Kiss Your Miracle

There’s something to be said for not assuming things. It’s not a good idea to look at every childless couple and jump to the conclusion that they’re trying to get pregnant. Not everyone wants children. But for us, the fact that we didn’t chat about our infertility at every barbecue and picnic led some people to assume we just didn’t want kids yet, and they felt free to ask us about it. At large social gatherings casual acquaintances would throw questions at us without warning. When do you plan to have kids? How many do you want? Sometimes they were slightly accusatory – Why don’t you have kids yet? Those usually came with a bonus remark like – When I was your age I already had three! I always wondered how those particular people wanted us to respond. With an apology? With detailed information about my reproductive issues? In the moment, I’d feel like I had some explaining to do. Later, usually on the way home, anger would surge up inside me and I’d think of all the things I should have said in response.

Adam would listen to me rant and rave and then gently remind me that people didn’t mean anything by their questions. “They’re just curious and we should try to take them lightly,” he’d say. “No one intends to be hurtful.” I knew he was right. “Still! You never know what someone’s dealing with,” I’d tell him. “People should be more sensitive!” I really struggled with the flippant comments. Sometimes in my low moments I’d hear their words again in my mind and I’d feel like even more of a failure. I knew God wanted me to forgive and let go, and that my identity should be in him. I tried, but it was always a major effort.

Then one day during that time I was at a Bible study and the topic of depression came up. Someone mentioned a friend who might go on medication for it and I said I hoped that meds wouldn’t be necessary. Later that night the leader pulled me aside and said, “Linnea, so-and-so (person in the group) is on medication for depression right now. Please be careful when you talk about that, okay? She resists being on meds in the first place, but they’re helping her and she needs to stay on them.” I mumbled a weak “okay” as I left, and headed out to my car feeling misunderstood and defensive. I hadn’t said it was wrong to be on meds for depression. Several people I love have benefited from medication and I felt like I’d been very supportive of them.

I kept thinking about the discussion as I drove home. Then I asked myself a question. If I had known beforehand that the woman sitting next to me in the circle was on depression medication and that she felt conflicted about it, would I have said the same thing? And I had to admit, I wouldn’t have. Suddenly I made the connection between what I had said about depression meds and the casual remarks I’d been so wounded by myself. I thought about the way my comment implied that it’s good not to be on medication, that coping without it would somehow be better. I could have simply said I’d be praying instead of injecting my opinion into the discussion. I thought again about my Bible study friend and wondered if my comment would replay in her mind the next time she sat down to take her medication. And I began to get that sick feeling I always have when I regret something I’ve said.

I made a decision that night. Anytime I found myself in a group and a sensitive topic came up – infertility, depression, alcoholism, abortion, marriage problems, anything painful and personal – I would talk about it as if someone there was in that specific situation. It’s not that I planned to assume things. It’s just that we all have struggles and plenty of them are kept private, even in Christian circles. Especially in Christian circles.

It’s been almost three years since that conversation at Bible study and I’m sure I’ve said the wrong thing many times since then. I’m a talker, which can be dangerous. But at the very least I’m paying more attention. There is a verse in Psalm 141 that I often pray: “Set a guard over my mouth, Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips” (v. 3). I don’t think I’ll ever regret being too careful with my words.

In 2006 my doctor removed a bit of skin cancer from a spot beneath my eye. He guessed it was basal cell cancer, the least serious kind, but the biopsy later showed it was squamous cell cancer, which falls in between basal and melanoma in terms of severity. As I drove home from his office that day, I called my friend Jen. “How do you feel about it?” she asked. “Just add it to the list,” I said dejectedly. In a month’s time my Grandma had died, our IVF cycle failed, my kitten disappeared, and now this – skin cancer. I remember thinking that God probably wasn’t trying to kick me while I was down, but that’s definitely how it felt. As the weeks passed my face healed, but when I looked in the mirror I would sometimes stare at my skin and wonder when the next spot would appear. I was twenty-nine. If I had a spot removed once a year from now on, what in the world would I look like at fifty? If I already had squamous cell cancer, how old would I be when I got melanoma?

This morning I was back at the dermatologist’s office for a routine check-up. The doctor examined my skin and pronounced me “all-clear.” After my first round of skin cancer, I assumed that regular treatments would forever be a part of my life, that my one little spot was just a preview of more to come. But it’s been three years now and I’m still without any new cancer. I’m not saying I’ll never deal with it again – my fairest-of-the-fair skin and history of sun damage mean the odds are pretty high that I will. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be at the dermatologist’s office every six months, getting new spots of cancer carved out of my skin. I might go another decade without needing any treatment at all, much less treatment for melanoma.

And as I consider that, I’m reminded of a saying my brothers use every now and then: “If possible, avoid hysterical thinking.” When your thoughts, like mine, tend to fall on the side of pessimism more often than optimism, this is very helpful advice.

My whole life I’ve wanted to be two things: a writer and a wife-mom. (Okay, I guess that’s three things. But wife and mother always went together in my head.) I’ve always written, but sharing my work is something entirely different. It’s scary. What if the person I show it to thinks it’s shallow and awful when it’s full of my deepest, most personal thoughts? That’s why I decided to be a novelist. A fiction writer doesn’t have to give anything away. She tells the thoughts of imaginary people, characters she’s created in her mind. A novelist can be guarded and mysterious. But here’s my problem: I can’t seem to write fiction. The things I have to say all come from my real life. So I would write and keep it to myself.

Then during the middle of our infertility this verse jumped out at me from Psalm 71. “My mouth will tell of your righteous deeds, of your saving acts all day long – though I know not how to relate them all” (v. 15). As I read it, I had this overwhelming feeling that one day God would end our infertility, and I would write about the whole experience – both the pain and the blessings – and actually share it with people. The thought was terrifying to me. At that point we were just starting to talk to people about what we were going through and I couldn’t imagine writing for an audience about such a private thing.

A year later we found out I was pregnant and I immediately thought of the verse. The idea that I would have a miracle story to share astounded me. How could I ever find the words to express what God had done? I felt like David, unsure of how to relate it all. But the Giver of every good and perfect gift had blessed me with exactly what I wanted. How could I keep it quiet? I guess I could write about just the fun baby stuff and leave out all the difficulty. But why would anyone want to read it? I’m not interested in fake perfection and I don’t think anyone else would be either.

To be honest, this blog is a stretch for me. Several people have read it and said things like – You wrote about ovulating and your fallopian tubes and your infertility and anyone can read it! And that’s true. When I think about it too much I’m tempted to delete it. It’s never easy to be vulnerable. But I feel like I’m in this place lately where I don’t see the point in keeping a fence up around my life. I’ve tried that before and it’s a lonely way to live. Being open about my pain, my mistakes, and the things I’m really facing has connected me to my friends and family in a way that guarding my life never did. It’s not that I plan to tell the world every detail of every situation. I still believe in discretion. But there’s a big difference between maintaining a level of privacy and keeping everyone at a distance. I find it hard to relate to someone who appears to have no problems. I’d rather put myself out there, as messy as I am, and say something authentic. It’s worth the risk involved.

I have to admit, my thoughts were all over the place on Sunday morning. After the rush to get to church on time, I dropped Sky off in the nursery and worried about whether or not she’d cry till the service ended. Once we were in our seats my mind shifted to Pastor Mike and his message. I thought about our email conversation a couple weeks ago, and wondered if he would mention those who may be hurting instead of happy on Mother’s Day. A few minutes into his sermon he did, bringing to everyone’s attention the following: single moms, those with mothers who are no longer living, those in difficult mother-child relationships, moms with rebellious kids, and those dealing with infertility. I looked around. No one in the congregation was moving. He then preached his message about a woman in the Bible who may have been a single mom (II Tim. 1:5), but who still raised her son to be sincere in his faith (a very cool Mother’s Day sermon). At the end he had all the moms stand up while the kids gave a flower to each one. As I stood, I couldn’t help but look at all the seated women – there were quite a few – and hope they felt validated by Pastor Mike’s sensitivity to women in all situations.

It wasn’t until we were at home later that I began to think about Mother’s Day on a more personal level. I picked up my flower and smiled, thinking about my baby’s intense curiosity and how fun it is to watch her explore things for the first time. The fact that her tiny hands had squished my carnation a bit and snapped off its stem actually made the flower more precious to me. I put it in a little bowl and took a few photos of it. I am officially a mother this year and I appreciated everything about the day. I have never cried to God more about anything in my life than our infertility, and God, in his sweet extravagance, chose to take it away from me. He answered my prayers and gave me a child. Lord willing, I’ll have many more Mother’s Days to celebrate with my daughter. But for me this day will always have a touch of melancholy to it and I am grateful for that. As long as I know people who struggle with infertility, they will be heavy on my mind and heart. I’m thankful for my own wonderful mom and thankful beyond words for my child. But even as I praise God for the blessings he’s poured into my life, I remember Psalm 77:14 – “You are the God who performs miracles” – and I ask him, our God without limits, to bless my hurting friends.

When the doctor first diagnosed my fertility problems, I made Adam promise not to tell anyone, not even his parents. I said it was because I didn’t want to get a lot of unsolicited advice or have to hear people’s thoughtless comments. And that was true. But there was another reason. I hated the idea that anyone might feel sorry for me. The thought of people pitying me, pitying Adam because he’d married a wife who couldn’t have children, was too much. It made me angry. So angry I couldn’t even think about it or figure out where it was coming from.

Adam was gentle and patient. He kept our secret. Eventually, I agreed that we should tell his parents. But it wasn’t until after we’d tried IVF without success that I had to absorb reality; infertility might be part of our lives for a long time and I wouldn’t make it without support. I began to see that leaning completely on Adam wasn’t fair. I allowed God to show me a few things and it finally hit me that my anger was coming from pride. I wanted everyone to think I had my life together. But God wanted me to be honest and share our pain with family and a few trusted friends. Whatever people chose to think of me was between them and God and really shouldn’t concern me at all. I decided I would work hard not to care. It was a huge effort at first, but it got easier with time. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with keeping infertility private. But for me, opening up carefully over time was best. The more I shared, the less I fixated on what people might be thinking.

Mother’s Day is coming soon and this year my thoughts are mainly on my friends who long for babies they don’t yet have. I have a running list of these friends in my head and I try to pray for them often. The other day I took Skylar out for an early morning walk, planning to pray as I pushed her in the stroller. Mother’s Day and my friends came immediately to my mind and I began to think about them, remembering how hard the day was for me in years past. I looked down at Sky, who sat in the stroller chattering away in her own language, and a wave of sadness for my friends washed over me. Ten minutes later I realized I still hadn’t started praying. I was just feeling bad. Suddenly I heard myself two years earlier, saying I’d rather have people pray for me than feel sorry for me. Empathy is important. God calls us to bear one another’s burdens and the first step in empathy is taking the time to imagine what someone might be feeling. But simple pity can slip into “I’m glad I’m not in your situation” thinking, and I don’t want to be that kind of friend. Being a Christian means believing that in all things God is working for our good. I want to be a person who walks by faith, both in my own pain and with my friends in theirs. Empathy shouldn’t begin and end with feelings – it should be the catalyst for faith-filled prayer.