The following reflection was written by Forsythia. 

She walks to a table in the center of the cafe, son at her heels. They sit, facing one another, his knees tucked under him. He leans on his elbows across the polished surface, eyes following every movement as she carefully unwraps the pastry from its cellophane protection. He bounces on his knees once or twice as the moment approaches, excitement welling up in his joints. She tears away a chunk and, trailing crumbs, places it in his little palm, stretched out in anticipation and openness and certainty. He knows that she will put there something that is delicious, something that is good, because he knows that he is loved, that he is safe. He trusts her.

But that is not always so. There is only so much this little mind can comprehend. And often what is good will look bad; what is safe will seem restrictive; what is loving will be perceived as hatred.

This is not an unfamiliar metaphor to the Christian. In Jesus’ famous words, found in Luke 11 and Matthew 7:

“What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

I am reminded of this verse as I watch this little boy with his mother. I see the outstretched hand, the way it returns again and again to the center of the table full of expectation and without hesitation, and I cannot help but be transported back in time to dark nights in bed, face wet with tears, chest constricted by sobs. Here was I holding my palms out until they burned with the effort, begging God in prayer to fill me with something good: to place in the aching emptiness of my womb a throbbing, vibrant life.

You could not tell me in those moments that God gives good gifts to his children. That he is a faithful, constant, loving parent. You could not tell me such things as I watched the world spinning in unbroken motion, life marching on in expected sequence for those around me while I was cast out of orbit to float untethered in uninhabited space. No, my heart would reject the notion of a loving God as though it were poison—my heart did reject it, for years.

I rejected it not because it was a lie, but because it was the wrong remedy for the wounds life was inflicting on me.

There are many such things that, though they are true, are utterly unhelpful in the darkest moments of infertility. If you have never experienced miscarriage or infertility, in order to love well the someone in your life who has or is, you must understand this.

Other truths that were hurtful to me in the middle of my grief were “God has a plan for you” (Jeremiah 29:11) and “All things work together for good” (Romans 8:28). These things were said to me in order to bring comfort, but they served to harden my heart.

Not all methods of healing are appropriate for every wound, and only certain kinds of medication can help certain ailments. These truths—good, rich, helpful truths—were the wrong medication for me at the time. They were meaty, rich, decadent foods that my starving body could not digest. I needed simpler nourishment, nutrition that my weakened self could absorb.

So easily, we overlook that the Word of God is not all optimism and rejoicing and victory—that hope for the Christian begins with a suffering servant who, in his moment of deepest despair, cried out to God a question that was answered with silence (Matthew 27:46). Often, this is what infertility feels like: beating our breasts, crying out to God, and hearing nothing in return. That level of brokenness cannot be mended by words, however true they may be. And in fact, these words may be added pressure that further splinters the bone.

This was my reality and, I think, reality for many who experience infertility or child loss. So, what is one to do?

To the person trying to love an infertile friend: listen exhaustively, speak rarely. Empathetic phrases like “that’s sucks” and “I’m so sorry” go a long way. This person you love will need you to believe truth and pray bold prayers for them because they will probably not be able to do it for themselves. It may not feel like it, but even in silence, you are essential. Listening leads to vulnerability and trust, and out of that deep knowing, the right words will come.

To the person going through infertility or miscarriage: relationship is messy. People will say stupid things—they will be well meaning and extremely hurtful. I am so sorry for that. But you need to find community. Isolation kills. Have grace for those that are trying to love you well. Over-communicate, even though vulnerability is so very hard. Be honest when things hurt you. Tell people what you need. Don’t do this alone.

I believe that God is a good father. I believe that he holds all things in his hands, and knows all things. I believe that he sees the path of my life in its entirety and is a wise, faithful, and trustworthy steward of that story. I believe these things, and yet I do not always believe them. Thank God for community in which to bear each others’ burdens, and for grace, which is daily needed in the messy business of loving one another.