Reflective Meandering

Thoughts on faith, people, politics, travel, and transition.

Losing What Was Never Mine

I don’t know how you do it, you who have been trying to get pregnant for months or
years.

I’ve reached the end of me. The hardest thing for me to give up every.single.trial is control. I am a Type A personality to a T, and while there are few things, in my mind, worse than not having a plan, having a plan and things not working out in accordance with my plan is one of them. The problem is, nobody plans for her friend to get lung cancer, her aunt to get breast cancer, her mom’s lupus diagnosis, or her diabetes diagnosis, and nobody plans for a barren womb.

Lately, the three weeks between each period are the longest weeks of my life. Never before have I wished that periods came more frequently. Never before have I found it so difficult to do that which God so clearly commands. Be fruitful and multiply, He said. Though he commands it, though he made my womb for it, and my breasts to nourish my baby, He tarries in forming that baby in my inmost parts.

So, I wonder. My God knows me better than I know myself. Perhaps I’m not ready, perhaps my husband isn’t ready, perhaps we’ll be terrible parents, perhaps if we had a child he’d hate our Jesus. Perhaps God knows better or perhaps we simply don’t deserve a child. After all, children are a blessing and a gift from the Lord, and I have done nothing to deserve such a gift. So, I weep. I weep over my empty womb, I weep over my helplessness, and more than that, I weep at how alone it feels to go through the process of mourning the loss of those things that were never mine: fertility, control, babies. This struggle has only been mine for a short time; may God bless you who have endured this type of struggle for years

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