Infertility & Mother's Day

My husband picked the kids up the other day from preschool. I was waiting at the door to greet them. They came running with papers in their hands and their backpacks dragging on the ground. Roman said with the biggest dimpled filled grin on his face, "Mommy! Mommy! We made something for you for your Birthday!" Ruby jumps in, "No, not for her Birthday, for Mother's Day! Here you go, mommy!" As I looked down at my beautiful and handsome almost 5 year old twins, my heart smiled. In that joy-filled moment I thought to myself, "These are the moments I dreamed about. These are the moments I prayed for."

For the first four years of our marriage I hated Mother's Day. I didn't want to hate it, but I did. For me Mother's Day seemed like a tease, marked with confusion, anger, jealousy, despair and bitterness. Although infertility affects women everyday of the year, for me Mother's Day was a sheer reminder to me of my broken body and my empty womb. Mother's Day was a reminder of what cancer took from me. On this day, more than any of the other days, I felt the accuser's lies yelling in my face, "You're not really a woman."

I miscarried in 2014 just two months before Mother's Day. I didn't want to go to church that Sunday. I was angry at God. I did not want to sit through another Mother's Day of the pastor asking all of the mother's to stand up so they could be honored and gifted with a flower. I wanted to stay in bed and cry and grieve. When our unborn child died, I felt like a piece of my heart died too. Those years were some of the darkest years of my life both spiritually and emotionally.

We later discovered through a few tests that the likelihood of me being able to bear children biologically would be medically impossible. Hopelessness and despair-two emotions that I became well acquainted with. When you think your identity as a woman is tied to being able to bear children and then you can't do the thing that you think your identity is tied to, hopelessness and despair typically follow. Shortly after we miscarried we moved to a little town just outside of Baton Rouge, Louisiana where I was introduced to an amazing counselor who loved Jesus and loved helping others. She was a gift from the Lord-a God send. The Lord used her in my life at a time when I needed it most.

Little by little I came to see the identity I had constructed in my head of what I was supposed to do or be as a woman had missed the mark. I got it wrong. As believers our identity is wrapped up in who Christ is and what He did on the cross. Our identity has nothing to do with us and everything to do with Jesus Christ. Seeing infertility through this Gospel lens is crucial for the health and wellbeing of our souls. How so? Because if we aren't careful we can allow our infertility to define us. And that's exactly what the accuser, Satan, desires. He wants us to become so wrapped up in our struggle with infertility that we forget the beautiful truth that in Jesus Christ we are complete. Satan longs for us to forget that it is in fact our Savior, not a negative pregnancy test, who deems our life worthy and gives us intrinsic value.

Although I am not consumed by my infertility like I once was, I still have sad moments and reminders of our loss. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be sad about sad things. God understands. And so I take my thoughts to Him and talk with Him about it. I don’t have to minimize my emotions or clean them up before I go to Him. I can just go to Him.

Overtime the Lord restored and redeemed that which was broken. He restored my heart and my mind. I don't walk around anymore thinking I'm less than because of my empty womb. I have joy. And not joy that can be found in anything this world has to offer. I'm speaking of the eternal joy found in Christ. The kind of joy that isn't swayed by circumstances because it's hope is secure in the Lord.

Our infertility led us to adoption. Adoption led us to our children. And now I am "mama" to my precious son and daughter, whom I can't imagine my life without. The Lord gives beauty for ashes and joy for mourning, friends. You may feel hopeless now, but that hopelessness will not be forever. "Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes in the morning" (Psalm 30:5). I'm living proof.