Kiss Your Miracle

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.

Skylar loves to look in the mirror. She can be full on crying – tears, red-face, the works – but put her in front of a mirror and a smile emerges. I took this picture of her today and a question popped into my head: at what point in a girl’s life does she stop smiling in front of the mirror? Right now Sky is only nine months old. She doesn’t care that she has a bruise on her forehead or a scratch on her cheek (standing is her new skill, but she’s not the best at it yet). She’s never evaluated her weight and decided she’s too thin or too heavy. And I can’t help but think, please baby girl, let me put you in a bubble and keep you just like this – content to be who you are, unaware of society’s artificial standard of beauty.

This past Saturday Adam’s cousin and her husband renewed their marriage vows. The ceremony was scheduled for 11am on a beach about two hours away. I was happy for them, but to be honest, not really looking forward to the day myself. I love hopping in the car and heading out of town, but now that we have a baby an all day excursion is complicated.

After an extensive packing session on Saturday morning, we left in the Forrester, loaded down with everything we might need for the day. I then spent the next hour and forty-minutes doing anything I could think of to keep Skylar calm in her car seat. I knew I was in trouble when I sacrificed my purse for her to play with just ten minutes into the trip. Bored with everything, she fussed on and off no matter what I did. Fifteen minutes before we arrived, she fell asleep. “Keep going,” I whispered to Adam, who obediently drove past the ceremony site to give Sky a few extra minutes of naptime. Once we arrived things actually went well. Sky’s catnap gave her the energy she needed to be cute and happy for the afternoon. She loved the beach and at the reception she basically crawled nonstop, fascinated with everything, until it was time for us to leave.

At the end of the day we got in the car to make the two-hour drive back to Ocala, swinging through a Starbucks as we left town. Ten minutes into the trip Sky was asleep. Adam’s eyes were on the road and Feist sang to us through the stereo. The late afternoon sun sparkled on the trees and shadows traced their way across Skylar’s smooth white skin. I sipped my coffee, studying her face. It’s crazy to me, but even after infertility, I can get so wrapped up in the work part of being a mom that I almost forget to enjoy the experience. Moments of bliss seem to happen right after chaotic ones, when I least expect them. If I’m not careful I might miss them completely. So as we drove along that day I closed my eyes for a second and acknowledged to myself that yes, this is one of those of moments I wouldn’t change at all.

As Christians we’re often told that life is about joy, not happiness. Joy is possible even in the darkest times when you rely on God for strength. And that’s true. But there’s something to be said for happiness, when you’re so taken with the moment – how you feel, the way things look and smell, the people near you – that you forget your stress for a while. These moments can be rare. I hope I’m never beyond the ability to pay attention to them when they come.

Lately going to church has been an issue for us. It’s not that we don’t like going. But at nine months old, Skylar takes just one nap a day – usually around 10:30, which is exactly when church begins. I’ve tried putting her down early before we leave, but she isn’t tired then. And Sky is an active child, the exact opposite of those mythical, laid-back babies you hear about who fall asleep effortlessly wherever they are. We don’t want to miss out on church completely, so we go and I drop her off in the nursery, telling the staff to please, please come and get me if she won’t stop crying.

Last week when I picked Sky up the staff sweetly told me she’d been “a little fussy, but not that bad.” Megan, an angel who works in the nursery almost every week, said she’d taken Sky on a walk and that had calmed her down. As I scooped up my baby and her diaper bag, apologizing as usual, I noticed Christian, a baby two weeks older than Sky, sleeping soundly in a crib by the wall. The lights were on and kids were playing loudly right next to him, but still baby Christian slept. Don’t compare, said a voice in my head as Skylar squirmed in my arms.

I have to admit, I’ve been tempted to compare myself to others my whole life. It never leads anywhere good – pride if I think I’m better off, or jealousy if I feel worse. It occurred to me on Sunday though, that comparing my child is another thing completely. I might just be thinking of myself (if only Sky were calmer, things would be easier for me), but as a mother I should really be thinking of her. If she subtly picks up on the way I wish she were more like someone else, she’ll end up either resenting me or feeling insecure or both. And the last thing I mean to do is make my daughter feel like her God-given personality is inadequate.

I’m only at the beginning of my life as a parent, but I’m starting to learn how things that seem small – a little comparing, a little jealousy – might have a lasting effect on my daughter and our relationship. I am so glad that the Bible promises me wisdom if I ask for it, and that God gives it “generously to all without finding fault” (James 1:5).