream. I had meant to let go of these things because they felt dangerous to my heart–what if they didn’t come true? But an understanding was given to me through this experience: that dreams are only dangerous if I rest the weight of my soul on them. The same is true of anything finite in this world–fame, money, power, even relationships, love. If I chose instead to entrust my heart and my life to the unchangeable, powerful God of the Universe who loves me like a daughter, then nothing was lethal to me–not the death of a dream, not even death itself.

Looking back–my 2016 self reflecting on my 2013 self–I see that God has been faithful to the revelation that he gifted me that night. That even in my darkest moments, even when I couldn’t believe in hope, my dreams, my very heart, was safe in his care.

Letting Go

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Photograph credit: http://www.wallpapers13.com/

The following reflection was written by Camellia.

It was our second pregnancy. My husband and I went to our first ultrasound to find I was 8 weeks along, and I was hopeful since our first pregnancy had ended abruptly at 6 weeks a few months prior. The nurse showed us our tiny child, still just a dot on the screen, its little heart already beating. Amazing. Then she frowned and went to get a doctor. “The baby’s heartbeat is 70 beats per minute, but that’s not always a problem,” the doctor said. “Check back next week.”

I held it together until I got into the car by myself to drive to work. A flood of tears poured down hot and fast. My baby is in danger. Do I mourn the loss before it has died? Can I act like it is “viable” (the frustratingly unfeeling term used in the medical world) and not worry about its tiny heart?

A week later, there was only one heartbeat in my body: our second child had been taken from us. Many tears were shed for many months after. My husband was certainly mourning, but even he couldn’t fathom the depths of my grief, and my longing for the child that would never be. I wasn’t sure who to talk to about it. I remember attending a women’s night that happened the week after our loss where three women announced their pregnancies. The leader jokingly said “Anyone else want to tell me they’re pregnant?!” I nearly ran out of the room to cry in the bathroom.

Even 3 months after the loss, I found myself writing the following:

To say the words “I had a miscarriage” are the hardest words to say, to this day. To even think the words. I think ever so matter of factly of “my miscarriage,” as I would think of “my tonsillectomy” or “my broken wrist.” To say “I had a miscarriage” is to take a medical situation into a personal realm. “I lost a baby.” “I suffered sorrow.” “I had a baby and now it is gone.” And to utter these words out loud is admitting the deepest trauma of my heart.

There was much grief and pain. But somehow, I had no anger or confusion during that time, only peace. Peace because I knew that there is an Author of Life that is always good all the time, and if He wanted my children to be with Him rather than on Earth, then I trusted the wisdom of that choice with all my heart. I thought of the lyrics: “My dead heart now is beating. My deepest stains now clean. Your breath fills up my lungs. Now I’m free!”

However, there was no peace with the next phase. We decided not to do the medical procedure to “clean me out,” but rather to let my body expel the embryo on its own. It was so disheartening to wait day after day for my own body to realize it was using hormones and energy to support an un-living embryo. It seemed like an eternity although it was only 10 days. I was drinking lots of parsley tea and taking vitamin C tablets–things the internet said would start a “natural abortion”–and still my body would not let me move on.

It took up all my energy and thought until I realized: I was able to trust the Lord with my child’s life, which I knew I could not control if I wanted to. Yet, I was clinging to these remedies to make my body cooperate–as If that was something I could control. How contradictory! The night that I became aware of this attitude was the night I surrendered my control over what I thought I could do myself. That same night, my miscarriage finally started.

What came out of this period of grief and despair was a confidence in the sovereignty of my God, compassion for others in a similar situation, and so much gratitude, even in light of that still, un-beating heart.

It was 5 months later that we got pregnant with our dear, sweet boy. It dawned on me the other day that if that second baby had survived, it’s possible that my son with his particular personality would have never been born. It gives that miscarriage experience a little more clarity to see the special child gained from such a painful loss, and I am grateful that the God of the universe, who sees everything, is the one in control of my family and my life.

A New Perspective

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Photo credit: Alan Johnston, Flickr

The following reflection was written by Linden. 

I entered the teaching profession at age 27 with no formal training or certification. But I loved it, and still do after recently finishing my second year! I get to teach high schoolers Spanish, and that involves a lot of Enrique Iglesias and Shakira. My husband works as a campus minister. He has a calling to mentor and encourage college students. (He also has a calling to rub my feet every once in awhile).

Four years into marriage, we felt ready to start trying to have kids. After the first few months, I began to wonder why it wasn’t working. It seemed so easy for everyone else. I had always been healthy. And on some level, I thought: “I’m a good person. I’m an upstanding citizen. Doesn’t God think I deserve to be a mom?”

Before we knew it, we had reached the year mark without success and made an appointment to talk with a doctor. I remember walking into the office on a bright but chilly January day. Gripping my husband’s hand, I said to him through tears, “I can’t believe we are this couple. I can’t believe we are having to do this.”

A year into working with this doctor, we made some discoveries about our situation. I was attending the weekly worship service at the college ministry where my husband works, and during that time, I felt God reveal something new to me. It wasn’t audible, but it was a fresh thought about infertility that I knew hadn’t come from myself. I had prayed, journaled, discussed with my counselor, and talked openly with friends and strangers alike about our journey through infertility, but that night, I was given a new perspective. One that gave me hope.

It wasn’t an idea that was easy to swallow. It didn’t make everything magically better. But it was hope in the most difficult season of my life. My husband and I had both taken the long route to finally getting jobs we loved. These jobs were personally fulfilling and making a difference in the world. We’d been placed in positions to influence and care for young people. For the first time ever, I was able to see that if we never had a child, we would always have these “children” in our lives. For me, my high school students. For my husband, his college students.

I had never thought about it in this way before. In the moment of realization, I felt simultaneously the pain of infertility and the comfort of knowing that we would be O.K. if we only ever had these children in our lives. That thought provided me with a hope I hadn’t felt yet about our infertility and renewed energy to press forward as we sought to grow our family.

Into a Great Fire and Out Again

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Photo credit: Matt Green, Flickr

The following reflection was written by Tiger Lily. 

I always know what I want. It takes me 20 minutes tops to find an outfit I like and get out of a store. I usually know where I’m going. I have a good sense of direction, and can visually remember the way to almost anywhere after having been there once. I know what I want to do. I’ve wanted to make films and write since I was 8 years old.

I don’t wrestle with decisions much, because I usually know exactly what I want and what I hope for. So as you can imagine, when my husband and I got married and eagerly anticipated having children, I already had names picked out, bedrooms designed, and dreams imagined for those children.

My husband is quite a bit older than me, but it’s never been a stumbling block. If anything, it has been a source of strength. He has been through a lot of hardships in his life and though he always dreamed of having a family, he never thought it would actually happen for him. He met me, we married, and suddenly that dream once again sparked in the darkness and grew into a little flame. I desperately wanted to fan that flame, ready to become a mother at any moment. I wanted so much to give him everything he never had.
Our first year of marriage was wonderful. We couldn’t get enough of spending time together and looked forward to the future with a fluttering anticipation. I was taking pregnancy tests every month, waiting to see those plus signs. They never came.

After that first year life got hard… really hard. Our jobs were draining us dry in every way imaginable, our finances tumbled into a pit with seemingly no way out, my anxiety went through the roof, and his depression weighed him down like an anchor. The second and third years of marriage passed in this tumultuous storm. Still no children. Still no relief from our circumstances. I have always believed that my husband’s calling in life is fatherhood. He is a quiet and gentle soul towards whom both children and animals gravitate. He is a natural in nurturing, teaching, and caring for people and things. He never made me feel guilty, but I certainly made myself feel guilty about our failure to conceive. I felt that I was failing at providing him with children, and the faces of the children we dreamed of started to fade. We had called them each by name, but those names faded too.

At the crux of this pain and devastation, I started watching Game of Thrones. (You don’t need to have seen it to understand the point I’m making). Something happens in the story that really left an impression on me and changed my perspective on our situation. I really connected with Daenerys Targaryen (the character with the fabulous white hair). She was forced to marry a barbarian warrior, but over time they grew to truly love each other. By the middle of the first season/book, she was pregnant and there was much anticipation for the birth of their child.

In a tragic turn of events, her husband is killed and her baby stillborn. She loses everything. She was given three dragon eggs as a wedding gift, and while everyone else believes they are dormant, she dreams that if she carries them into a great fire, they will hatch. As an act of faith, she does this very thing, and when the smoke clears and the fires burn out, she rises completely unharmed with three dragons in her arms. This is how she becomes “The Mother of Dragons.”

This particular moment has stayed with me. In the wake of devastation, she takes a leap of faith and is rewarded for her belief. It didn’t bring back her husband, their son, or the life she had before. Nothing could undo the pain of her loss, but it was redeemed with a new future, a new hope.

God spoke to me through this story, as a metaphor for my own life. When I look back now, I can see that it was for our own good we did not have children. Our burdens were already so hard to bear–to add a child to that hardship might have been too much. I am grateful we weren’t parents during that time of struggle because we probably couldn’t have been available to them as much as they would have needed or deserved. It’s always hard to see clearly in the anguish of the moment, but the Lord held us firmly in His Hand through those years, and our pain was ultimately for our good.

The symbol of fire has been important in my life. It also reminds me of a story from one of my favorite books in the Bible (Daniel), in which Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego encounter the fiery furnace. They are being executed, thrown in the furnace for not bowing down to the false gods of their king, Nebuchadnezzar:

“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego answered and said to the king, ‘O Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to answer you in this matter. If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.'”

Even if God did not bring them to safety in the end, even if he did not fulfill their desire to live and escape such a death, they would not waver in their faithfulness to Him. “But if not” is the most powerful part of that passage to me. Even if God does not help us, we will not serve your gods. He doesn’t always give us what we want, but He always provides what we need to fulfill our calling as His children.

Like Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, and Daenerys, I went into a great fire, a trial, and came back out again. Though covered in the ashes of loss, a new dream was born. I am not saying I’m giving up, or that we will never have children. I still hope we can some day, with all my heart! But even if we do not, I know our lives and our marriage are not devoid of purpose and passion. We have now been married over 4 years and I feel a new contentment in our relationship. Having one another truly is enough. Children could add to our lives, but having them is not the end-game of our union.

There is always hope. I still hope that I can see a child of our own in my husband’s arms, laughing in our home, playing in our yard, and resting their head upon my chest. Whether they are biological or adopted, I hope for them. Right now, I cannot see any open doors for this to happen, but it is always possible with God (lest we forget Abraham and Sarah). In the present, I have my own dragons to nurture–they are the stories I intend to tell the world through film, television, and other writing.

It wasn’t until years later that I could look back and see purpose in the pain we’ve endured so far. One day, I may be looking back upon this day in the very same light. Perhaps even with that dream child in my arms.