The scene is burned into my memory. It’s been fifteen years, but I remember the day I began to doubt God’s love for me.
It was a Sunday. It was that window of fellowship after church just before people start heading home for lunch and naps. I stood in a circle of women, listening to the cadence of feminine voices chatter and catch up on life.
The talk quickly turned to pregnancy, breastfeeding, and a whole host of other maternity and baby-related topics I couldn’t identify with. I looked around the circle and realized nearly every woman in the group was in one stage of pregnancy or another. It looked like a commercial for prenatal vitamins.
I hadn’t told anyone we were having trouble getting pregnant. The sting of my inability to contribute to the discussion stained my cheeks with embarrassment and crept into my heart with bitterness. I slowly backed out of the big-bellied circle and headed for the exit before anyone could see my tears.
From that day forward, my life was marked by the humiliation and grief of infertility. I spent the next decade fighting the ever-rising specter of bitterness whenever I spent time with friends or participated in church functions. No matter where I went, I felt isolated by my barrenness.
While I hoped, lost hope, resurrected hope, and lost hope again, my friends got married, had babies, had more babies, and completed their families.
Infertility ruled my life. I measured time by how long we’d been trying to conceive, living my life in two-week increments. I watched everyone I knew live out my dream of motherhood, and I could not understand why God would love me less than He loved them.
___________________________________
I’m honored to be writing at Women Encouraged today. Head over to their page to read the rest of this post.
Photo by Michael Fenton on Unsplash
